Protected By the Ex-Military Sheriff (Curvy Wives of Blackwater Falls #8)

Chapter 1 - Tom

The billionaire's house looks like a fortress designed by someone with too much money and not enough sense. High walls. Security cameras on every corner. Windows that probably stop bullets. The kind of place that screams *I have enemies* or maybe just *I don't trust anyone*.

Richard Kane stands on his front porch, arms crossed, watching me with the expression of a man who's used to being the smartest person in every room.

He's tall, dark-haired, mid-forties like me, but wearing it differently.

Expensive clothes that probably cost more than my monthly salary.

A watch that could buy my truck three times over.

"I appreciate you coming all the way out here, Sheriff," he says. "I know it's a bit of a drive."

A bit of a drive. The man built his house forty minutes outside of town, on a hill that overlooks everything like he's some kind of medieval lord surveying his kingdom. I had to navigate a private road with three security checkpoints just to get here.

"Part of the job," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "Welcome to Blackwater Falls, Mr. Kane."

"Richard, please." He gestures toward the front door. "Would you like to come in? I can have someone bring coffee."

Someone. Not him. Someone.

"I'm fine out here. Just wanted to introduce myself, let you know how things work around town.

" I shift my weight, feeling the familiar ache in my ribs where the shrapnel scars pull tight.

Rain's coming. My body always knows before the clouds roll in.

"Blackwater Falls is a small community. People look out for each other.

If you need anything, my office is on Main Street.

Direct line goes to my cell after hours. "

Kane nods slowly, like he's filing away information for later use. "I've heard good things about you, Sheriff Harris. You served, didn't you? Fifteen years?"

The question catches me off guard. I don't advertise my military history. It's in my file somewhere, public record if someone wants to dig, but most people don't bother.

"That's right."

"Impressive. I always admire men who serve their country. Even more so when they continue serving in different ways. Small-town sheriff after military leadership, that's not an easy transition."

It wasn't. Still isn't, some days.

"Easier than I expected," I lie. "Quieter."

Kane smiles like he knows I'm not telling the truth. "I'm sure. Well, I won't keep you. I imagine you have more important things to do than welcome new residents."

"Everyone in Blackwater Falls is important, Mr. Kane. New residents included."

"Richard," he corrects again. "And I appreciate the sentiment. Truly. It's one of the reasons I chose this place. The sense of community."

I don't point out that building a fortress on a hill with private security doesn't exactly scream community spirit. Instead, I just nod and extend my hand.

His grip is firm but brief. Professional. "I'll be in touch if I need anything, Sheriff. And please, if there's ever anything I can do for the town, don't hesitate to ask."

The offer sounds genuine enough, but I've learned to be careful with men who have too much power. They usually want something in return, even if they don't say it right away.

"I'll keep that in mind."

I walk back to my truck, gravel crunching under my boots. One of the security guards, there are at least six that I've counted, nods at me as I pass. Former military, by the look of him. Kane's got a whole team of them. Whatever he's hiding from, or protecting, it's serious.

Not my problem. Not yet, anyway.

I climb into the truck and start the engine, pulling away from the fortress on the hill.

The drive back to town takes me through the winding mountain roads I've grown to love over the past few years.

Pine trees crowd both sides, their branches heavy and green.

The sky is starting to gray at the edges, clouds rolling in from the west.

My ribs ache again. Definitely rain coming.

The radio crackles with the usual afternoon chatter. A Deputy checking in from the north side of town. Someone reporting a loose dog on Elm Street. Nothing urgent. Nothing that needs me specifically.

I should feel grateful for the quiet. When I first took this job, I thought it would be simple. Small town, friendly people, the occasional drunk driver or domestic dispute. A chance to protect without fighting. To serve without the weight of war on my shoulders.

Then the Savage Riders MC rolled through, and everything got complicated.

Took months to sort that mess out. The town was scared, suspicious.

The MC had a reputation that preceded all clubs—violence, drugs, the kind of trouble that destroys small communities.

But I saw something different in their leader.

A man trying to change, trying to build something better.

We found common ground eventually. Now they help keep the bad element out, and the town's learned to accept them.

Uneasy alliance. But it works.

Still, there's always something. That's what I've learned about this job. There's always someone who needs help, always a problem that needs solving, always a reason to stay late at the office instead of going home to an empty house.

I turn onto Main Street and park outside Murphy's. Haven't eaten since breakfast, and my stomach's been complaining for the past hour. The lunch crowd has already cleared out, which means I might actually get a table without fielding twenty questions about the new billionaire in town.

Inside, Murphy waves at me from behind the counter. He's a big man, now bald as an egg, and a yellow smile that could sell sand in a desert. "Tom! The usual?"

"Yeah. And coffee. Strong."

"Coming right up."

I slide into my regular booth by the window and pull out my phone. Three missed calls from the office, all non-urgent according to the follow-up texts. A reminder about the town council meeting next week. An email from my sister in Montana asking when I'm going to visit.

Soon, I type back. Same answer I always give.

Through the window, I watch the town go about its afternoon business.

Mrs. Patterson walking her ancient golden retriever.

The group of teenagers skateboarding in the parking lot across the street.

I'll have to talk to them about that later, before someone gets hurt.

Old Mr. Derryl sweeping the sidewalk outside his hardware store, same as he does every day at three o'clock.

This is what I wanted. This quiet, steady rhythm of small-town life. So why does it feel like something's missing?

Murphy brings my coffee and burger, chatting for a few minutes about the weather, the baseball game last night, his daughter's upcoming wedding. I listen, nod in the right places, and make the appropriate comments. It's comfortable. Easy.

Empty.

I finish my meal and leave cash on the table, more than enough to cover the bill plus a generous tip. Murphy's been feeding me since I first arrived in Blackwater Falls, back when I didn't know anyone and the whole town looked at me like I was an outsider.

The clouds have gotten darker. The air smells like rain now. I should get back to the office, finish up the paperwork from this morning, maybe actually leave at a reasonable hour for once.

Instead, I find myself driving toward the edge of town, past the last of the shops and houses, out where the properties get bigger and more spread out. I tell myself I'm just doing a patrol. Checking on things. Making sure everything's in order.

The truth is simpler. I don't want to go home yet.

Home is a small house on a quiet street, neat and clean and absolutely silent. Jazz records and thriller novels and a comfortable chair by the window. It should be enough. For years, it was enough.

But lately, the silence has started to feel less like peace and more like loneliness.

I'm forty-three years old. Never married. No kids. A handful of relationships over the years that never quite fit, never lasted. The women I dated were good people—kind, attractive, interesting. But something was always missing. Some connection I couldn't name or find.

Now I watch my friends with their families, their children, their full and complicated lives, and I feel the absence of something I never had.

Murphy talks about his daughter's wedding, and I smile and nod while wondering what it would be like to walk a daughter down the aisle.

To teach a son how to throw a ball. To have someone waiting at home who actually wants me there.

The window's closing. I know that. Every year, the possibility of that life gets further away.

My phone buzzes. Text from one of the deputies.

*Got a call about the old Harlow place. Someone actually rented it.*

I stare at the message for a long moment.

The Harlow place has been empty for four years, ever since the water damage and mold made it basically unlivable.

The landlord, some guy in Chicago who inherited it from his grandmother, never bothered to fix it.

Just left it to rot and kept listing it online with pictures from a decade ago.

Every few months, someone sees those pictures and gets suckered in. They show up expecting a charming small-town rental and find a house that smells like death and decay. Usually, they're back on the road within hours, demanding refunds and threatening lawsuits.

I change direction, heading toward the Harlow place. Whoever rented it is going to need help, even if it's just pointing them toward somewhere else to stay.

The house sits at the end of a long dirt road, separated from its nearest neighbors by a good quarter mile of overgrown field.

As I pull up, I can already see the problem.

The porch is sagging. The paint is peeling in long strips.

One of the front windows has a crack running through it like a jagged scar.

And standing in front of it all, struggling with an impossible load of bags, is a woman I've never seen before.