Chapter 4 #2
She snorts. “‘I HATE OFFICER VAUGHN SO MUCH’ is what scholars call… nuance.”
“He has this legal superiority thing,” I say, glaring at the TV for no reason. “Like there’s the law, and then there’s anything resembling empathy, and never the two shall meet.”
“I would hope he has some superiority. He’s the sheriff.”
“You know what I mean.” I toss a pillow at her. It misses and pings off the ladder to the loft. “He talked about what would hold up in court while I’m over here thinking about what will still be livable in five years if the rigs move in.”
Riley raises an eyebrow. “Play fewer apocalypse documentaries.”
“I’m being serious.” I tug a curl behind my ear. “And I was so good today. I didn’t even make a donut joke.”
“Proud of you,” she says, absolutely not hiding her smirk.
A soft whistle leaves Riley’s mouth. A second later, Ms. Rainbow barrels in—a glossy rottweiler the size of a large ottoman with a teddy-bear soul. She thumps her tail against the cabinet, climbs half onto my lap, and proceeds to enthusiastically wash my face.
“Hey, pretty girl,” I coo in immediate dog-voice, scratching her chest. “Yes, you’re perfect. No, you didn’t do a single thing wrong, ever.”
“Is the therapy working?” Riley asks around a spoonful.
“Shut up,” I say, giggling as Ms. Rainbow tries to sit entirely on me and partly succeeds. The day unwinds by degrees.
“You can’t let some cop with a badge and a rulebook live rent-free in your head,” she adds.
“I know.” I bury my face in Ms. Rainbow’s neck for a second. “But he’s just so… ugh. Calm. And precise. And infuriating.”
“Also, tall and kind of—”
“Do not finish that sentence.”
Riley’s grin says she’ll finish it telepathically. “Did he at least say his first name this time?”
“Asher,” I say before I can stop myself.
We both go quiet for a beat.
Riley points the spoon at me. “You like his name.”
“I like knowing the names of people who make my blood pressure spike.”
“Uh-huh.” She sets the pint down and nudges me with her knee. “Remember the three rules.”
I groan. “No getting arrested, no getting sued, and no kissing the sheriff.”
“Close,” she says. “It’s ‘call me if you’re going to get arrested, document everything, and—’”
“—don’t kiss the sheriff,” I finish.
Riley tips an imaginary hat. “As your counsel, I rest my case.”
I flop back, mindful of the wall, and stare at the ceiling fan whirring like it’s trying to lift off. The tiny house hums with crickets and the faint whistle of a far train. Ms. Rainbow’s breath warms my knees.
“My dad used to bring me to Scotty’s after Little League,” I say, the memory rising like pie steam. “We’d split a cherry slice and he’d say, ‘This town keeps you if you keep it.’ I hate that Mrs. Hartley and her new oil buddy think keeping a town means owning it.”
Riley’s voice gentles. “So, we make it hard to buy what isn’t for sale.”
“Exactly.” I sit up, energized. “Tomorrow, we print flyers. I’ll talk to Mrs. Alvarez about the petition. We’ll ask Pastor Jim if we can use the church hall for a town meeting, and I’ll call Mr. Dwyer at the paper. He owes me for that Thanksgiving pecan pie.”
“And you’re not trespassing,” Riley says.
“I’m not planning to trespass.”
She gives me the teacher look.
“Fine,” I say, hands up. “No trespass. Legal channels, community pressure, sunshine and signatures.”
“See?” She taps her spoon against the pint like a gavel. “Progress.”
Ms. Rainbow sighs theatrically and sprawls sideways, forcing me and Riley to lean into each other or be steamrolled by pure dog.
“You know,” Riley says, eyes glinting, “if you did ever kiss the sheriff, we could call it bridging the divide between law and pastry.”
“I will throw you and your ice cream into the street,” I say, laughing despite myself.
“Just saying. Hatfields and McCoys. Montagues and Capulets. Sheriff and baker.”
“Please do not Romeo-and-Juliet my love life.”
“Who said anything about love?” she teases.
I aim a couch cushion at her head. It ricochets off Ms. Rainbow, who does not care.
Silence settles, warm and ordinary. The tiny house smells like lemon cleaner, vanilla, and dog; my shoulders let go of the day notch by notch.
Somewhere under all the irritation, a truth I don’t like keeps tapping: for someone I supposedly can’t stand, Sheriff Asher Vaughn is occupying an alarming number of my brain cells.
It’s annoying.
It’s inconvenient.
It’s also… not entirely unpleasant.
I shove that thought in a mental drawer and slam it shut.
“Okay,” I say, bopping Ms. Rainbow’s nose. “Strategy meeting, part two. We draft the flyer headline now, before I start overthinking fonts.”
Riley grins wickedly. “How about, ‘Keep Golden Heights Golden—Say No to Oil.’”
I grin back. “Add a pie emoji and we’re unstoppable.”
She groans. “Absolutely not.”
We’re still bickering about fonts and emojis when the credits of some feel-good movie roll we didn’t watch. Outside, the desert breathes. Inside, we let the day soften into ordinary. And even with a certain stubborn sheriff’s name hovering like static, I feel it: the small, steady thrum of home.