Edge of Control (Edge Ops #2)

Chapter 1

EVELYN

A fresh start. That’s what Trent had called it when he left us here, his eyes not quite meeting mine as he’d made promises about checking in, about making sure we were safe. Promises that had faded like footprints in snow.

“If you’re not early, you’re late,” Dutch called from behind the counter without looking up from his newspaper.

His weathered face remained hidden behind the pages of the Garnett Gazette, but I knew every crease and line by now, the permanent squint of suspicion that softened only around my daughter.

“Good morning to you, too, Dutch.” I hung my coat on the wooden peg behind the counter and tied the forest green apron around my waist. “Coffee’s already brewed?”

He grunted, which I’d learned meant yes. Dutch Henderson was a man of few words and fewer smiles.

Like Trent.

Nope. I absolutely wasn’t obsessing over him today. I refused.

Dutch had hired me without asking too many questions and pretended not to notice when I sometimes brought Sophia to the store after school.

I poured myself a mug of coffee—black and strong enough to strip paint—and started my morning routine.

First, the front display needed refreshing.

I arranged jars of local honey, refilled the bread shelf, and straightened the stack of handmade quilts that Mrs. Hill, wife of the town’s only doctor, insisted on selling on consignment.

I don’t know why Dutch kept accepting them from her.

We’d only sold one since I started working here.

The rhythm of the work was soothing. Stack, arrange, dust, repeat.

I moved on autopilot while my mind stayed alert, always watching, always aware of my surroundings.

An old habit that had kept me alive during my marriage to Langston, that had kept me functioning during my time at the Hope’s Embrace compound, that still woke me at the slightest sound in our little rental house at night.

Dutch folded his newspaper with a loud rustle. “Order coming in at ten. Hardware and feed mostly.”

“I’ll make space in the back,” I replied, moving to the window display of fishing lures and tackle. The glass was clean enough to offer a perfect view of Main Street, but I still wiped it down again.

Garnett, Montana, consisted of exactly three blocks of businesses, the heart of a ranching and mining community that had seen better days.

Most of the side streets were unpaved, and half the businesses had “Closed” signs that had been hanging for years.

The nearest city was Billings, a hundred miles through a whole lot of nothing to the south.

The nearest town was fifty miles to the west.

We were in the middle of nowhere, which was the way most of Garnett’s two hundred residents liked it.

On Main Street, the old church steeple poked above the Garnett Bar and Grill two blocks down.

There was a post office-slash-bank, Dr. Hill’s clinic, Ellen’s Cuts and Curls—nobody knew who Ellen was, as it was owned by Iris Hollenbeck—and Prairie View Central School, which had one tiny class for every two grades, kindergarten through twelfth.

At the edge of town, where Main Street intersected with the two-lane state highway, was the gas station, the Stop Over Motel, and a salvage yard.

Beyond that, the rimrocks rose against the morning sky, cradling our little town in weathered stone arms.

It was beautiful in its way.

Remote. Forgotten. Safe.

Or so I hoped.

The sheriff’s cruiser rolled slowly down Main Street, Wade Parker’s cowboy hat visible through the windshield.

He lifted two fingers from the steering wheel in a lazy wave as he passed.

I returned it automatically, the gesture now part of my carefully constructed small-town persona.

Friendly but not too friendly. Present but forgettable.

Just another single mom trying to make ends meet in a dusty prairie town.

“Careful. He’s sweet on you,” Dutch commented without looking up from the inventory list he was now scowling at.

I snorted. “Sheriff Parker is married. And old enough to be my dad. He’s just being friendly.”

“Mmm.” Dutch made that sound that meant he disagreed, but wouldn’t push. “New shipment of those paperbacks you like came in. Romance stuff. In the box by the register.”

My cheeks warmed. “They’re not for me. They’re for Beth.”

That was a lie. The romance novels were definitely for me—a small indulgence, a tiny escape when reality pressed too close.

But it was easier to pretend they were for someone else than admit I spent my nights alone, reading about fictional men who would never abandon the women they claimed to care about.

Someone ran past the window in a blur of wild auburn curls and mismatched clothing, and I smiled.

Speak of the devil. Beth Morris, late as usual for her kindergarten class.

She carried an oversized tote that threatened to spill its contents with every step, a coffee cup clutched precariously in one hand, her ponytail already escaping its elastic.

And her left sneaker was completely untied, the laces dragging on the sidewalk.

I darted to the door and pushed it open. “Beth! Your shoe!”

She skidded to a halt, nearly sloshing coffee over her bright yellow cardigan.

“What? Oh!” She looked down, laughed. “Thanks, Evie. I swear, one day I’ll actually leave the house with both shoes tied and matching socks.

” She wiggled one foot, revealing a purple sock, then the other, sporting neon green. “Today is not that day!”

“Tomorrow won’t be, either.”

She shrugged. “What can I say, I am what I am.”

Beth’s chaos was so different from the rigid control Langston had demanded or from the eerie orderliness of Hope’s Embrace. Her mess was honest, human. I found it comforting.

“Sophia’s excited about the field trip tomorrow,” I said, watching as Beth struggled to tie her shoe without setting down her belongings.

“Oh, the nature walk! Yes, it’ll be wonderful, assuming I remember the permission slips this time.” Her laugh was infectious. “Sophia’s such a joy, Evie. A pint-sized philosopher. So observant. She notices everything.”

Just like her mother. Always watching for danger.

My heart squeezed at the thought. All I wanted was for her to feel safe, and I kept failing. I was a horrible mother.

Beth waved. “I’d better run. Don’t want my class staging a revolution without me. You know how kindergartners are. Total anarchy.”

I ducked back into the store, admiring her ability to find humor in the chaos. That was something I’d lost long ago.

The bell above the door jingled, and Carol Ruper swept in, bringing with her the scent of floral perfume and hairspray. The owner of the Stop Over Motel was a force of nature—big smile, big hair, big personality.

“Dutch Henderson, you’ll never believe who checked into room seven last night,” she announced without preamble.

Dutch barely looked up from he inventory sheets. “Morning, Carol.”

She huffed, clearly disappointed by his lack of enthusiasm, and turned to me instead. “Evie, honey, you should’ve seen this man. Tall, built like he could bench-press a truck, with this intense look about him. Paid cash for three nights.”

Tall, intense, muscular.

My heart stuttered, then raced.

It couldn’t be.

It wasn’t.

But my mind flashed to Trent anyway.

“Did he... give a name?” I asked and picked up my coffee mug, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.

“John Smith.” Carol rolled her eyes. “Obviously fake. And get this—no luggage except a duffel bag that clinked when he set it down. Clinked, Evie!”

Dutch finally looked up, his eyes narrowing. “Probably just a hunter passing through.”

Carol scoffed. “Hunters don’t usually wear tactical boots with their jeans, do they?

I’m telling you, this man is trouble.” She leaned closer to Dutch, lowering her voice as if sharing state secrets.

“I saw a gun holster when his jacket shifted. And he asked about local law enforcement. Casually, you know, but I wasn’t born yesterday. ”

Dutch grunted. “Probably just one of them security contractors for HighPlains Oil. They hire those ex-military types all the time.”

But my fingers had gone numb around the mug.

Tactical boots. Gun holster. Asking about law enforcement.

Was it Trent?

Or someone worse?

“What did he look like?” I pressed. “His hair, his eyes?”

Carol blinked in surprise. “Dark hair, cut short. Couldn’t see his eyes well—he kept them down, like he was avoiding my security camera. Very secretive.” She checked her watch. “Oh! I need to scoot. Breakfast service doesn’t handle itself.”

She always acted like the motel was fully booked, even though it was lucky to see two guests a night. Nobody visited this corner of Montana on purpose.

As quickly as she’d arrived, she was gone with her usual order of milk, eggs, and bread, leaving me with a hammering heart and Dutch’s suddenly sharp gaze.

“You know something about this fella?” he asked. Straight to the point, as usual.

I shook my head, forcing my features into what I hoped was neutral curiosity. “Just concerned. For the town.”

Dutch grunted again, unconvinced.

It wasn’t Trent. It couldn’t be. If Trent were checking up on us, he wouldn’t stay at the motel. He would have come straight to me.

Wouldn’t he?

I turned back to the shelves, reorganizing cans that were already perfectly aligned. My fingers trembled slightly, and I curled them into fists. Not Trent. And hopefully not someone sent by Langston either. Just a stranger passing through our forgettable little town.

But as I worked, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted, like a shadow falling across a sunny room. After months of quiet, the world beyond Garnett was reaching for us again.

And I wasn’t ready.