Page 35 of Beckett
She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The dark circles under her eyes told the story.
“I’ll find another place to stay,” she said finally. “I’ve got the week’s wages coming. I can manage in the shed until then?—”
“You’ll stay here until Lark gets back. Then we’ll figure out something more permanent.”
“I can’t?—”
“We’ll figure something out.” I cut her off, not ready to share what I was thinking. Not yet. First, I needed to check if that old cabin on the far side of the property was even livable. “For now, just focus on today.”
“I can’t keep?—”
“You can work. You can earn your pay. Everything else comes after.” I kept my voice level, businesslike. “Right now, we both just need to focus on our chores. The animals are waiting.”
She nodded slowly, but I could see her mind racing, calculating options and escape routes. Just like Todd used to do when he was backed into a corner. The Cartland stubborn streak was obviously genetic.
I stood, started clearing plates. “Finish your breakfast. I’ll see you out there.”
“Beckett?” Her voice stopped me at the sink. “Thank you. For…all of this.”
I couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t let her see how much that quiet gratitude affected me. “Yeah, well. Thank Todd. This is his fault for telling all those stories about his baby sister.”
That got a real laugh, small but genuine. “He never could shut up when he got going.”
“No. No, he couldn’t.” I smiled at the memory, then forced myself back to practical matters. “There’s more food if you’re still hungry. Don’t rush.”
I left her there in Lark’s kitchen, surrounded by more breakfast than she’d probably seen in weeks. It wasn’t enough. Would never be enough to make up for whatever had driven her to sleep in sheds and live on peanut butter. But it was a start.
Outside, the morning air bit sharp and clean. I stood on the porch for a moment, letting it clear my head. I had a plan now. Not much of one, maybe, but it was something. First step was keeping her fed and safe through the day. The rest… The rest would take some doing.
The frustration built in my chest. Why did everything have to be so damn complicated? Why couldn’t she just tell me what she was running from so I could fix it?
But I knew better. Trust wasn’t built over one breakfast. Hell, trust wasn’t built over weeks or months sometimes. It was earned in inches, in small moments of reliability.
I headed for the barn, needing the routine of morning chores to settle my churning thoughts. The animals didn’t care about my plans or frustrations. They just needed food, water, and basic care. Simple. Straightforward. Everything my life hadn’t been since Audra Cartland had walked through Pawsitive’s door.
Todd’s sister. Here, in Garnet Bend, sleeping in sheds and living on nothing. If he knew… Christ, what would Todd think of me letting his sister live like that? Not that I’d known. But still.
Whatever had driven her to this point, whatever she was running from, it had pushed her past normal desperation into something deeper. The kind of fear that made a shed in Montana seem like a safe option.
I’d figure it out. Had to. Because Todd’s sister deserved better than scraping by on peanut butter and terror.
The plan would work. It had to.
Chapter 11
Audra
Beckett hadn’t said a word to me in three hours.
Not since breakfast, when he’d loaded that table with enough food to feed half of Garnet Bend, then walked out before I could thank him properly. Now he was everywhere I looked—fixing fence posts when I fed the dogs, checking equipment when I cleaned kennels, hauling feed bags when I refreshed water bowls—but he wouldn’t meet my eyes.
The cold snap had broken overnight, leaving the kind of mild fall weather that made Montana almost pleasant. But the warmth didn’t touch the chill between us. He was furious. I could see it in the rigid set of his shoulders, the white-knuckle grip on his hammer, the way his jaw clenched every time he glanced my direction.
Mad that I’d been sleeping in that shed. Mad that I hadn’t asked for help. Mad that Todd’s sister had been right under his nose, starving and freezing, and he hadn’t known.
I couldn’t blame him. The anger was easier to handle than the hurt I’d glimpsed underneath it.
Every couple hours, though, he’d break his silence just long enough to show up with food. A granola bar shoved into my hand while I mucked out stalls. A bowl of soup that appeared on the barn’s workbench while I was organizing supplies. Now, as I refilled the cats’ water dishes, he materialized beside me with a plate—orange slices arranged in a half-circle, crackers, cheese cut into neat squares. He set it on the feed bin and crossed his arms, waiting.
