I snort. “I don’t get shot at. I get paid to do the shooting.”
“Exactly my point.”
I go quiet, jaw ticking.
Because we both know what he means.
And maybe that’s the problem.
I stopped asking questions.
Stopped caring about the answers.
Angus lets the silence stretch before he chuckles. “And let’s not forget, you still owe me for Kandahar.”
That gets a snort out of me. “Being a goat farmer has fucked with your brain, my friend. I savedyourass in Kandahar.”
“And now I’m saving yours. Look at me, Beckett. Always looking out for you.”
I glare at him, wiping my hands on my jeans. “Yeah, real generous of you. I've got enough money stashed away to buy this whole damn valley, but here I am, working for artisanal goat cheese.”
Angus grins. “My goat cheese is worth more than money. People kill for that stuff.”
“If by ‘kill’ you mean ‘die from the smell,’ then yeah, I believe it.”
“See? You're catching on. Besides, you’re the best I know when it comes to security.” Angus pauses, squinting at the horizon. “And what’s not to like about the peace and quiet?”
Peace and quiet. Right. Because mending fences and dodging ornery livestock is exactly what I had in mind for my post-military career.
The mountains rise behind us, purple shadows against the sky. Everything here feels open and exposed. Part of me itches to establish a perimeter and set up surveillance. Old habits. Four years since I left the military, and I'm still cataloging entry points and defensive positions out of habit. I can't turn it off.
Maybe Angus is right. Maybe spending time on the Sutton family ranch will force me to slow down and take stock of the wreckage I’ve been calling my life.
Or maybe I’ll lose my goddamn mind trying to play cowboy.
Angus pushes open the gate leading toward the guest cabin. “Come on, Shadow. Try to enjoy it. Fresh air, no one shooting at you. Hell, you might even get a tan.”
I grunt. “Yeah, because sunburn is exactly what I need. And don’t call me Shadow. I’m Beckett here, remember?”
He chuckles, holding up his hands. “Okay, okay.”
The morning light catches the jagged scar running from his temple to his jaw—a permanent reminder of our last mission in Kandahar.
A reminder of how close he came to not making it out.
My chest tightens, but I shove it down, like always.
“You ever think about it?” I ask, keeping my voice casual.
Angus doesn’t need to ask what I mean. His fingers brush absently over the scar, a habit he probably doesn’t realize he has. “Every day.”
I nod. Same.
But there’s no point in saying it. We both know.
He tilts his head toward the cabin. “Come on. I’ll show you where you’re staying.”
I sigh, rolling my shoulders. “Fine. But if one of your demon goats so much as looks at me wrong, I’m eating it for dinner.”
