Chapter 5
Bear
“You belong to us. You belong to us. You belong to us,” I chant to myself, still caught in the phrase.
I enter my office, such as it is, and throw my keys on the desk, then finish the memory.
“Even if I hate you.”
I blow out a sharp, sarcastic breath at that, because it’s exactly the sort of finish I’d expect from the girl.
Yes, the first phrase–hell, the fact that she waded into that fight in the first place–is so fraught with emotion that I barely want to touch it, for fear it will disintegrate into a million pieces, the head of a dandelion in hands too rough for it.
Christ, I’ve been afraid to touch it since yesterday afternoon, when it was first handed to me, a blossom too small and delicate to believe. The phrase has been running through my mind nonstop until I’m nearly sick of it.
That doesn’t stop me from reciting it to myself. Just one last time.
And then that closing statement. That she hates me.
I already knew that of course. She’s been hating me for most of her life, and since I got home, she hasn’t been quiet about it.
I throw myself into my chair, frustration leaking out of every pore, and switch to the other mantra in my mind.
The one that tells me how fucked up everything is.
My life, one nonstop disappointment. That fucking mission that took too many of my men.
The discharge from the military–and an OTH discharge, too, which means I’m not eligible for many of the jobs I would have sought out.
My return to Hawke’s Wood, the town where it had all started.
And the award of the sheriff’s office here, partially as a favor to my brother.
My brother.
Now there’s a path I don’t particularly want to go down, though now that I’ve put my feet on the path, I know I don’t have a choice.
I haven’t fully dealt with my homecoming yet, or what it means for Gunner or his kid.
Hell, I’ve hardly talked to them since I got home, when he called me because there was a disturbance on his property.
I hustled over there with Mars, Dutch, and their men in tow, and given Gunner the backup he needed. Put my shiny new badge on the line and crossed over into barely legal space to make sure he was safe, and that his family was secure.
Not that he said thank you.
This brings another huff of displeasure, though at least that part was expected.
Gunner has never been able to thank anyone, least of all me, the younger brother who never bothered to walk the straight path Gunner plowed through the world.
The kid who wanted only sunshine and rainbows in life and refused to deal with the storm clouds my brother lived in.
The artist to his scholar. The smile to his frowns.
The younger son who never quite lived up to his father’s expectations.
I lean toward the desk, sweep through the stack of papers there, and find the rough sketch I did yesterday.
It’s nothing yet; a nose, wide-set eyes, and the ghost of curls around rounded cheeks.
A flash of temper in the eyes. A quirk of the lips that means she’s either going to laugh or spit at whoever’s looking at her.
I don’t name her. Not here and not now. Probably never. But I wonder what she would have been like if life had treated her a little more kindly. If she’d still be so angry at the world.
Hell, I could wonder the same thing about myself, I guess.
If I had the time to go through everything that’s gone sideways on me between the day I was born and this day mid-way through my thirty-fifth year.
I don’t have the time or inclination to do it, though, so I turn my mind to work and find the reports from last night and this morning. I don’t want to think about Gunner, and I sure as hell don’t want to think about Sammy and what she said, so I might as well spend some time getting into my job.
Sheriff of Hawke’s Wood. I never would have imagined this as my landing after I got out of the military.
And yet here we are.
The prodigal son returns home, only there was never a fortune to be had and the return is anything but voluntary.
And instead of joining the family business, he finds a brother who wants nothing to do with him and a road that’s entirely too straight and narrow for a heart that wants to fly but has forgotten how.
Fuck I’m maudlin this morning. I need more coffee.
I look down at the papers in my hand and scowl, already angry at what I’m seeing.
Every day here starts the same way: a stack of complaints that came in after I left yesterday, combined with anything called in overnight.
The thing is, the complaints are usually small.
Someone’s cat is up a tree. Someone else got something stuck in their chimney.
A baseball on a roof. A truck that won’t start.
It’s a small town, and nothing exciting happens here.
Except lately, the reports have been getting dramatic.
Which is... odd.
I glance through the stack and then organize them into an order that makes sense, with the most important reports at the top of the stack. Other things–the cats in trees–can wait until after I’ve dealt with anything vital.
If I can.
The truth is, I’m not good at this. Sure, I was in the military learning how to take orders, but I never liked it.
I always fought my superiors or found ways to undermine them, and when I was put in charge, I inevitably looked for ways to cut corners and make things more efficient.
Before I signed with the Marines, I’d been an artsy, free-spirited kid who definitely didn’t believe in following rules, and now that I’m out in the real world. ..
Hell, following rules is the last thing I want.
Which makes the role of sheriff pretty... ironic.
I’m a fish out of water and in over my head at the same time, which shouldn’t be possible. But isn’t that what my life’s always been? A contradiction. Two different people living in one body, one of them always having to clean up after the other and try to make sure I fit in.
I close my eyes and let myself follow that thread a bit further, just to torture my own ego.
I’m not a man who should be in charge of anything.
I’m the man who always wants to run. The man who wants a real family who will actually accept me and want me, rather than one that constantly tells me I’m not enough.
I want the safety and security I’ve never had, and I want someone to share it with.
I actually laugh now, because that might be the stupidest thought I’ve ever had, and then I grab the stack of reports, stand up, and head for the door. I’ve barely been in here five minutes, but it’s not like anyone will mind if I leave to take care of the complaints.
After all, I’m just the sheriff.
Hardly important at all.
Penny Royal’s as a long, low-slung building in a parking lot of its own, set against a backdrop of deep green pines and lush ferns.
The place has to be at least one hundred years old, the wood weathered and rotted out in some places, and in any large city, it would have been torn down years ago to make space for something sleek and modern and concrete.
Here, though, it’s the only bar in town, and has been around so long it’s become part of the town’s spine.
Christ, I don’t know if Wood could stand up without the place.
It’s almost never crowded–most people don’t drink enough to even need a bar–but it’s got that settled, stable look that tells you it’s a landmark.
A fixture in the fabric the town is built of, and the first place any visitors stop on their way into Wood.
Take it away, and as far as I know, the whole town would collapse.
I glance down at the report in my hand again, and then back up at the bar.
There’ve been reports of tourists making trouble here, getting into fights in the parking lot and the back room of the bar, and this is the third report I’ve seen about it this week.
When I look up at the building again, wondering why so many people are choosing violence in a town so quiet it only has one hotel, I see a group of people moving roughly for the door.
And they’re not being gentle with the locals they’re running into.
I jump from my truck and rush toward them just in time to catch one of the tourists throwing a punch at the mechanic’s kid, and the kid ducking and swinging back.
I grab the kid’s arm, cursing myself for not being able to remember his name, and push him behind me, then turn toward the tourist. The guy is tall and bulky, but has the look of someone who drinks more than he lifts, and though he’s at least two inches taller than me I stand to my full height and stare at him.
“Sheriff Hawke,” I say quietly. “What the fuck is going on here?”
He scoffs. “Ask your boy, Sheriff. He started it.”
Shouts from the group of locals indicate otherwise, and I turn to one of the other kids.
“What happened?”
“We were just going into the bar, Bear, and these guys started shoving. Asking about who else was in there and what they were doing. Miller here said that it was none of his business but if he really wanted to know, the bar was open to the public, and this guy decided he’d been insulted.”
Miller. That’s the kid’s name. Of course.
I look at the tourist, who’s now sneering, and narrow my gaze on him. The man is puffy and saggy at the same time, which I didn’t know was possible, his eyes bloodshot and the blood vessels on this nose breaking.
Definitely drinks too much beer.
Definitely a bully.
A quick glance around tells me he’s not here with his family, either, given how many men are behind him. What the fuck is this, another bunch of out-of-towners? After the motorcycle gang incident yesterday, my senses are on high alert, and I file this away in my memory to look at later.
Right now, I have to lay down some law.
“Out,” I tell him simply. “I want you and your friends out of this parking lot. Head back to your campground or wherever you’re staying and leave these kids alone.”
He looks at me like I’ve just spat in his Cheerios, or something worse, and then scowls. “You can’t just tell me to leave.”
The fuck I can’t.
I step up until I’m toe to toe with the man, my chest pushed out and my chin up. I know for damn sure that my sheriff’s badge is glinting in the morning sunlight, and though I realize it might be petty, the sign of my authority gives me a thrill of pleasure.
“Pretty sure I just did, friend,” I say, my voice dropping to a growl.
“This is my town, and these kids live here. I’m the law in these parts, and that means that what I say goes.
Now I say you get the fuck out of this parking lot and stop bothering these kids.
If I see you making trouble again, I’ll arrest you.
And I guarantee you’ll have more fun in town or at the campground than rotting in the tiny jail cell in the sheriff’s office.
Get out of here. Behave yourself. Leave the locals alone. Or I’ll arrest you. Got it?”
He wants to fight with me. I can see that he’s dying to do it. His eyes flit to the kids behind me and then to his friends, standing on his other side, and I tense, wondering if he’s actually going to do something he’ll regret.
God, I sort of hope he does. I’m bored as hell and want to prove myself so badly that I can almost taste it. The townspeople don’t like that I’ve been made sheriff, but if I can take out a troublemaker and prove that I’m working for them...
Unfortunately, he backs down before that can happen and, with a mumbled curse, turns and walks the other way, his friends falling in around him as they walk toward their cars.
I watch him go, adrenaline still rushing through my veins, and wait until they’re all in their cars and pulling out. Then I turn back to the kid who’s been helping me.
Of course, I don’t even have a guess as to his name.
“Thank you...” I say, pausing and lifting my brows to indicate that I don’t remember his name.
“Simon,” he supplies, sticking a handout. “Simon Rose. My dad works with your brother.”
“Of course he does,” I say, realization flood back. “He’s a carpenter, right? Does some of the most gorgeous pieces in town on his free time.”
Simon grins like he’s just won the lottery, and nods. “Sure is. And man is he proud of those pieces.”
I grin back and drop my voice. “Gonna give my brother a run for his money, I bet. Put him out of business one of these days. Don’t tell Gunner I said so, but I’m cheering for your dad.”
This brings a shout of laughter amongst the boys, and I look around like I’m worried that Gunner or Gabe–my brother and nephew, who build furniture and artwork out of the wood they harvest in the forest–might hear us.
Simon claps a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, they’re not around. I’ll tell my dad you said so, though. See you, Sheriff.”
“Bear,” I correct. “I’ve known you your whole life, kid. Call me by my name.”
Simon and his friends walk away grinning and laughing, and I have to smile as I watch them.
Now that he’s given me their names, I remember them as the children I once knew.
Simon, Miller, and Jon all grew up in town with Gabe, and are a little older than Cameron and Sammy.
Looks like most of them have stuck in town, and I have to admit that that makes me happy.
They’re a lot easier to impress than their parents.
Their parents are my age, and they remember who I was when I was young.
They saw who I became as I got older, and how I managed my affairs in my twenties.
Needless to say, their parents aren’t laughing at my jokes or thanking me for my service when I run into them. So feeling like the kids are on my side, even a little bit...
It makes things look a little better.
And these days, that’s starting to seem like all I can ask for.
I watch them walk toward their motorcycles, then go speeding out of the parking lot, and for a moment I think that any good sheriff would go after them and give them all tickets for driving too fast.
Instead, I turn and walk toward the bar.
After all, I have no interest in being a good sheriff, and everyone here knows it. This isn’t the life I chose. It’s not the life I want.
I just wish I knew what I did want.
At least then I’d have something to live for.