Page 5 of Beckett
“Can’t drop what I’m not holding. But you sure as hell are.” Coop backed off, hands raised in mock surrender. “Just saying, there’re people you can talk to. Hell, we’re sitting smack-dab in the middle of the Resting Warrior Ranch, which, in case you haven’t heard, has made a name for itself helping people with PTSD?—”
“I said, drop it.” We all knew what Resting Warrior Ranch stood for. We were here because we believed in that mission—so the RWR team could focus on it, and Warrior Security could handle the dirty work.
The edge in my voice killed Coop’s grin. He knew better than to push when I hit that tone. We’d served together—first in the military and for the past year here at Warrior Security—long enough for him to recognize the walls going up, reinforced concrete between me and anything resembling emotional vulnerability.
“All right, all right.” He grabbed his water bottle, taking a long pull. A drop escaped, trailing down his throat. “Changing subjects. You ready for your babysitting gig?”
I unwrapped my hands, the tape coming away stained with pink where my knuckles had split. Again. The sting felt clean, honest. “Hanging out at Pawsitive Connections while Lark’s at her conference? Hell yeah.”
“Exactly. You, alone on a farm with a bunch of animals for a couple weeks. Sounds like heaven for an antisocial bastard like you.”
“Better company than most humans.” I shrugged.
“Ouch.” Coop clutched his chest in fake hurt. “And here I thought we had something special.”
I grabbed my towel, rough terry cloth scratching against two days of stubble. The movement pulled at old scar tissue along my ribs—shrapnel souvenir from my last deployment. The one that got Rodriguez killed, while I walked away with scratches and a lifetime of 0300 wake-ups.
“You heading over there now?” Coop asked, back to serious. He could read my moods better than most, knew when to joke and when to let things lie.
“Yeah. Want to check the security setup before Lark leaves. Make sure everything’s tight.”
“Good thing there’s nothing to steal but dog food and rabbit pellets.” He paused, studying me with those too-sharp eyes that had kept us both alive in places where looking away meant dying. “Beck, you know if you need?—”
“I’m good.” I didn’t let him get any further. I already knew what he was going to say. His offer of help I didn’t deserve and couldn’t accept.
I grabbed my gear bag and headed for the door. Behind me, Coop called out, “Give my best to the dogs. Tell them Uncle Coop will bring treats since mean ol’ Beckett is so stingy.”
“They don’t need more treats,” I shot back. “Rosie’s already on a diet.”
“That’s cold, man. Depriving a lab of snacks.”
I let the door swing shut on his laughter, cutting off whatever else he might have said. The Montana morning hit like a slap—thin mountain air that burned my lungs clean, carrying the scent of pine and distant snow. My truck waited where I’d left it, primer-gray and ugly as sin but reliable.
The drive to Pawsitive Connections took twelve minutes. I knew because I’d timed it, memorized every turn, every blind curve where someone could set an ambush. Every hill that could hide an IED. Old habits that civilian life hadn’t managed to kill.
The place spread out before me like something from a kid’s book—white buildings with green trim, split-rail fences drawing property lines, pastures rolling toward mountains that scraped the belly of the sky. Morning sun turned everything gold and soft, the kind of light photographers called magic hour.
I parked near the main building, gravel crunching under tires that needed rotating. Through the windshield, I noticed movement. Two figures near the barn. Lark’s red hair caught fire in the morning light. The other woman—stranger, potential threat, unknown variable—stood with her weight shifted back, spine too straight, arms crossed like armor.
Interesting. Also, stressful.
I climbed out, boots hitting packed dirt still damp with dew. A few dogs in the nearest enclosure started up—happy barks, tails windmilling. Duke, the failed police shepherd. Rosie, the lab mix who washed out of guide dog training for being too friendly and lived for Cooper’s—or anybody else’s—treats. They knew my scent, my walk, the jingle of the leash clips in my pocket.
“Beckett!” Lark waved me over, her smile bright enough to power half of Garnet Bend. “Perfect timing. Come meet Audra.”
The stranger turned, and I got my first real look at her. Five-six, maybe five-seven. Hundred and ten pounds if she was lucky, and luck didn’t seem to be her strong suit. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut, collarbones standing out like accusations above her worn T-shirt.
The kind of thin that came from choosing between gas and food—and picking gas.
But it was her eyes that made my gut tighten. Hazel, shot through with gold, and ancient in a way that had nothing to do with age. She swept the area behind me in a pattern I recognized—checking corners, seeking exits, measuring distances. The look of someone who’d learned that danger came from unexpected angles.
“Audra, this is Beckett Sinclair. He helps with security dog training.” Lark’s voice carried that forced-casual tone she used when trying to smooth rough edges. “Beckett, Audra’s going to be helping out while I’m gone. Feeding, cleaning, the basics.”
“Beckett Sinclair?” The woman—Audra—did something with her face. A microexpression that flickered and died. Her pupils dilated for half a second. Her weight shifted another inch backward. The pulse in her throat jumped like a rabbit spotting a hawk.
Every instinct I had started screaming. She knew my name. But why?
“Yeah.” I kept my voice flat, watching her like I’d watch an IED that might or might not be armed. “That a problem?”
