Page 26 of Her Dirty Defender

Angus grins. “You’ll have to fight Luna for it. She’s got a soft spot for them.”

Of course she does.

Shaking my head, I follow him down the path, already questioning my life choices.

Peace and quiet, huh?

We’ll see how long that lasts.

“The main house is there.” Angus points to a sprawling ranch house. “Workshop's around back. You'll be staying here. Unless you prefer the bunkhouse with the hands?”

He gestures to a smaller building with a covered porch and a few well-worn rocking chairs. The converted barn-turned-apartment complex sits at the edge of the property, nestled between rolling fields and a line of old oak trees that offer seclusion without feeling isolated.

“Guest apartment is fine.” I keep my voice neutral, but relief floods through me. After years of barracks and shared spaces, I need the quiet.

Angus takes the steps to the porch, opens the door to the apartment I’ve been allocated, and precedes me inside.

The accommodation is simple, sturdy, and built with purpose. The building combines rustic charm and no-nonsense practicality with wood-paneled walls and thick, reinforced windows that provide natural light without sacrificing security. The kind of place that welcomes you in but still lets you keep your back to a solid surface. This place is built for someone like me. Someone who needs a place to breathe. A place to remember how to live outside the battlefield and try to forget the shitty things they’ve done.

“All the apartments are open, uncluttered, easy to move in,” Angus explains as he guides me through the accommodation.

The living area is minimal but cozy, with a worn leather couch and a sturdy wooden coffee table. The bookshelf is mostly empty, save for a few well-thumbed paperbacks and a couple of framed photos of the Sutton family, likely left as a reminder that no one here is alone unless they choose to be.

The kitchen is small but functional, outfitted with basic appliances, a decent coffee maker, and a full fridge instead of some tiny dorm-sized bullshit. Through a short hallway, the bedroom is big enough to hold a solid oak king-size bed and a dresser, with a view that stretches out over the grazing fields. The bed—not some cheap cot, but a real bed with thick blankets that smell like sun-warmed cotton—looks too inviting for a man still used to sleeping with one eye open.

“The bathroom is nothing fancy, but it’s clean and stocked with fresh towels,” Angus continues. “Remember all the times we had to wash with nothing but a trickle of cold water in the middle of nowhere?”

“Yeah, I’ve had enough of that shit for a lifetime.”

Angus chuckles. “Figured as much. You’ll be pleased to hear that the shower has decent water pressure. Suttons don’t do things half-assed. You’ll be comfortable here.”

Comfortable. I’m not sure I know what that is anymore.

Angus observes me for a second as if he can read the thoughts I’d rather keep buried. “Give it time. Small-town life has a way of getting under your skin. Welcome to Havenridge Ranch, Beckett.”

I grunt noncommittally as we step back into the main room. A jar of peach preserves sits on the counter. Grabbing it, I inspect the label. Handwritten. A personal touch. A welcome gift from Henry’s or Angus’s wife, no doubt.

“How long do you think this will take?” Angus asks as he heads for the door.

I set the jar back down and follow him outside. “However long it takes to figure out who's been sabotaging the ranch.”

I can't shake the feeling that my stay here might end up being longer than I planned. Especially after the other night at The Honey Pot.

The memory hits me like a punch to the gut. Soft skin under my fingertips. The taste of whiskey on her lips. The way she arched against me, all heat and need. I clench my fist, trying to focus on the fence line ahead, but it's useless. She's there, haunting me with every step.

“You okay there, Beckett?” Angus’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “You look like you're about to take on a whole platoon.”

I force a chuckle. “Thinking about all the work we've got ahead of us.”

But what I'm really thinking is how I let her slip away. How I woke up to cold sheets and how I've been kicking myself ever since for not getting her number, her full name, anything.

The thought of seeing her again makes suffering through this dusty landscape almost worth it. But tracking her down? That’s like trying to find a half-eaten snack in my truck—possible, but messy. The Honey Pot isn’t exactly around the corner from Clover Canyon, and it’s not like I can just drop in after work every night.

Still, I’m already planning to scout the local bars and ask a few discreet questions. And yeah, I’ll be making a trip back to The Honey Pot the first chance I get.

Because one taste of her wasn’t nearly enough. She turned my world on its axis and made me want better things.

And that’s the real problem, isn’t it?

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