Chapter 8 Gabriel
Gabriel
A week. That's how long I've been watching her sleep in that rusted-out van like it's nothing more than a studio apartment.
That’s how long I've been telling myself this is about the investigation, keeping tabs on a potential witness in an ongoing case involving the Cutter Brothers and whatever bastard put a knife in Blackwell's dog.
That’s how long I've been lying to myself.
From my position behind the old grain elevator that's been weathering Montana winters since before I was born, I have a clear view of the clinic parking lot without being seen.
Lucy emerges wearing those same gray sweatpants and oversized hoodie she sleeps in, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail that somehow makes her look both younger and more vulnerable than she does during business hours.
She's gotten good at the charade. Hard hat visible on the dashboard, construction company decal peeling at the edges on the back window, the way she parks at different angles each night.
Smart girl. Too damn smart to be living like this by accident.
But it's not nearly smart enough to fool a Marine who spent two tours learning to read terrain and a cop who's memorized every shadow and routine in this town.
The guilt sits in my chest like a lead weight. I'm a man watching a young woman from the shadows, cataloging her habits, memorizing her schedule.
In any other context, this would make me the kind of predator I've spent my career hunting. The thought makes my jaw clench so hard my teeth ache.
But I tell myself I'm protecting her. A woman living alone in a van is vulnerable in ways she probably doesn't even realize. The Cutter Brothers are still out there somewhere. And Lucy found Dusty, which makes her a potential target whether she knows it or not.
That's what I tell myself at night when I lie awake thinking about brown eyes and the way she laughs.
She stretches, arms reaching toward the pale morning sky that's just starting to blush pink over the Rockies, and I catch myself tracking the movement.
The morning air carries the bite of late March in Montana. That cruel promise of spring that can turn to snow by afternoon. Lucy shivers and pulls her hoodie tighter, glancing around the empty parking lot with the careful awareness of someone who's learned that safety is temporary.
She moves with purpose but also caution, checking the street before stepping away from her van, listening for sounds that don't belong.
It's subtle, but I recognize the behavior. I've seen it in soldiers coming back from deployment, in abuse victims who've learned that survival depends on constant vigilance.
Whatever she's running from, it taught her to be afraid.
The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. I'm not just watching someone who might be connected to a case. I'm watching someone who's scared. Someone who sleeps in a van because it's safer than staying in one place too long.
The thought makes my hands tighten on the steering wheel until my knuckles go white. But I can't stop watching. I tell myself I'm protecting her. But maybe it's just easier than admitting I want something I shouldn't. Something I can't afford to want.
Lucy disappears into the clinic through the back entrance, and I know from a week of observation that she'll spend the next thirty minutes showering in the small staff bathroom, changing into her work clothes, feeding the animals currently boarding, and letting any dogs outside for their morning business.
Today that means Tyson, Mrs. Cross's rottweiler who's spending another night after getting into her compost pile again.
Thirty minutes. Enough time to drive down Main Street to the Sunrise Diner, get coffee, and position myself for what I'm going to pretend is a chance encounter.
The plan sits bitter in my mouth. I'm about to manipulate a woman, use my position and her probable loneliness to extract information she doesn't want to give.
But the Cutter Brothers are still out there. Whatever happened to Dusty could happen to other animals, other people. And Lucy's the only witness we have, even if she doesn't realize it.
I start the truck and pull away from the grain elevator, gravel crunching under the tires. In the rearview mirror, I catch a glimpse of the clinic's yellow brick facade, solid and dependable against the backdrop of pine-covered hills.
The Sunrise Diner sits on Main Street like it has for the past forty years, all chrome fixtures and red vinyl booths. The neon sign flickers intermittently, casting pink shadows across the cracked sidewalk where frost still clings to the corners despite the morning sun.
At 7 AM, it's busy with ranchers grabbing coffee before heading out to check cattle, early shift workers from the lumber mill, and the occasional trucker who wandered off the highway.
The kind of people who get up before dawn, whose hands are already stained with honest work before most folks open their eyes.
"Morning, Sheriff," Dolores calls from behind the counter, coffee pot already in hand. She's been slinging hash and strong coffee here since before I arrived in Briarhaven. Hell, probably since before I was born.
Makes coffee strong and doesn't take shit from anybody, which is why half the town's scared of her and the other half's in love with her. "Usual?"
"Two coffees, actually. Both black, but make one with a shot of vanilla and extra cream."
Dolores raises an eyebrow, her weathered face creasing into something that might be amusement. "Got yourself a date, Gabriel?"
The word hits harder than it should, landing somewhere between my chest and my gut like a sucker punch. "Something like that."
She studies me with the sharp eyes of a woman who's seen every kind of heartbreak and bullshit this town has to offer. "Well, I'll be damned"
I don't correct her assumption.
I pay for the coffee and head back toward the clinic, timing my arrival for when Lucy should be emerging with Tyson. The morning air cuts clean through my jacket, carrying the scent of pine sap and snowmelt from the mountains.
Perfect weather for a walk through the small park behind Main Street.
Perfect weather for an interrogation disguised as casual conversation.
Lucy comes around the corner of the clinic just as I'm parking the patrol truck, Tyson trotting beside her on a leash like the well-trained companion he's become over his multiple visits.
She's changed into dark jeans and a soft green sweater that brings out the gold flecks in her brown eyes, her hair braided over one shoulder in a way that makes my chest tighten with something I'm not ready to name.
She stops when she sees me, and I watch surprise flash across her face followed by something that might be wariness. The careful expression of someone who's learned that coincidences are rarely innocent.
"Sheriff Maddox." Her voice is polite but guarded. "You're up early."
"Gabriel," I correct, climbing out of the truck with both coffee cups, trying to make the movement casual instead of calculated. "And not really. This is normal patrol hours in a town this size."
"Right." She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, and I can practically see her mind working, wondering if this is coincidence or something else. "Well, Tyson and I were just heading out for his morning constitutional."
The formal phrasing makes me smile despite the circumstances. There's something almost old-fashioned about the way she talks sometimes, like she learned proper speech from books instead of playground conversations.
"Mind if I join you?" I hold out one of the coffee cups, noting the way her eyes track the movement like she's calculating whether it's safe to accept. "Brought you this. Figured you might need caffeine before dealing with whatever chaos the day brings."
She stares at the cup like it might be a trap, which isn't far from the truth. "How did you know how I like my coffee?"
The question catches me off guard, and I realize I've revealed more than I intended. Shit. This is exactly the kind of slip that blows surveillance operations.
"I heard you talking to Mrs. Cross about coffee preferences while I was at the clinic," I lie smoothly, falling back on years of undercover training.
The truth is I've been watching her long enough to know.
"Thank you," she says quietly, accepting the cup with fingers that barely brush mine. "That was... thoughtful."
But I catch the slight emphasis on the last word, like she's testing whether my thoughtfulness is genuine or has an agenda.
We start walking down the cracked sidewalk that borders the small park behind Main Street, Tyson happily investigating every tree and fire hydrant we pass like he's reading the neighborhood newspaper.
The morning sun slants through the bare cottonwood branches, painting everything in gold and shadows that shift with each breath of mountain wind.
"So," I say, trying to sound casual while my training catalogs every micro-expression on her face. "How are you settling in? Briarhaven treating you well?"
"It's a nice town. Quiet." Lucy keeps her eyes on the path ahead, but I can see tension in the set of her shoulders, the way she holds herself like she's ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. "Very different from what I'm used to."
"Which is?"
"Cities, mostly. Always moving." She takes a sip of coffee, and I catch the small smile that crosses her face when she realizes I got it exactly right.
The expression transforms her whole face, makes her look younger and less guarded.
"This is the longest I've stayed anywhere in. .. well, in a long time."
There's something in the way she says it, a careful distance that tells me she's editing her words with the precision of someone who's learned that the wrong detail can be dangerous. Choosing what to reveal and what to keep buried.
"What made you decide to stick around?" I ask, genuinely curious despite my ulterior motives. "Besides the job, I mean."