Chapter Seven
~ Burke ~
There’s a specific quality to the sound of tires on gravel that tells you whether you’re about to get company, a delivery, or trouble.
I heard it before the dog did—a low, uneven rumble, heavy on the right side, probably from a half-busted tie rod.
My ears did the calculus, and before the cruiser even crested the rise, I knew who it belonged to.
Sheriff Calloway.
The ranch dog, predictably, lost his damn mind at the first flash of gold-on-brown up the drive. I moved quicker. My gut told me this wasn’t a social call. My gut was rarely wrong.
I hit the window and confirmed: department-issued Ford, Montana plates. Calloway drove with one hand, the other braced on the wheel like he was steering an oil tanker through a hurricane. Even before the siren lights came into view, I felt the buzz of adrenaline start up in my chest.
I took a second to check my reflection in the glass. My hair was a mess, but at least I didn’t look half as sleep-deprived as I felt. I debated waking up Rawley or Hooper for backup, then decided against it. Better to handle this before it got messy.
I stepped out onto the porch and crossed my arms, making it clear that whatever this was, I had no intention of playing dumb.
The truck rolled to a stop with a crunch that sent a spray of pebbles pinging off the front stoop.
Sheriff Calloway let the engine idle while he eyeballed the property, taking in every detail.
His poker face was legendary, but I could tell by the tic at the corner of his mouth that he wasn’t thrilled to be here.
He swung out of the truck and straightened up, a little stiffer than last time I’d seen him. He must’ve banged his knee again—the limp was worse than usual. He paused just shy of the bottom step, hands resting easy on his utility belt.
“Morning, Burke,” he called. “Bit early for a house call, I know, but we had a report from town.”
I didn’t smile. “From the Jenkins place?”
He nodded, once. “Thought it’d be better coming from me than one of the green kids they just hired.”
I shrugged, as if this was all standard procedure. “You want to tell me what the report said or you want to see for yourself?”
Calloway looked me over. His gaze was clinical, not unfriendly, but you didn’t get to his rank without knowing how to size up a threat. “Why don’t we talk inside,” he said.
“If it’s all the same, I’d rather you just say it. We both know why you’re here.”
He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture betraying a flash of real exhaustion. “There’s been an accusation that Danny Jenkins is being held here against his will. Dennis Jenkins filed it.”
I snorted, loud enough for the whole damn valley to hear. “The only thing being held here is Danny’s ribs. Together, with tape, after his brother tried to crack them like a six-pack.”
The sheriff’s face didn’t move, but his eyes sharpened. “Is the boy here?”
“Yeah. And he’s not going anywhere until his breathing is less ‘maraca’ and more ‘living human.’”
Calloway grunted, then made a show of glancing up at the porch. “You gonna let me in or do we play this out in front of your new security system?”
I stepped aside, but not all the way. “You can come in. But I swear to God, Calloway, if you let that bastard near this ranch—”
He raised a hand, already familiar with the drill. “I’m not here for a fight. I just need to make sure everything’s above board.”
His boots thudded on the steps, slow and careful. He paused at the door, wiped the mud off on the mat—old habits die hard in a small town, I guess—then followed me inside.
The ranch house always smelled faintly of wood smoke and the bacon Jojo liked to sneak for second breakfast. But under that, I could still pick up the sharp tang of hydrogen peroxide and the bitter, animal smell of pain.
Danny’s scent was woven through all of it—nervous, but holding together.
I could track it through the house, easy.
We found him propped up on the couch, a textbook balanced on his knees like a shield. He looked up, and his face flickered with a dozen emotions in two seconds—fear, relief, embarrassment, and something that might’ve been gratitude.
Sheriff Calloway’s face went hard when he saw the bruises. He didn’t say anything at first, just let out a slow whistle. “Jesus, son,” he muttered. “You take a tumble or is that Dennis’s handiwork again?”
Danny met his eyes, steady as steel. “I want to press charges this time.”
For a second, nobody moved. Then the sheriff pulled out a notebook and flipped to a clean page. “I’ll need a statement. And you’re sure?”
Danny’s voice was quiet, but I’d never heard it sound so clear. “I’m sure.”
Calloway nodded, then turned to me. “You mind if we use your kitchen?”
“Knock yourself out,” I said. “Coffee’s fresh.”
He shot me a look that said he knew damn well it wasn’t, but he followed Danny into the kitchen anyway.
I waited by the door, listening to the low hum of their voices. My fists unclenched, just a little. The day wasn’t over, not by a long shot, but for the first time since last night, it felt like maybe—just maybe—we had a shot at surviving this town with our souls intact.
I turned back to the window, scanning the horizon for any sign of Dennis’s truck. I didn’t see it.
But I was ready if I did.
I hung back in the hallway, close enough to intervene if Dennis’s truck magically teleported into the driveway, but not so close that I’d crowd them. Danny sat at the kitchen table, arms folded tight across his ribs.
Sheriff Calloway settled across from him, the battered notebook already open and a stubby pencil tucked behind his ear. He glanced at the splotch of blood on the corner of the tablecloth, then at the kid, and exhaled like he was letting out a month’s worth of tension.
“Alright, Daniel,” he said, voice gone soft and official. “You ready?”
Danny didn’t hesitate. “I want to press charges this time.”
It didn’t even sound like him—there was no quiver, no trailing off at the end. The words landed flat and heavy, like steel dropped on a workbench. They’d sounded the same way when he’d said them in the living room.
The sheriff’s eyebrows went up a fraction, but he just nodded and made a note. “Good. It’ll stick, this time. He went too far.”
Danny looked at his hands. “He always goes too far.”
Calloway winced, just a little, and made another note. “You know the drill, then. Tell me what happened, as close to the order as you remember it.”
I kept my post, pretending to count the days’ worth of dog hair on the baseboards.
But I listened. I listened to every word, every detail, every time Danny had to pause to get his breath under him.
His voice never cracked, not even when he listed off the spots Dennis aimed for: face, ribs, kidneys, anywhere that wouldn’t show if you wore a long-sleeve shirt.
Not even when he said, “He told me if I talked, he’d kill me.”
I wanted to punch something. I wanted to punch everything. But I held it together, because the kid was finally getting a chance to speak and I’d be damned if I stole that from him.
The sheriff’s hand moved across the page in tight, efficient strokes. His mouth was a thin line. He only looked up when Danny paused, and even then it was just to nod him along, never once pushing or rushing. When it was over, he closed the notebook and took a long, silent minute to rub his eyes.
“About damn time,” he said, not quite under his breath. “Son, if you’d told the truth years ago, we could’ve put him away for good.”
Danny’s jaw set. “I tried. He always convinced people I was lying.”
The sheriff shook his head, tired. “That’s what alphas like him do.”
That was my cue. I stalked into the kitchen, barely able to keep my fists unclenched. “You knew,” I spat, unable to stop myself. “You knew he was beating Danny and you didn’t do shit?”
Sheriff Calloway fixed me with a look that could sand paint off a fence.
“What do you want from me, Burke? I filed every report. I brought in social. You think anyone in this town would testify against the Jenkins name, when half of them owe his mother for work or favors or god knows what? We tried, but every time, Danny clammed up and Dennis walked.”
Danny bristled. “You would’ve, too. He said he’d kill Mom if I talked.”
The sheriff’s face softened. “I know. And I’m sorry. But this time? You’re not alone. You got witnesses, you got this report, and you got a whole house full of ex-SEALs willing to testify.”
I was still vibrating, but the edge had dulled. “If you need statements, we’ll all give ‘em.”
Calloway nodded, then stood up, slow and deliberate. “First, I gotta take photos of the injuries. Then I’ll call it in. After that, I recommend you keep the kid off social media and away from town for a while. Dennis is gonna be pissed.”
“Let him come,” I said, before I could stop myself.
The sheriff smiled, grim. “That’s what I figured you’d say.”
He turned to Danny. “You okay with the pictures?”
Danny’s voice wobbled, but he didn’t flinch. “Yeah. Get it over with.”
The sheriff’s second round was pure procedure, but there was nothing routine about it. He had me drag in a kitchen chair and line it up against the sunniest patch of wall.
Danny shuffled into place, every movement measured like he was rationing pain. Calloway fished a digital camera from his kit bag, then took a moment to dial through the settings with more care than I’d have credited him for.
“Hold still, Daniel,” he said, and for a moment, the world collapsed to the click and whirr of the lens.
He started at the face, the eye so swollen it barely showed, the split lip, the bruises yellowing at the edges.
Then the arms, the deep finger marks around each wrist. The ribs, once Jojo helped ease the shirt over his head, blooming with purple and green that would look almost pretty if you weren’t close enough to know better.
Danny didn’t flinch. If anything, he locked his jaw tighter with every shot. Even when Calloway said, “Turn your hands over, please,” and the long-healed scars there got their own frame, the kid just stared dead ahead, eyes glassy, but unbroken.
I watched from the edge of the room as the sheriff did his work—every angle, every bruise, every scrap of evidence that might one day be Exhibit A.
Danny didn’t shy away from any of it. If anything, he sat up straighter each time, like he wanted the camera to see just how much of him was still unbroken.
I wanted to take the camera and smash it, to build a fortress out of my own body, to promise him that nothing like this would ever touch him again. But I knew what he needed was for me to stand still and let him be seen.
Really seen, for once.
When the photos were done, the sheriff popped the memory card and sealed it in a little yellow envelope, initials scrawled across the flap. He fished out the notebook again and said, “You ready to make it official, Daniel? You’ll need to tell me everything for the report.”
Danny nodded, and his voice—steady, weirdly grown-up—walked through the whole nightmare in a way that felt both rehearsed and brand new.
He listed the dates. The places. The times Dennis called him a “useless omega” or worse.
The times his mom looked the other way. He gave them all up, one by one, until the story wasn’t a secret anymore, just a string of facts marching toward the inevitable.
I’d seen guys confess to war crimes with less composure.
Every so often, the sheriff would cut his eyes at me, like he was checking to make sure I didn’t punch through a wall. I just stood there, fists jammed into my pockets, counting every breath.
When Danny finished, Calloway shut the notebook with a crisp snap. “You got guts, kid,” he said, then turned to me. “You keep an eye on him, Burke. If Dennis tries anything, you call me first. Understood?”
I didn’t bother with a salute. “Understood.”
Sheriff Calloway packed up his stuff and nodded to both of us. “I’ll file these today. You’ll get a visit from social services, probably a shrink, maybe even a suit from the state. Don’t let them scare you. You did the right thing.”
Danny’s shoulders dropped. For the first time all morning, he looked tired.
The sheriff turned to leave, then paused in the doorway. “Burke? I know your type. You want to go to war over this, but it’ll only make it worse. Let me do my job. Let the system work.”
I snorted. “And if the system doesn’t?”
He looked at me, and there was no joke in his eyes. “Then you and I have a talk, off the record.”
The sheriff let himself out, closing the door soft behind him, boots clomping down the porch steps.
For a long time, the kitchen was silent, but for the sound of the fridge cycling. Danny looked at the floor. I looked at Danny. I didn’t have a script for this. Didn’t have a single joke that could cover the distance.
So I just said, “You did good, Danny. You did fucking amazing.”
He let out a shaky laugh, the sound raw as a skinned knee. “Never thought I’d actually go through with it.”
I stepped closer, careful to keep my voice low. “You did. And no one—no one—gets to hurt you again. I’ll tear out their fucking throat.”
He blinked, then smiled, lopsided. “You sound like a cartoon wolf.”
I shrugged. “I’ve always wanted to be someone’s big bad wolf.”
For a minute, he just watched me, like he wasn’t sure if I was real. Then, without warning, he reached across the table and caught my hand, squeezing hard. His grip was shaky, but his eyes were clear.
“You’re not going anywhere, right?” he said. “You’ll stay?”
“Wild horses,” I said. “Or, more likely, Rawley, but yeah. I’m here.”
Danny let out a shaky breath, then stared at the tabletop, tracing patterns in the wood grain. “He’s right, you know. If you go after Dennis, it’ll just give him what he wants.”
I crouched beside him, one hand on the back of his chair. “I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “Neither is Rawley or Hooper or Jojo. You’re family now, and we protect our own.”
He looked up, and for the first time, there was a flicker of real hope in his eyes. Not much, but enough.
I squeezed his shoulder, gentle as I could.
We sat like that, holding on, the cold Montana morning brightening through the window. For the first time, the house felt safe. Like maybe we’d built something strong enough to last.
I wanted to promise him forever, but the best I could manage was, “This stops today. And I’ll be right here tomorrow to prove it.”
The war wasn’t over, but for once, I believed we might actually win.
He squeezed my hand harder.
I squeezed back.
And we waited together for the rest of the world to catch up.