Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Grant
The audacity of my parents to perform their little meet and greet with Sam, let alone invite her to our family dinner, has not left my head.
Neither is the maddening reality I’m faced with, which is that I cannot stop thinking about the woman. But it has to be the Patriot Ridge mess we’re sorting through.
Or, rather, the news that they are still operating. Their dear leader has been released on some kind of sketchy plea bargain I haven’t had the time to follow up on, and I have this feeling something’s coming.
Granted, I have a history of battling a sense of impending doom.
After moving home due to my spectacular failure to keep the girls cared for and do my job while active military, my family came to the rescue in an all-hands-on-deck way I’ll never forget and never be able to repay.
And once we got into a routine and I’d started sleeping a few hours a night consistently, my mom forced me to go to therapy.
Turns out something like having your best friends die in a car accident and leave you their barely one-year-old and not quite four-year-old can be traumatic, even for men who’ve served in high-intensity environments for years and never suffered from PTSD.
Apparently, not everyone lives with this cloud-gathering sensation, like there’s a storm on the horizon, but it’s not just rain coming.
It’s the very heavens about to crash down.
So, I remind myself of this. Could be the old spidey senses tingling based on years of training and a solid mentor here, or it could be… that.
Either way, I need more info on the Patriot Ridge situation.
After making a call to Chief Whitacker in Silverton, I find we’re both similarly in the dark.
They’re back to keeping law enforcement off their compound’s property, and though there’s a court order requiring “regular checks,” the frequency of those has been challenged.
“What’s got your goat, Sheriff?” Angie leans on the doorframe of my office.
I lean back, scrubbing a hand over my face. “I can’t stop thinking about Patriot Ridge. I don’t see them stopping what they were up to, and I’m worried some of our people are going to end up wrapped in their nonsense. That missing person case in Silverton… It’s all connected.”
She tsks. “Not liking it either. But if I’m understanding correctly, we’ve got no probable cause to search now, and our next check isn’t for another few weeks.”
I nod, leaning back in my chair and wishing for a break there. “Maybe I’m seeing shadows at the stroke of twelve on a moonless night.”
Humor flickers across her face and she steps inside, hooking her thumbs into her duty belt. “How about I drive over and take a look? What with me being a feeble-brained woman and all, even if I did see something suspicious, I wouldn’t be very likely to understand it, right?”
Diego snorts a laugh from where he hovers just outside. “Yeah, ma’am, you’re a real dolt.”
We exchange a smile acknowledging just how bogus the idea is. Angie Smalls is one of the most intuitive, intelligent people I’ve ever met. I’ve learned as much from her as I did from the former sheriff, if not more, and her presence on the force is a gift.
She has a point, though—the leadership at Patriot Ridge won’t see her as a threat purely because she’s a woman. So she may indeed be able to stop in without as many hackles raising as if I were to do the same, and all the more so Brian or Diego.
“I’ll check back this afternoon.”
Angie steps out, Diego heads out for his patrol, and I’m reminded I forgot my lunch at home in the flurry of getting the girls to school and having half my brain distracted by work while the other half was circling around why I can’t get Sam Ellis out of my head.
I don’t want to step away from the desk right now, but I need to.
There’s still a deputy on duty inside at reception, and I’ll only be a few minutes.
I push out into the late February chill and don’t turn back when I realize I’ve forgotten my jacket. It’s a kind of punishment for being distracted and grumpy. I don’t love the thought, but I also can’t find fault in it right now.
As I walk, hunching against a brutal gust of wind, I feel my gut churn and realize I’m past hungry. It’s one thirty and I haven’t eaten since I had eggs with the girls at seven. No wonder I can’t get my head on straight.
I shift into a light jog when I’m half a block from the deli and quickly order a sandwich while acting like I’m taking care of very important business on my phone in order to avoid small talk with the handful of people enjoying their own late lunches.
There are many positives about small-town living and I usually enjoy most of them, but the one drawback is that people don’t only think they know me, they do know me. In many cases, they’ve known me all my life, and therefore it's rare to escape chatting and small talk at times like these.
“Sheriff, did you hear about the vandalism on 8th Street?” Glenda Armstrong is dabbing her mouth with a napkin as she waits for my reply.
“I know there’s a new mural going in that’s done by the JV Artist Collective. Is that what you’re referring to?”
She knows as well as I do it’s not vandalism.
It’s a miracle I don’t snap at her, but at least I have enough self-control to keep it together.
This is one of several drawbacks to being “the face” of the department that both Angie and Brian have cited as reasons they didn’t want the job.
Angie would’ve stepped in as interim if her husband hadn’t been in the middle of chemotherapy, and I’m hoping once my term as sheriff is up, she’ll agree to run for sheriff now that things have settled down on the home front for her.
Unless she really means it when she says she doesn’t want to deal with the politics, and then I’m going to have to come to terms with that.
For now, I’m stuck with being the front man.
I feel that down to the chilled toes inside my boots.
Mrs. Armstrong only purses her lips in response, clearly unhappy with my refusal to feed the gossip mill.
While most of Juniper View is open to new things, excited to support small businesses and artistic endeavors, some of our residents can dig in their heels.
Apparently, a brightly colored mural depicting the mountains and trees on the side of a brick building is a stretch for some.
“Hey, Sheriff,” Clementine McClain says as she runs my card. “It’s just eight even.”
“Thanks, Clem. Say hey to your mom and dad.”
She promises she will and I hightail it out of there, instantly ducking my face low and power-walking back to the station.
Outside Dec’s office, I come upon a familiar run-down white sedan still sporting a donut for a back left tire, and the too-pretty-for-her-own-good trouble with a capital T woman who owns it is emerging from the office door.
“Ms. Ellis.” It feels too personal to call her Sam for reasons I can’t quite identify. At least I know her last name now.
“Sheriff.” She presses a hand to her chest. “You startled me.”
Guilt swims around in my already messed-up gut. “Sorry.” I hate that I sound like a petulant child, but I’m so far off today, and seeing her here has knocked me sideways.
The sky is gray—not quite a snow sky, but weather’s coming.
In the watery light of the winter afternoon, her skin looks pale, but her cheeks are a deep, rosy pink color and the dark slashes of her brows and fringe of lashes seem more vivid.
Her hair is tucked under a cranberry-colored knit cap that compliments the deep blush color of her lips. And her eyes…
Her eyes narrow.
The small movement kicks me out of the hunger-induced stupor her features hypnotized me into. “What were you doing in there? Are you sick? Did you see Dec?”
The words come from my mouth before they ever enter my brain, barked out like orders instead of questions filled with an unreasonable amount of concern.
Her head rears back and her eyes go wide. “I—That’s none of your business.”
My mouth snaps shut, and I can’t think of a single thing to say.
There are any number of responses that would work right now—you’re right, of course, I apologize, I’ve become a bear at the end of hibernation and am so hungry I could eat my own arm and therefore am not thinking things through—but none of those come out.
I should say something, or wait for her to say something, or do anything other than what I’m already doing.
But I’ve lost the ability to stay and chat and avoid looking at her lips again.
So I go. Right back to my office without another word or glance at her despite absolutely owing her something more, and I beeline to my office where I close my door and inhale the sandwich and banish the memory of how damned beautiful the woman is.
I don’t need someone else to worry about.