Chapter 6
Bear
Penny Royal’s is 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 here so long it’s become part of the town’s spine.
Christ, I don’t know if the town 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 the place 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 indicates 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 gang 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 just spat in his cheerios, or something worse, and then scowls. “You can’t just tell me to leave.”
The fuck I can’t.
The moment he challenges me, every inch of laughter leaves my body and I become furious.
People used to challenge me in the marines like this.
they’d look at me and see a guy with dimples and laugh lines around his eyes, his mouth probably still in the midst of cracking some smartass joke, and think they could push me around.
Of course they were always wrong. And I made that very clear to every one of them.
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. Not only that, but 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.
What’s more; 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 her. 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 so badly to prove myself 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 actual kids.
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.
The tavern itself is just like I remember.
One whole side is the bar, complete with shelves of alcohol behind it, and the other walls are taken up with a stage and booths.
The place is dim in the low lighting, but I can see well enough to see how grubby it is in here.
The leather of the booths is cracked, the dance floor is dirty, and the carpet under my feet is somehow sticky.
The place screams “I’ve been here for one hundred years and only been cleaned twice,” and I’m not sure whether to cringe or laugh.
It’s just so Wood. The town is hundreds of years old, built originally by my great-grandfather, and most of the buildings were built at least fifty years ago.
Everything centers on one main street, with smaller streets extending out like the arms of a starfish, and though we have most of the basic amenities–hardware store, post office, market, and even a bookstore–there’s only one of each, and the families in town have been the same for as long as I can remember.
My father used to say that the townspeople were all family, and on my happier days, I believed that.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been happy in this town, though, and I’m momentarily surprised that I haven’t made my way back to Penny Royal’s already. Sure, I’m in town as the local cop now, and have a reputation to uphold, but sitting at a bar and drinking my troubles away?
That sounds right up my alley.
I’m about to go do just that when I notice two bodies huddled together at the corner of the bar, the two backs bent over the wood counter like they’re trying to become part of it, and pause.
Because I recognize that curly black hair, and the moment I do, I also recognize the taller, broader form next to her.
What the fuck are Sammy and Cameron doing in the local bar at 11 in the morning?