Her Dirty Defender (In His Sights #6)

1. George

Chapter 1

George

The early morning air bites at my skin, crisp and sharp, as I roll up the garage door to my shop. The scent of grease, metal, and last night’s rain welcomes me like an old friend.

Clover Canyon Auto sits on the outskirts of town, off the main road that stretches toward the ranchlands. It’s nothing fancy—a wide metal building with an open bay, a gravel lot out front, and a row of rusted-out trucks and busted tractors waiting for their second chance at life.

Across the road, the land stretches wide and open, fields rolling out toward the distant tree line where the mountains rise in the background. In the other direction, the town isn’t far, a five-minute drive, ten if you get stuck behind a slow-moving hay truck.

It’s not much, but it’s mine.

Machines make sense. They don’t expect anything from you. They don’t push or judge. If something’s broken, you figure out the problem, replace the part, and it works again. Simple. Predictable.

I grab my wrench and slide under the old Chevy farm truck taking up half my garage. One of the local ranchers brought it in yesterday, grumbling about how he’s convinced someone tampered with the transmission.

And as I work, it turns out he could be right. An untrained eye might miss it, but the underside and engine compartment show subtle signs of damage. And the oil? Thinner than it should be.

I work in silence, letting the familiar scrape of metal on metal ground me. The wrench slips, scraping the back of my knuckles as I tighten the bolt. I hiss through my teeth, twisting harder until it finally gives with a satisfying click.

I slide out from under the truck, back aching, coveralls streaked with oil. Sweat clings to my neck despite the cool air.

Before I can wipe my hands, my phone buzzes from the workbench.

Dad.

Of course.

I hesitate, staring at the screen. I already know what this is. A reminder. A directive. A gentle nudge dressed up as concern that somehow ends with me agreeing to something I don’t want.

Still, I answer. Because I always do.

“Hey, Dad.”

“You sound winded.”

“Just climbed out from under a transmission. Not exactly a day at the spa.”

“Right.” He’s quiet for a beat, long enough that I imagine him adjusting his hat, doing that stare thing he does when he’s about to issue an order disguised as a request. “I need you to swing by the office later today to discuss the Veterans Fundraiser. I need you on deck this year.”

Of course. Havenridge Ranch hosts it every year, and the Suttons go all out. It’s not simply a town fundraiser—it’s the backbone of the veterans’ program Dad helped launch with Ben Sutton when they left the military. And yeah, it matters.

To him. To the Suttons. To a lot of people.

Because a veteran’s fight doesn’t end because the war is over.

“Okay,” I say, brushing sweat off my brow with the back of my hand. “I’ll come by after work.”

“Make it five sharp, George. Don’t make me track you down.”

“You say that like you haven’t done it before.”

That gets a short grunt that might’ve been a laugh if Dad ever really laughed anymore.

I’m about to hang up when he adds, “And George… dress decent, will you?”

I pause, frowning. “It’s the sheriff’s office, not the Ritz.”

“I know. Just make an effort.”

The call ends before I can decide if I’m annoyed or just tired.

I stare at the phone, my heart thudding with something I can’t name. Guilt? Frustration? That old ache I thought I’d learned to ignore—that I’m twenty-four years old and still trying to be the daughter Dad wants instead of the woman I truly am.

Dad doesn’t ask for much, but he doesn’t see much, either. Not the scraped knuckles or the long hours spent keeping this shop afloat. Not the way I’ve carved out a life that fits me or the pressure that comes with being the sheriff’s daughter simply because I share his last name.

Dad looks at me like I’m a truck with a busted alternator, as if all he has to do is tighten a few bolts to get me running the way he wants. He wants a version of me that’s quieter. More agreeable.

Too bad I’ve never been that girl.

I try, though. I really do. But I’m still too messy. Too stubborn.

The roar of an approaching engine pulls me from my thoughts.

A dust-covered ranch truck pulls up, and Tom Sutton hops out, knocking his hat back on his head, a half-smirk already in place. The morning sun catches in his sharp blue eyes, full of that easy charm that makes half the women in town swoon and the other half warn their daughters about him.

Not that it’s ever worked on me.

Tom is one of the Sutton brothers—he and his older brothers, Henry and Angus, run Havenridge Ranch alongside their dad, Ben. Ben has been best friends with my father since the Stone Age, which means I’ve known the Suttons my entire life. They’re practically family, even if they drive me half-crazy some days.

Tom is a friend. Always has been. He's the kind of guy who flirts because it’s second nature, not because he means anything by it. We rib each other, trade insults, and sometimes split a beer after a long day, but that’s as far as it’s ever gone—or ever will.

Henry’s been married to Shay for several months now. Angus got hitched more recently to Luna. Both women were “mail-order brides,” if you can believe that. Set up because of some clause in their late mother’s will. But I’ll say this: Shay and Luna fit into that ranch like they were made for it.

Me? I don’t fit so neatly. I fix their tractors, keep their hay balers running, and rebuild half their equipment from scrap. They even built me a workshop out past the barn—something they claimed was a ‘business decision,’ but felt a hell of a lot like family.

“Morning, George.” Tom leans against the truck, arms crossed, biceps flexing beneath his rolled-up denim sleeves. “Hope you’ve got time to work your magic. One of our tractors is coughing up black smoke like The Rusty Spur’s poker room on whiskey night.”

I smirk, wiping grease off my hands. “Sounds like you’ve been rough on her again, Tom. No wonder you’re single if you treat your women like you treat your equipment.”

He grins, slow and lazy—the kind of grin that’s gotten him out of trouble and into it more times than I can count. “Never had any complaints.”

I raise a brow. “Glad to hear you're not catching that wedding fever like your brothers. When did marrying a stranger after two weeks become Havenridge Ranch’s favorite pastime?”

Tom gives me a sheepish look. “Actually…”

My eyes widen. “You’re kidding!”

He shakes his head. “Nope. My bride should be arriving in a few weeks.”

“Your mom sure knew how to tuck a marriage of convenience into a will, huh?”

Tom snorts, pushing off the truck and walking toward me, that damn crooked grin of his still in place. “She always said we’d never settle down on our own. Guess she decided to make sure we did.”

I laugh, wiping my hands again as I lean against the workbench. “You realize you’re about to marry a stranger?”

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “But you know what? Henry and Angus did it. And they look... I dunno, lighter. Happier. Maybe there's something to this whole mail-order madness.”

I cross my arms. “And you think lightning’s gonna strike three times?”

Tom gives a half-shrug, half-smile. “I don’t know what I think. But the ranch needs saving, and if this is the price to pay, well, there are worse things than waking up next to a pretty woman who agreed to take a chance on me.”

“Yeah, maybe there are,” I say thoughtfully, falling quiet for a minute.

“So, you gonna tow the tractor in, or am I making a ranch call?”

“Ranch call. You know I’d rather limp it home than see her on the back of a tow rig.”

“She’s not a parade float, Tom. She’s a tractor.”

He winks. “She’s got wheels, horsepower, and a whole lotta attitude. Sounds like royalty to me.”

I huff a laugh as I grab my toolbox and toss it into the back of his truck.

As we climb in, Tom glances sideways at me. “How's your dad? Haven't seen the sheriff around much lately.”

“Busy. Election year.” My stomach twists. “He's got big plans for this town. Most don't include a daughter who'd rather rebuild carburetors than attend his fundraisers.”

Tom chuckles. “Your dad's missing out.”

“Tell him that.” I roll down the window, soaking in the familiar scent of damp earth, manure, and cut grass. “What about you guys? How are things after the fire?”

His smile fades slightly. “Luna’s doing okay. Healing. Angus has been locking things up more than usual. Being careful.”

“Understandable,” I murmur, my chest tightening at the thought of the charred barn skeleton, knowing Luna was trapped in that inferno.

I knew about the fire, of course—the whole town did. And the rumors that it was started deliberately. Dad investigated it, but being the sheriff’s daughter doesn’t mean I’m privy to case details.

Tom sighs. “Almost losing Luna spooked everyone. With Shay pregnant and Luna still healing, we’re all a bit on edge. Angus hired a security guy. Said he wanted an extra set of eyes around the place. He arrives in a few days.”

I glance over. “Extra set of eyes?”

Tom’s shrug is almost too casual. “Yeah. Someone Angus knows. Quiet type. Doesn’t talk much, but good at what he does, apparently.”

“Great. Just what we need. Another man who communicates in grunts.”

I try to make it a joke, but it lands bitter—too close to the bone.

Guys like that? They assess threat levels and catalog weaknesses before they say two words. I’ve seen it in my dad. In his friends. In every man who’s ever looked at me and seen potential wasted on calloused hands and a ratchet.

Not that it matters. I wouldn't know what to do with a different kind of attention.

I’ll stick to fixing broken-down vehicles.

No expectations. No judgment. No one trying to shape me into someone I’m not.

Just tools, grit, the clean truth of something broken—and the satisfaction of making it whole again.

* * *

Three hours, one tractor diagnosis, and a quick shower later, I'm parked outside the sheriff's office. I rummage through my glove compartment for a hair tie, yanking my still-damp hair into submission. The faint smell of motor oil clings to me despite scrubbing my hands raw. Dad will notice. He always does.

I adjust my shirt for the third time before pushing open the entrance to the sheriff’s office. The bell above it jingles—too loud, too cheerful—and a pointed reminder that I’m six minutes late.

Dad’s already at his desk, his head bent over paperwork, his pen moving in clipped, military strokes.

He doesn’t even glance up. “You’re late.”

I swallow my automatic smartass reply and straighten my spine. “Sorry. Busy day. Had to finish up with a customer. Their equipment needed immediate attention.”

“Discipline matters, Georgina.”

I wince. He only uses my full name when he’s disappointed. “I know, Dad. Doing my best.”

He finally looks up, his gaze scanning me like I’m a recruit under inspection. For a second, I think he might soften.

Then the door creaks open behind me and Deputy Marcus Wade enters, uniform crisp, smile in place, smelling like pine soap and duty.

“Georgina,” he says, his grin smooth as freshly waxed floorboards.

I force a polite nod. “Afternoon, Deputy.”

Dad sets his pen aside with the finality of a judge dropping the gavel. “Marcus has offered to escort you to the Veterans Day Fundraiser.”

My stomach dips. “I’m sorry—what?”

Marcus chuckles like we’re sharing some private joke I never agreed to. “Your father and I both agreed you should have a proper escort. And I’d be honored.” He grins wider. “I’m looking forward to seeing you all dressed up, Georgina.”

This is the kind of man Dad thinks is best for me—a clean-cut, dependable lawman like Marcus. Someone with his shirt tucked in, his morals polished to a high shine, and his ambition set to “steady incline.”

I should be grateful. I should nod and go along with it. Marcus has never been anything but polite. Respectful. Perfectly friendly.

But I don’t want a date. I don’t want yet another of Dad’s expectations forced on me. “I can go alone?—”

“Nonsense,” Dad cuts in. “You and Marcus make a great couple, and it’ll be good for optics. Nothing like the sheriff’s daughter and his deputy showing a united front to get the money rolling in.”

Every muscle in my body coils tight, and familiar rage burns in my chest. Optics. Of course. Heaven forbid I show up as myself, all oil-stained knuckles and opinions. Dad's been pushing me toward Marcus for months as if it’s a foregone conclusion and my choices don’t matter.

Marcus nods solemnly. “It’ll be fun, Georgina. I promise. The fundraiser is more than a dance or an auction. Every dollar raised goes straight to food, housing, therapy, and skills training for the veterans’ program. It’s about providing a safe place for former military men struggling with PTSD, survivor’s guilt, and the harsh reality of returning to a world that no longer feels like home. Somewhere they can find purpose again. It’s not a party. It’s a lifeline. Your dad has built an event that shows people what’s at stake around here. What needs protecting.”

O. M. Fucking. G.

Did he rehearse that this morning while flexing in the mirror and posing with his Glock? Not that I disagree with the importance of the fundraiser, but that speech had the same energy as a bald eagle flying across a sunset while Lee Greenwood plays in the background.

Dad nods approvingly as if Marcus just recited the Pledge of Allegiance in Latin. “There’s no one I’d prefer to escort you, George. Marcus is practically family.”

Of course, Marcus is “practically family.” Dad took him under his wing the minute he arrived in Clover Canyon. Promoted him fast. Defended him harder. Calls him “son” sometimes when he’s not paying attention.

Meanwhile, I get told I’m late because I was helping a guy who needed his tractor working so he could haul feed to his livestock.

“Right,” I mutter. “Can’t have the family golden boy showing up stag.”

Dad’s expression hardens. “Don’t be petty.”

“I’m not being petty,” I snap, then inhale slowly. “I just don’t want to be forced into a date I didn’t agree to.”

“It’s one night,” Dad says, waving me off like I’m an overdramatic teenager and not a grown woman running my own business. “One night to look respectable and support a good cause.”

Marcus lifts his hands. “I didn’t mean to overstep, Georgina. Your dad asked me, and I said I’d be honored. That’s all.”

His tone is measured. Reasonable.

And now I’m the unreasonable one.

The ungrateful one.

Cornered.

The office phone rings—shrill and urgent. Saved by the bell.

Dad picks up instantly. “Sheriff Lucas. Wait, slow down. Where?”

His expression darkens. Without breaking concentration, he reaches for his notepad and jots something down. His pen scratches with efficient finality.

I glance at Marcus, silently praying this is urgent enough to pull him away.

Dad hangs up and says, “Marcus, you’re up. Suspicious activity near the south access road. Looks like someone’s tampering with cattle gates again at Caleb Cutter’s place.”

“Probably kids,” Marcus mutters, already halfway out the door. “But I’ll check it out.”

Dad nods. “Take the rookie. I want a full report.”

Marcus pauses in the doorway and tips his hat. “We’ll talk later, Georgina.”

I keep my polite smile in place until the door shuts behind him.

Then I whirl on Dad. “You know I don’t need an escort to the fundraiser.”

Dad levels me with that same calm, iron gaze he’s used since I was a kid. “This isn’t about you, Georgina. It’s about showing strength. Family. Unity. You want to run that garage and fix tractors for the rest of your life? Fine. But don’t forget whose name you carry when you walk into that fundraiser.”

The silence hums with my heartbeat.

And then it cracks.

What he means is: be more disciplined. More polished. More presentable.

What I hear is: You’re not enough.

Not graceful enough. Not respectable enough. Not the daughter he hoped for.

Dad sighs, looking suddenly weary. “I’m just saying you work too much. You’re always running yourself ragged, and for what? Grease-stained hands and late nights in that shop? If you had someone looking after you, you wouldn’t have to?—”

“Wouldn’t have to what , Dad?” I cut across him, stepping closer. Heat rises in my chest, and every muscle is wired tight. “Work? Be independent? Make my own choices?”

His brows knit together. “That’s not what I meant?—”

“No? Then what did you mean?” My voice sharpens. “That I should give up the one thing in my life I built from the ground up to play house with your favorite deputy? That my business—something I busted my ass for—is just a cute little detour until a man shows up to ‘give me stability?’”

Dad exhales through his nose, slow and hard. “Don’t twist my words, Georgina.”

“I don’t have to twist a damn thing,” I snap. “You said Marcus was good for optics. Optics , Dad. Like I’m a prop you can pull out whenever the need arises.”

His face hardens, and he rubs his temples like I’m the problem—like I’m difficult for not falling in line. “You’re not seeing the big picture. Marcus could give you something real. Something solid.”

My voice drops. “Then maybe you should’ve raised a different daughter.”

That lands. He flinches, but I press on before he can regroup.

“Because we’ve been over this a thousand times . I love what I do. The grease, the long hours, the busted knuckles. I built that garage with my own hands, and it may not be much to you, but it’s everything to me. It's mine. Stop pretending this is about what’s best for me. It’s about what’s most convenient for you .”

The silence stretches, thick with everything he won’t say and everything I can’t take back.

Finally, Dad blows out a frustrated breath. “Georgina?—”

“No,” I cut in, yanking my keys from my pocket. “Save the speech. I’ve heard it before.”

I don’t wait for a reply. I’m already out the door and halfway down the street.

I love this town—every dusty road and rusted fence post. I love the garage, the rhythm of repair, the satisfaction of rebuilding something that everyone else thought was broken. I love being George, the woman who can lift an engine block and fix a busted axle.

But no one here sees me as someone dateable . Not as someone desirable .

Men don’t flirt with the sheriff’s daughter. They sure as hell don’t hit on the girl who can change her oil faster than they can blink. I’m “one of the guys” when it’s convenient and “off limits” the moment it’s not.

It’s not that I’ve given up on love. I just haven’t found anyone who sees me .

I slide into my old Ford pickup and the driver’s seat molds to me like a second spine.

I need space. I need to be somewhere nobody knows me, where I can simply be me. George.

And I know just the place.