Page 45 of Beckett
“Okay.” I shifted, keeping one hand on Beckett’s shoulder while holding the phone with the other. His flannel shirt was soaked with sweat. “Beckett, you’re in Montana. You’re at Pawsitive Connections. You’re safe.”
“Good. Keep going. I’m ten minutes out.”
“Ten minutes?” It might as well have been ten hours.
“I’m already in my truck, driving fast as I can. You’re doing great. Is there a dog nearby? Any of the dogs?”
Jet was already pressed against Beckett’s leg, whining low in his throat, his whole body trembling with the need to help but not knowing how. “Yes. Jet’s here. The others are in the kennels. Should I get them?”
“No, it’s more important to keep talking to Beckett. But call Jet over. Let him lie against Beckett if he wants. The dogs help. They always help him.”
“Jet, lie down.” My voice shook, but the German shepherd responded immediately, pressing his body along Beckett’s side, resting his head on Beckett’s chest. “Good boy. Such a good boy.”
“Keep talking to Beck. I’m coming.”
I set the phone on speaker, placing it on the ground so I could use both hands. One stayed on Beckett’s shoulder, the other wiped the sweat from his forehead. His skin felt clammy, too cold despite the warming sun.
“Beckett, you’re at Pawsitive Connections in Montana. It’s Tuesday morning. Lark’s at her conference. The dogs are all here. Duke and Rosie and Atlas.” I kept my voice steady even as tears ran down my face. “Jet’s right here with you. Can you feel him? He’s worried about you. We’re both worried about you.”
Beckett’s breathing hitched, became even more ragged. His hands clenched and unclenched, grasping at something that wasn’t there. Or something that had been there, years ago, in a place I couldn’t imagine.
“Rodriguez isn’t here,” I said, not knowing if it would help or hurt but needing to try. “Whatever happened, it’s over. You survived. You came home. You’re in Montana now.”
A sound escaped him—half sob, half moan. His body convulsed once, then went terrifyingly still.
“Coop? Coop, he’s not moving much anymore.”
“That’s actually good. Means he’s coming down from the peak of it. Keep talking. Tell him about the morning, what you were doing, anything normal and present.”
“We were doing morning chores,” I said, addressing Beckett even though his eyes remained unfocused. “You were fixing the barn door hinges. I was in the barn looking for the pitchfork that fell. That’s what made the crash—I knocked over a bucket trying to reach it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Not your fault,” Coop said firmly through the speaker. “Could have been anything. Car backfiring, fireworks, hell, sometimes it’s nothing at all. Just keep talking to him.”
I talked about everything I could think of. The way the morning light made the mountains look purple. How Princess Whiskers had actually purred when I’d fed her earlier. My cabin and how I’d let Jet sleep in the bed with me, but eventually, he’d gone back into his crate. Beckett was right; crates were comforting for dogs.
Beckett’s breathing gradually deepened, became less frantic. His eyes closed completely, and for a terrifying moment, I thought?—
“Still breathing?” Coop asked.
“Yes.” I checked again to be sure. “Yes, he’s breathing better now.”
“Good. Almost there.”
I heard the truck before I saw it, tires crunching on gravel at a speed that sent rocks flying. Coop was out before the engine fully died, moving with the controlled urgency of someone who’d done this before.
He was exactly what I’d expected from Beckett’s friend—military bearing despite the civilian clothes, assessing everything in one sweep. Tall, built like someone who stayed ready for trouble, with sandy hair and eyes that missed nothing.Those eyes took in the scene: Beckett on the ground, me crying, Jet standing guard.
“Good job,” he said, dropping to his knees beside us. “You did good.”
He took over with practiced efficiency, checking Beckett’s pulse, pupils, breathing. His movements were sure, competent, gentle despite their urgency.
“Hey, brother,” he said, voice pitched low and calm. “It’s Coop. You’re at Pawsitive Connections. You had an episode, but you’re coming out of it. I’m here. Audra’s here. You’re safe.”
Beckett’s eyelids fluttered. A sound like recognition escaped his throat.
“That’s it. Come on back. Nothing but Montana sunshine and dog breath here.” Coop kept up the steady patter while checking Beckett over. “Remember that time Duke ate an entire bag of treats and threw up on your boots? That was last month, man. Last month in Montana. Not Afghanistan. Montana.”
Afghanistan. That told me a lot with a single word.
