Page 8 of Warrior Security
“Pretty sure the flyers had you outnumbered.”
I laughed again. “You should see the rest of my operation. Honestly, at this point, Pawsitive runs on good intentions and duct tape.”
He had no idea how close to the truth that was. I tucked the flyers under my arm and wrestled the tote strap back up my shoulder. It had the structural integrity of overcooked spaghetti, and I should have replaced it a year ago. Should have replaced a lot of things a year ago.
“It’s a lot of property to manage alone,” I continued. “And the animals don’t really care that I’m only one person with two hands. They have needs. Many, many needs. The chickens alone are incredibly demanding.”
“Demanding chickens.”
“Yep. They have opinions about everything. The goats are worse, but at least the goats are up front about being difficult. The chickens pretend to be reasonable and then stage a coup when you least expect it.”
Something shifted at the edge of his mouth. Barely there.
“It’s a lot of physical work.” I was doing what I always did, talking to help everyone around me feel comfortable, but I didn’t try to stop. “Fencing, repairs, feeding schedules, hauling supplies. The buildings need some love. I’ve got a fence line on the north side that’s been held together by one very determined zip tie for about three months.”
I kept my voice easy. Breezy. Just a woman describing a manageable situation that needed an extra pair of hands.
The truth was less breezy. The fence was one item on a list so long I’d stopped writing it down because seeing it on paper made my chest tight. The barn roof needed patching. The east pasture gate was hanging by a single hinge. The whole property needed a fresh coat of paint that I couldn’t afford because I was still waiting on a grant that might not come, and if it didn’t come, thesecond mortgage payment I was already behind on was going to become a problem I couldn’t charm or hustle my way out of.
But Logan didn’t need to hear any of that. Nobody did.
“So yeah, I’m looking for someone who is a sort of jack- or jill-of-all-trades. Room and board plus a little pay,” I said. “I won’t lie, the money is not great. The money is, in fact, terrible. But the housing is free, and nobody will judge you for talking to a horse at three in the morning.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t understand why you don’t have dozens of applications for that reason alone. Is Pawsitive near town?”
“About twenty minutes. Forty acres, give or take. White buildings, green trim. You can’t miss it unless you’re actively trying.”
“Yeah, I think I saw it a couple days ago when I was driving by.”
And then something clicked.Passing through, my hiney.
Tuesday. I’d been coming out of the feed store, and he’d been across the street with Beckett Sinclair. They’d been walking toward Draper’s, and I’d noticed him because Beckett had been doing his Beckett thing—hands moving, grinning, filling every available square inch of airspace—and the man beside him had been the opposite. Quiet. Contained. Letting Beckett’s noise wash past him without absorbing any of it.
“Hang on a second,” I said. “I saw you in town earlier this week. You were with Beckett.”
Something in his expression closed. Subtle, but I caught it. A door that had been slightly cracked open went shut.
“Busted. I’ve been around about a week. I was staying out at Resting Warrior Ranch, working with Warrior Security.”
I knew the whole crew. Beckett had helped out with dog training and stayed on the property to care for the animals when I had to go out of town. His German shepherd Jet was one of mybest training success stories and had aided in saving Beckett’s fiancée’s life. And Hunter had sent veterans my way for animal-assisted therapy more times than I could count.
“Thought you were just passing through?”
He shrugged. “Headed outprobably would’ve been a more correct turn of phrase.”
“Where to?”
“Haven’t decided yet.”
The way he said it had no cover story attached. Just a flat admission that he had nowhere to go and no plan for getting there.
I watched him stand there with it, and I could see what it cost him, even though his shoulders didn’t move, his hands didn’t fidget, his face stayed level. The exhaustion I’d clocked when we shook hands wasn’t the whole picture.
Something heavier lived underneath it. Something I wasn’t going to ask about because I’d learned a long time ago that pressing a wound before someone was ready to show it only made them protect it harder.
“So,” I said. “No job, no plan, and you’re standing in a coffee shop at five thirty in the morning in a town that takes forty-five seconds to drive through.”
“That about covers it.”
