Page 39 of Beckett
“Audra? It’s me. Beckett.”
The relief hit so hard my knees nearly buckled. Of course it was Beckett. A stalker wouldn’t knock. Wouldn’t announce himself in that steady, unthreatening voice.
“I— Hang on just a minute.” My voice came out thin, shaky. I grabbed a dish towel, hands trembling as I mopped up the coffee. Ceramic shards scattered across the floor. One had drawn blood from my heel, leaving red smears on the clean wood.
Deep breath. Another. I pulled on jeans over my sleep shorts, ignoring the sting in my foot, and finger-combed my hair into something resembling normal. When I opened the door, Beckett stood on the narrow porch with Jet beside him.
The German shepherd’s entire body wiggled with barely contained excitement, tail creating its own weather system. But he stayed put, haunches quivering with the effort of obedience.
“Morning,” Beckett said, gray eyes taking in everything—my bare feet, the coffee stains on my shirt, the tension I couldn’t quite hide. “Thought Jet might help you feel more secure.”
I blinked, confused. “Help me…?”
“He may not be an attack dog, but he can keep you company. Bark at everything that moves.” His tone stayed conversational,but those eyes saw too much. Always watching, always cataloging. “Figured you might sleep better with him around.”
My chest tightened again, differently this time. He’d noticed. Of course he’d noticed. The way I startled at sounds, checked windows, never fully relaxed, even when we were just talking about dog training or farm chores. And instead of pushing, instead of demanding explanations I couldn’t give, he’d brought me a solution.
A seventy-pound German shepherd solution currently straining against invisible restraints, desperate to launch himself at my legs.
“Can I?” I gestured to Jet.
“He’s all yours.”
The second I crouched down, Jet exploded forward. His solid weight knocked me back onto my haunches, tongue finding every inch of exposed skin, while his tail threatened to take out the porch railing.
“Easy, boy. Easy.” But I was laughing, genuinely laughing, as I tried to contain the hurricane of fur and enthusiasm. “Yes, I missed you too. Yes, you’re such a good boy.”
When I glanced up, Beckett was almost smiling. Not quite—I wasn’t sure his face knew how to fully commit to the expression—but the corners of his mouth had definitely shifted upward.
“I brought his crate.” He nodded toward his truck. “And his food, bowls, the basics.”
“A crate?” I stood, Jet immediately pressing against my leg like he was afraid I might disappear. “Isn’t that a little…mean? He’s used to the kennel where he has more space.”
“Dogs like crates. Gives them boundaries, makes them feel secure. Like a den.” He headed for the truck, returning with a collapsible wire crate that looked big enough for a small pony. “It’s not punishment. It’s structure.”
I watched him set it up in the corner of the cabin, efficient movements that spoke of repetition. Military-precise in everything he did, from folding the metal joints to positioning it where Jet could see both the door and window.
“But what if I want him on the bed with me? I guess that’s not okay.”
He paused, straightening slowly. “Sure, it’s okay. But it’s your choice, not his. Let him know it’s an invitation, not his right. You’re the one in charge.”
“Right.” I looked down at Jet, who was gazing up at me with pure adoration. “I’m definitely the one in charge here.”
“He knows commands. Sit, stay, down, come. He’s getting better at heel.” Beckett pulled a bag of dog food from the truck, setting it by the door. “Feed him twice a day, morning and evening. He’ll try to convince you he’s starving in between. Don’t fall for it.”
“Any other warnings?”
“He likes to steal socks. Can’t explain it. Just does.” He handed me a leash, worn leather soft from use. “And he’s afraid of the vacuum cleaner, which shouldn’t be a problem here.”
I glanced around the bare cabin. “Yeah, my Dyson’s in the shop.”
That almost-smile appeared again, there and gone like a bird’s shadow. “He’ll bark at everything at first. Squirrels, wind, his own shadow. But he’ll settle once he learns the normal sounds.”
“Beckett.” I had to say something, had to acknowledge what he was doing without actually acknowledging what he was doing. “This is really… Thank you.”
He shrugged, uncomfortable with gratitude the way I was uncomfortable with kindness. “Lark’s always looking for foster situations for the dogs. Helps socialize them. You’re doing us a favor.”
We both knew that was crap. Jet might have been a failed security dog, but he didn’t need fostering. This was for me. Because Beckett had noticed I was scared, and instead of pressing for answers, he’d found a way to help.
