“When did you . . . ?” She was too breathless to finish the question. He must’ve climbed the scaffolding Drew hadn’t taken down yet in order to get up to the rafters. “Why . . . ?”
“Because you’ve had a rough few days, and I knew it’d make you happy. And because Kate and Colton were planning their wedding today and they aren’t sure where to hold it and I told them the barn would be perfect. They’ll be over here in a little while to look around.”
“Are you serious?”
“And also because I’ve got something to celebrate.” He came around to face her and pulled a sheet of paper from his back pocket. “But first, I need a signature. Sylvia called me today. My community service isn’t officially done until you sign the paperwork. I should’ve brought a pen, though.”
“Good thing I was too lazy to go looking for a hair tie today.” She reached around behind her hair to pull out the pen she’d twisted her hair around on the way out to the field. The faintest, unwelcome trace of hesitation accompanied the scratching of her pen as she signed. It felt too official, too much like an ending.
And yet, he had to have spent hours hanging all these lights. For Kate and Colton, yes, but also for her.
She mustered a deep breath as she handed the paperwork back, and when she met his gaze, she realized he’d read every one of her trickling thoughts. But all he did was pocket her pen.
“You just stole my writing utensil.”
“Because your hair’s so pretty down and loose like this.”
The rich timbre of his voice made her shiver. Or maybe it was the lights. Or the heady combination of the cool night air mingling with the warmth of Beckett’s closeness.
“Is that what we’re celebrating? Your community service being done?”
“No, something else.”
“So tell me.”
“One more thing I want to do first.” In a sure step forward, he filled the space between them and lifted his hands to her cheeks. He traced her lips with his thumbs, and his voice rasped. “The thing I’ve been thinking about every day since Boston.”
His kiss was soft at first, tentative and feather-light. But not for long. The moment she leaned in, he shifted, kissing her with enough intensity to send scurrying thoughts of anything outside the barn doors.
She was lost. She was found. She was home. All those years of friendship with Beckett. How had she not known?
The rhythm of her heart hadn’t a hope of steadying; her breath, not a chance of catching. His fingers moved from her face to her hair and then down her back until he’d nearly lifted her off her feet. She gasped, tightening her own hold.
Until he pulled back, eyes the color of midnight. “Kit.”
She couldn’t find her voice underneath her trembling emotion.
“I got a new FSO interview.”
She blinked, cold air stilling in her lungs as her feet touched the ground.
“It’s next week, Thursday. In Des Moines, at Drake.” His hands were still clasped behind her back, his sentences darting one after another, as if by blurting them fast enough, he might lessen their effect.
“Thursday? That’s when the tourism board is here.”
“I know, and I’m really sorry. But it took so long to get this thing lined up.”
Movements sluggish and unsure, she disentangled herself from him. That was what he was celebrating? “Okay. Um, well, I’m glad it . . . that you . . .” No. No, she wasn’t glad. And if she lied, he’d see right through her. He always did.
Before she could entirely pull away, he cupped her face in his hands. “What if you came with?” There was a hushed intensity to his question.
“What?”
“Not to the interview. I mean later. If I get in. I know you have plans for the orchard, I do. But imagine for a second it wasn’t a factor, and you could pick up and go somewhere new. Have an adventure.” His hands slid down her shoulders, down her arms. “With me.”
Before he could grasp her hands, she scrambled backward. “I can’t just pick up and leave, Beck. I’m in the middle of the season and I’ve got a major event next week and Dad’s coming home—”
“He is?”
“And Lucas is traipsing around with this prospective buyer.”
“Maybe that’s a sign, Kit.”
“So I’m just supposed to walk away?”
“It wouldn’t be immediate. And why does it have to be walking away? Why can’t it be walking toward something?”
For all of a dizzying moment, she let herself latch onto the hope in his voice, the romance of what he was asking her. Except . . . “What exactly are you asking me, Beck?”
As if sensing a chink in her armor, he caught her hands. “I’m asking you to come with me.”
“As what?”
“As . . .”
His pause said too much and not enough. “You don’t even know what you’re asking me. Have you really thought about this? Planned any further ahead than the next kiss?”
“If that’s an offer—”
“I’m not like you, Beckett. You got a phone call from an Army officer in August and within twenty-four hours hopped a plane to Iowa. I spent a month deliberating after Lucas emailed me this summer. I’m not like you. I’m not . . .”
His eyes darkened as he dropped her hands. “Not what?”
Impulsive. Reckless. She’d called him those things once. She wouldn’t again. Tears pooled in her eyes. How was this happening? Two minutes ago her every emotion was soaring on wings of hope and anticipation and . . . love?
Yes. Yes. She loved him. Oh, she loved him.
But she also loved her home and this land and the way she felt when she poured herself into it. It was a part of her.
So is Beckett.
But they’d only just discovered this new layer of their friendship. It had been all of—what, two, two and a half weeks?—since he’d kissed her on the shore of Salt Island. They’d never even talked about it. And now he was asking her to jump with no sense of whether she might land in grass or sea or a pile of rocks.
“When God calls us to something, it doesn’t mean we’re never going to have setbacks.”
Willa’s words. But this wasn’t a setback. This was her heart laid bare and bleeding.
Because she knew, somewhere crazy-deep and convincing, that she was supposed to stay. That she couldn’t cut and run. Even if it was hard, even if Dad was doubtful and Lucas was persistent. Even if another storm came charging through. Even if Beckett left.
Burn your ships.
But why, why did Beckett have to be one of those ships, drifting away from her all over again right in front of her eyes? His back was to her now, one hand combing through the hair so obviously in need of a cut.
Maybe if for once she could do what he’d done so many times before—find the right words, convince him . . .
To what? Give up his dream? How was that any more right than her walking away from the orchard? “Beck—”
“I should go.”
“Don’t. We can talk this out.” Hot tears pooled in her eyes.
He turned to face her under the frame of the barn door, moonlight silhouetting him from behind. “I don’t think we can. We both knew, didn’t we? It’s why we skirted around it for weeks.” He shook his head, gaze softening underneath his hurt. “It’s okay, Kit. Maybe this was just another one of those big ideas I can’t make play out. But I’m not walking away angry this time. I promise.”
But he was walking away.
And the ache was simply too much.
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 he
re 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.”