15
This was what Beckett had been waiting for. All this time—the paperwork, the references, the endless phone calls trying to land another interview. All for this.
And he was about to blow the entire thing.
Focus. You just have to focus.
But how was he supposed to do that with Kit in his head? Maybe a week should’ve been enough to dull the bruises of their argument in the barn. Maybe he should be able to sit here thinking about his future instead of feeling his present crumble. But he’d never been good at “shoulds.”
And he was pretty sure Field Screening Officer Adam Hunter wasn’t buying his pretense of calm.
The walls of the claustrophobic study room off the Law Library of Drake University seemed to close in on him as the JAG Corps representative scribbled a note on the paper in front of him. The paneled glass in the door window rattled as a student with a backpack lumbered past.
“Right. Okay, then.” The officer looked up, hazel-eyed gaze even and unrevealing. If Beckett had to guess, he’d place the man in his mid-forties. “We’ve covered the basics—degree, work experiences. What I’m curious about, Beckett, is why now?”
“Excuse me, sir?” He fingered his collar, wishing he hadn’t cinched the tie around his neck so tightly earlier today. But he’d been distracted as he’d knotted the thing in the bathroom across from his childhood bedroom. Thinking of Kit. Thinking of Dad and his surgery tomorrow afternoon.
Thinking of Webster. At least there was one person he wasn’t letting down. He’d convinced Webster not to go racing off to Des Moines on his own last week. Told him if he’d just wait, he could come along on Beckett’s trip.
“But anything could happen in a week. If Amanda’s with Jake—”
“Then that’s where she wants to be. She’s not a little kid, Webster. You can’t force her to leave.” His response had been a little too sharp, a little too personal.
Webster was waiting for him out in the library now, his patience likely wearing as thin as Beckett’s concentration.
“All the rest of the individuals I’ll be speaking with on this campus visit are still in law school. Even a few first-years.” Hunter glanced once more at the folder on the table—the one with the paperwork and letters and transcripts that summed up the last decade of Beckett’s life. “Whereas you’re three years into the private sector. What sparked your interest in the JAG Corps?”
Lines he’d rehearsed climbed up his throat—a few even made it out. His lifelong respect for the Army thanks to his father’s service and long-time interest in military law. His dissatisfaction with corporate firm life and his desire to do something different.
“I know it’s probably a different route than many of the men and women you interview, but—” Beckett cut off as his cell phone blared from his pocket. He flinched, fumbling to yank the thing free. “I’m so sorry, sir. I can’t believe I forgot to turn it . . .” His voice trailed as he caught sight of the screen. Kate? Why in the world would she call now? When she knew Beckett was in the middle of this interview?
“Do you need to answer it?”
The officer didn’t so much as cock an eyebrow, but Beckett heard the hint of reproof behind the question. “Uh, no.” He silenced the phone before abandoning it to the table. “Again . . . sorry.”
Hunter nodded before making another note in the open file in front of him. Probably something along the lines of too dumb to turn off his phone before the most important interview of his life.
Beckett could kick himself.
Behind the officer, a sliver of a window looked out on the law school’s Cartwright Hall. Across 27th Street, residence buildings were clustered into the center of campus. Steely clouds didn’t roll so much as tramp through a sky gray as the walls of this room. If Kit were here, she’d whip out the cloud classification and predict whether they carried rain.
Snappish regret tunneled through him. Beckett had tried to leave the emotion behind where it belonged—back in Maple Valley, back in last week. But it’d proven as impossible as trying to rake leaves in the rain. It clung to him now, soggy and stubborn and threatening to undo him in front of the man he most needed to impress.
The officer closed his file. “You’re prepared to deploy?”
The question caught Beckett off guard. “Uh, yes, sir. I mean, that’s one of the reasons I started looking into the Corps in the first place. I want to serve. I like the thought of traveling.”
One corner of Hunter’s mouth actually lifted. “This wouldn’t be sightseeing.”
“Oh, I realize that. Of course. It’s just—”
His phone. Again. This time just vibrating, but against the tabletop in the tiny room’s emptiness, it might as well have been a roar. He slipped it the quickest glance. Raegan?
The first needle of concern threaded through him.
“Mr. Walker—”
He snagged the phone and lowered it out of sight. “Sir, I can’t apologize enough. Clearly, my family—”
“That’s part of what we need to talk about. Deployment is tough on a family. I’ve seen it cause divorce, people missing funerals or the births of their children.” The officer leaned forward, palms flat on the table between them. “I watched the dawning play across a kid’s face just an hour ago when he realized deployment would mean missing entire NFL seasons.”
“Well, I’m more of a basketball guy, so we don’t have to worry about that.”
He waited for the officer to crack a smile. Clearly a practice in futility. “Officer Hunter, can I speak plainly?”
“That would be what we’re here for.”
Beckett had to work to keep the frustration from his tone. How many times would he have to defend this decision? Argue his way into convincing somebody—anybody—that he’d thought this through? That he knew what he was doing. “I’m not here on a whim. My path might’ve been a little unconventional, but I have worked hard to prepare for this potential transition. I understand what deployment means.”
Except do you really?
That voice again. The one sagging with doubt. The one that’d gotten louder the longer he was home. The more time he spent with his family.
With Kit.
But Officer Hunter appeared to accept his words at face value, because he offered a nod and laced his fingers in a relaxed pose. “All right, then. Let’s talk a little about past leadership experiences.”
Just as Beckett opened his mouth, his phone pulsed for the third time, surprising him enough that he dropped it. He nursed a caged groan.
“I think you should probably go ahead and answer.” It wasn’t a question.
Beckett’s limbs dragged as he reached for the phone. Logan this time. He was going to kill him. “I’ll just be a second.” No use apologizing again.
He jiggled the door handle, dodging the officer’s eyes as he slipped from the room. He wrenched the phone to his ear. “What?” In long, juddered strides, he darted down the library aisle, titan-sized bookshelves reaching to the ceiling.
“Whoa, you answered? Great, I’m probably interrupting your interview—”
He yanked open the library’s glass door, cold air smacking into him. “Not probably. You are.” The growl of the clouds matched his voice.
“I’m sorry.”
“Do you have any idea how important this is for me?”
“You’re angry, I get it. You can take a swing at me later if it’ll make you feel better.”
He paced the cement walkway. “One swing is so not going to cover it.”
“Would you just shut up for a second?”
Beckett tipped his head toward the pallid sky, churlish wind raking over him. Logan’s pinched tone, its volume, stole away his tumbling exasperation and replaced it with instant worry.
Logan never raises his voice. And he wouldn’t call now if it wasn’t important.
“Is something wrong with Charlie?”
“No, take the next ramp.” His brother was talking to someone else. Amelia?
“Logan?”
He heard the phone shift. “Sorry. Charlie’s fine. She’s with me and Amelia. We’re on the way to Iowa City.”
Iowa City. But why today? Dad’s surgery wasn’t until tomorrow afternoon. A band of students walked past him, laughing and oblivious.
“Dr. Ostler’s first surgery tomorrow got postponed and they’re moving Dad’s up. He’ll go in first thing in the morning, so we’re all heading there tonight.”
Beckett pushed away from the wall. “In that case—”
“Don’t cut off your interview. You’re only a couple hours from Iowa City. You’ll get there later tonight and it’ll be fine. You’ve got plenty of time.”
Except the last time he’d thought he had plenty of time . . .
“If you guys are all on your way, then I should be too.” He started down the sidewalk toward his car, then shook his head and turned. He should at least let Officer Hunter know why he was leaving.
“Beck, I wouldn’t even have called yet if I’d thought you’d answer. I figured your phone would be off and it’d go to voicemail.”
“Probably the same thing Kate and Rae thought.”
“They called, too? I guess we all just really wanted to make sure, well . . . I know Dad didn’t want . . .” Logan’s voice grew distant again as he gave Amelia more directions.
Didn’t want Beckett to feel like the last to know again. “Logan—”
“It’s going to be fine, Beck. And I’m really sorry I interrupted the interview.”
“Did you talk to him? Is he doing okay? Are you doing okay?”
“Everybody’s all right. I promise.”
He heard the almost-crack in Logan’s voice, the strain. Something trenchant and cold grated over him as he stepped aside so a student could exit the library. The sudden desperation to be with his family consumed him, and if he’d thought he hadn’t been able to focus before . . .
“Go in there and give one of your best lawyer arguments and convince that officer you’re a JAG. Okay? We’ll see you later tonight.”
Beckett hung up a second later and retraced his way through the library, gaze pinned on the door leading into the study room. He could see Officer Hunter through the narrow window, just sitting there, waiting. Was there any point in finishing the interview? He’d already bungled it—his lack of focus, his phone.
“Beckett, what is it?”
Webster. He’d completely forgotten.
“We have to make this fast.”
“I know, you’ve said that twenty times already.” Webster zipped up his sweatshirt and started toward the decrepit-looking building.
After cutting his interview short as graciously as he could, everything in Beckett had wanted to backtrack on his promise to the kid. Skip going to this Jake guy’s apartment and head straight to Iowa City, Webster in tow, whether he liked it or not.
But Logan was right—Iowa City was barely two hours away and it wasn’t even seven yet. There was plenty of time to make a quick stop, just long enough for Webster to make sure his friend was okay.
If she was even here.
What in the world would make a girl want to live here? Crumbling brick and cracked windows, overgrown weeds lining the walkway to the front door. Par for the course in this neighborhood, it seemed.
“I’m not feeling great about this, Web.” Wasn’t feeling great about anything at the moment. He’d walked away from an interview he was well on his way to bombing even before Logan had called. What if he’d finally, once and for all, blown his chances? And now he was about to enter a building that could’ve made an awfully convincing haunted house without any effort at all.
“Now you see why I’m worried about her?” Webster yanked open the front door.
“But you don’t know that she’s here. For all you know, she’s still back in Chicago doing just fine.”
“So why won’t she text me back?” His voice echoed as he moved toward the cement stairwell just inside the door. “And if you’re right and she’s not here, then good. At least I’ll know that much.”
The smell of burnt toast permeated the air, muffled voices rising from every direction. They climbed two sets of stairs before spilling into a corridor, painted walls chipped and peeling. Webster stopped in front of Apartment 327, the 7 at the end hanging crookedly.
He hesitated only for a moment before lifting his fist. Beckett hung back, waiting. This felt wrong. Was it just worry about Dad?
Webster knocked again, harder this time. “Jake! Open up.”
A door across the hall opened and a man stuck his head out. “Oh. Thought you were the police.”
“The police?”
The man stepped out, shirt unbuttoned, revealing a potbelly. “Called ’em fifteen minutes ago at least. Bad enough imagining what that kid’s dealing out of there, but the shouting tonight—I lost patience.”
Webster stiffened. “Shouting? Is there a girl in there?”
The man shrugged and Webster whirled back to the door, pounding now. “Amanda, are you in there?”
“Web, if the cops are on their way—”
Webster kicked the door, and it sprang open.
“Webster!” But he’d already barged inside, calling for Amanda. His panic became Beckett’s. He hurried in after Webster, the smell of something pungent and sickly sweet wafting over him. Pot. Probably something else, too. “We can’t be in here, especially not . . .” His focus snagged on a kid sprawled out on a couch, arms and legs draped over the sides. What had they walked into?
Webster had already disappeared into a bedroom. The sound of footsteps on the stairwell registered.
“Webster, we need to leave now.”
“Amanda!”
He followed Webster’s voice, passing a kitchen he didn’t have to look into twice to know it wasn’t meals they were cooking in there. He found Webster in a bedroom, kneeling over a bare mattress, shaking a girl’s body.
Webster flung a scared look over his shoulder. “She’s breathing, but she’s definitely high on something.”
“Hey, what’s going on here?”
The kid from the couch stood in the doorway behind them. He looked from Beckett to the bed to Webster.
It happened too fast: Webster’s guttural yell. “I’ll kill you!” His lunge across the room. The clash of bodies and fists.
Beckett sprung toward the brawl. “Webster, stop—”
They crashed into a vanity with a broken mirror, Beckett reaching desperately for Webster, trying to pull him free. Until a pair of arms yanked him away. He fell backward against a closet door while the police officer who’d come charging into the room wedged himself between Webster and the guy who must be Jake.
He cradled the arm that had hit the closet door, elbow throbbing, breathless. “You all right, Web—”
“Neighbor was right.” A second officer marched in. “It’s all right there in the kitchen. I’m going to call Buckley to get him down here for bagging and pics.”
Webster shot him a helpless look before glancing at the bed again. The girl—Amanda, he assumed—was sitting up now.
“Sir,” Beckett said, “the one in the hoodie and myself, we don’t have anything to do with this.”
“Save it for the station.”
This couldn’t be happening. If they were arrested, it could be hours before they were let out. Worse, they could be booked overnight until an arraignment and . . .
Dad.
“You don’t understand—” He tried again, but the sinking feeling in his gut was confirmed by the officer’s head shake and the clatter of handcuffs.
Autumn was finally here to stay. Kit could feel it claiming its territory, raking through tree branches that shivered against a moaning wind. It wasn’t quite the stunning fall day they’d all hoped for as they’d planned for the state tourism board’s visit. But at least those ashen cirrus clouds didn’t carry any rain.
The thumping of the machine shed’s door, its jangling hinges, carried across the span of dusty yard to where she stood on the store’s porch, watching the mayor lead their esteemed visitors around the orchard.
But where was Dad? Lucas should’ve returned from the airport an hour ago.
He’s not the only one you’re watching for.
She took a tattered breath, couldn’t deny it. There was a piece of her that still hoped Beckett might whisk in like he had so many times before—always there, right when she needed him most. Of course he had that interview in Des Moines, but it was only an hour’s drive back. He could still show up.
But after a week of silence, did she really expect it?
She’d wounded him. He’d walked away. They’d been here before.
She’d thought so many times of going over to the Walker house, forcing him to talk to her. But what would be the point? Nothing had changed. She couldn’t give up on the life she’d begun to build for herself here, not when she’d worked so hard, invested so much.
Plus, it wasn’t just about her—it was about Grandma and Grandpa’s legacy and all her employees, the guys from Hampton House. She’d heard that buyer of Lucas’s—he didn’t plan to keep the orchard open as a tourist spot, but solely as a fruit farm. He’d probably hire fewer workers, work them longer hours, and pay them lower wages.
Show me that I did the right thing, God, please.
“Milt’s gotta be happy. I think the state reps are duly impressed.” Willa’s voice emerged from the store.
Kit jumped. “I didn’t realize you were back there.”
“Eric and I traded places. He’s leading the next lantern walk, I’m manning the store for a while. Not that we’ve got much business at this point. Most people are having fun outside or dancing in the barn.”
Dusk cast shadows all around, but just enough light remained to showcase the colors of what leaves remained on the trees. The field behind the orchard buildings was a tapestry of fiery reds and oranges and yellows. Lanterns placed throughout the grounds glowed from all directions.
Music and laughter, pirouetting light, drifted from the barn. All the final work on the building had been completed in the last week. Floors stained and walls painted. She’d washed every window herself just yesterday and then spent the entire afternoon and evening decorating the interior—tulle wrapped around beams, refreshment tables set up along the walls and ornamented with fall-themed centerpieces.
And of course, the twinkle lights.
The pang hit her again.
“You can’t just stand here all night waiting, Kit.”
“What is it with the men in my life not being here when I need them to be?” How many birthdays and holidays had she spent just like this—looking out a window or standing on the porch of her grandparents’ house, just sure that this time Dad would show up? All those months during the war of having no idea where Lucas was, and then his repeat disappearance, though much shorter, this year.
And Beckett . . .
But it wasn’t fair to include him. When she’d needed him this fall, he’d thrown himself into helping her. Early mornings, late nights, he’d worked so hard to make her dream possible. It was only lately he’d begun to drift.
But then, that was Beckett. He had a way of diving into things, all in, and then eventually pulling back when things didn’t turn out the way he’d planned or he got tired of them. Basketball, his corporate law career, even the car he used to work on with his mom . . .
She sucked in a breath. Was that why she’d really said no that night in the barn? Because underneath all her other sensible objections was an underlying fear—that eventually he’d grow restless with her, too? That what had seemed exciting and romantic and had tugged on his Beckett Walker impulse would one day seem as tedious as his former job?
An eerie haze hovered in the air—one that didn’t make sense. It wasn’t warm enough, nor the clouds thick enough, to warrant trapped moisture. Perhaps she didn’t know her Iowa weather as well as she’d thought.
“Maybe your dad’s plane was late landing.”
“Maybe.”
Willa nudged her head toward the barn. “Go have some fun, Kit. Help Mayor Milt charm those state people. You put a lot of work into tonight. You should enjoy it.”
But she’d put in the work so Dad could see it. And he wasn’t here. Why wasn’t he here?
She was halfway to the barn when she heard the spark. More like a boom, actually. What in the—
“Kit, what was that?” Willa’s voice carried over the yard.
But Kit was already running. It couldn’t be what it sounded like, but she raced to the side of the barn to make sure, dreading she’d find . . .
Exactly what she found. The electrical box sparking and smoking.
She jumped back as it blasted a second time, her shocked yelp covered up by the sound of a crackling. No . . .
She had to put it out before the wind fanned the baby flame, carried sparks to the roof or the trees. If it turns into a full-blown fire . . .
She had to get the people out first. She ran around to the front of the barn, but the crowd inside had already begun to realize something was wrong. Buzzing concern was rising throughout the room, and by the time she’d pushed in, people were scurrying for the door. “Stay calm!”
But then she saw it, what they must’ve seen—billowing smoke through the window. Just that fast, the fire had begun to climb. Mind spinning, she pushed through the frenzied crowd, frantic gaze landing on the tablecloth spread over a table.
She forced her way to the table, wrenched the linen free, and started weaving her way back to the exit. Someone screamed as shattering glass sounded over the chaos.
Please, no . . .
By the time she was back outside, hungry flames licked at the east wall, aided by barreling shafts of wind. Smoke clouded her vision as she stumbled to the fire. Desperate, determined, she thwacked the tablecloth at the fire. Tears stung her eyes, and her heart battered the inside of her chest, stilted prayers clogging her throat with no hope of making it past dry lips. Sparks leapt from the blaze as the fire clawed its way higher.
“Kit!”
Lucas came careening around the side of the barn.
“Help me, Luke.”
“It’s too windy. The blaze is already too much.”
Her lungs burned, and a moan wracked her body. Even so, she flung the tablecloth at the fire once more. She lifted it again, only to be stopped by Lucas’s arm around her waist. She struggled against him, but his hold was tight and his labored steps firm.
Within seconds he’d towed her away from the building, her half-charred tablecloth dragging along with her. Somewhere behind the crackle and hiss of the flames, Willa’s voice barked information to a 911 dispatcher.
“You okay?” Lucas yelled to be heard over the pandemonium.
“Where’s Dad?” It came out a near sob.
The glow of the fire highlighted the regret in his eyes. “He didn’t come, Kit.”
“The flight didn’t get in?”
He tugged the burned linen from her hands and let it drop to the ground. “It did. He just wasn’t on it.”
She sank into his arms and cried.