Chapter 15
RHYS
Six Months Later
The town hall in Whitewater Junction hasn't seen this many people since the winter festival three years ago.
Every folding chair is occupied. People line the walls.
The overflow crowd spills onto the front steps despite the cold.
Voices echo off the exposed beams, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the clink of beer bottles.
"Speech!" someone yells from the back.
"Hell no," I call back. "This is supposed to be a party, not a sentencing."
More laughter ripples through the crowd. Harlow stands beside me in a dark blue dress that makes her eyes look like winter sky, hair falling loose around her shoulders. No weapon visible, but I know she's carrying. Old habits die hard for both of us.
Wells pushes through with two loaded plates. He's filled out since taking over more of the day-to-day operations. The kind of weight that comes from regular meals instead of whatever can be microwaved at three in the morning between dispatch calls.
"Sadie insisted on catering," he says. "Drove down from Glacier Hollow this morning with Zeke. Said after everything that happened with the trafficking ring, she wasn't missing this." He grins. "Plus she doesn't trust anyone else's fried chicken."
"Tell her thanks." I take my plate. The cornbread is still warm.
Wells nods toward the corner where Sadie MacAllister stands with her husband. "She's been here since sunrise getting everything ready."
Sadie catches my eye and waves. Zeke lifts his beer in salute.
I return the gesture, remembering how he and his crew helped us take down Lebedev in that shootout on Main Street.
Three days after we hauled Lebedev into federal custody, agents found him dead in his holding cell.
Apparent suicide by hanging. Except the coroner's report showed bruising patterns inconsistent with self-inflicted strangulation.
Someone got to him before he could talk.
The Marshal is still out there. Still rebuilding. Still dangerous.
But tonight is about something else. Tonight is about the fact that Harlow Kane agreed to marry me, and this town decided we needed a party to celebrate.
"You doing okay?" Harlow asks quietly.
"Yeah." I kiss her temple. "You?"
"Overwhelmed." She glances around at the packed room. "I didn't expect this many people."
"Small town. Any excuse for a party." I lean closer. "And they're not just celebrating us. They're celebrating surviving everything that happened. The trafficking ring. The shootout. Getting through it."
She nods.
Nate Barrett and Wren Knox work their way over through the crowd. Caleb Knox and Bryn Calder are with them. The four of them must have carpooled over from Glacier Hollow.
"Hell of a turnout," Caleb says by way of greeting.
Wren pulls Harlow into a brief hug. "Happy for you both."
"How's the research work?" I ask.
"Busy. Wolf population is rebounding." Wren exchanges a look with Nate. "Which means more pack tracking."
"And more poachers," Nate adds. "Might need to coordinate on a case next month."
Bryn laughs at something Harlow says, then turns to me. "Caleb's already planning our wedding like a military operation. Spring ceremony. He's got spreadsheets."
"Someone has to make sure things get done right," Caleb says.
"By right, you mean your way," Bryn counters.
Chris Calder appears with Sierra. They drove down yesterday. Chris looks better than when I last saw him. Less weight on his shoulders. Sierra looks calm and content.
"Good party," Chris says.
We talk for a few minutes about wedding plans and work. Then Chris's expression changes.
"Got a minute?" he asks, nodding toward the hallway.
I glance at Harlow. She reads my face, gives a small nod.
I follow Chris down the hallway past the bathrooms. He opens a door to a small office that smells like old paper and furniture polish, then closes it behind us.
"What is it?" I ask.
"Federal office flagged communications last week." Chris leans against the desk. "Encrypted chatter on Volkov network frequencies."
My chest tightens. "Where?"
"Seattle. Portland. Anchorage." He pulls out his phone, shows me a map with three highlighted areas. "Different players. Sierra wouldn't recognize the patterns. But they're using the same playbook."
"Smaller operations?"
"Yeah. Less visible. More careful." He pockets the phone. "No leadership references. No names. But someone with serious resources is running the show."
"The Marshal."
"That's the working theory." Chris straightens. "Official briefing comes next week. You and Harlow are listed as primary consultants. Wanted you to know before it hits your desk."
I exhale slowly. "Lebedev's death was supposed to send a message."
"It did. Just not the one we wanted. They adapted." Chris pauses. "You and Harlow will handle it."
"Yeah."
We head back. Harlow spots me immediately, reads the tension in my shoulders. I give her a slight nod. Later.
Mayor Patterson approaches the makeshift podium someone set up near the buffet table. The crowd quiets gradually as people turn to face her. She's been running this town since before I pinned on the badge.
"Thank you all for coming," she says. "We're here to celebrate Sheriff Rhys Blackwater and Harlow Kane, who recently got engaged."
Applause ripples through the room. Someone whistles. I feel heat rise in my face.
"Rhys has served this community for a lot of years," Patterson continues. "When we lost Emma, a lot of us worried we'd lose him too. Not to death, but to the kind of grief that breaks a person beyond repair."
The room falls silent.
"But Rhys stayed. Kept serving. Kept living, even when it hurt." Her eyes find mine. "Then Harlow came to town. Someone who understood the work and the cost. Someone who could stand with him as an equal."
Harlow stiffens slightly beside me. She's never liked being the center of attention.
"Together they took down a trafficking operation that threatened our entire region. Brought justice for eight women. Brought closure for Emma's death." Patterson raises her glass. "To Rhys and Harlow."
"To Rhys and Harlow!" the crowd echoes.
The champagne is good. Someone made a special trip to Anchorage for it.
People approach afterward. Handshakes and stories about Emma, about me, about hopes for the future. Then I see Emma's parents working their way through the crowd.
My throat tightens.
Emma's mother reaches me first. She doesn't say anything. Just pulls me into a hug and holds on. Her hands shake against my back. When she finally pulls away, her eyes are wet.
"I'm glad you found her," she says quietly, glancing at Harlow. "Emma would be glad too."
Emma's father steps forward. He doesn't offer his hand. Instead, he pulls me into a brief, fierce embrace. When he releases me, his voice is rough.
"She'd be proud of you, son. So damn proud." He clears his throat. "You didn't let the grief win. That takes strength."
I can't speak. Just nod.
He turns to Harlow. "Good to see you again, Harlow."
Ruth steps forward and pulls Harlow into a hug. When she pulls back, her eyes are wet. "I'm so glad he found you. Emma would be glad too."
Harlow's composure cracks slightly. "I hope so."
"I know so." Ruth squeezes her hands. "Thank you for bringing him back to us."
"I didn't do that. He did the work himself."
"Maybe." Ruth's voice softens. "But you gave him a reason to."
They move on to talk to other people, and I have to take a moment. Breathe. Harlow's hand finds mine and squeezes.
The party winds down slowly. People drift toward the doors in twos and threes. The cleanup crew starts folding chairs. Harlow and I help stack plates until Wells waves us off.
"Get out of here," he says. "We've got this."
We grab our coats and head outside. The night bites cold and sharp. Stars scatter across the sky. Our breath fogs as we walk to the truck, boots crunching on gravel.
"That was a lot," Harlow says.
"Yeah." I open her door. "But good."
I close her door and walk around to the driver's side.
The drive back to the cabin passes in comfortable quiet. When we pull up, I scan the tree line out of habit before we head inside. Nothing but shadows and snow-laden branches.
I build a fire while Harlow disappears into the bedroom. When she returns wearing one of my flannel shirts with her jeans. I've poured two glasses of whiskey. She takes one and curls up beside me on the couch.
"Chris told you something tonight," she says.
"Yeah." I tell her about the communications. The network activity in three cities. The coordination that suggests the Marshal is still operational.
She listens. When I finish, she sets her glass down.
"We're not done."
"No."
"Good." She shifts to face me. "I came to Alaska to hide from what happened with Baker. But you gave me a reason to stop running. This work. You. Making a difference again."
"Even knowing it means more danger? More years chasing ghosts?"
"Especially then." Her voice is steady. "We're building something. Not just us. A whole network of people who won't quit."
She's right. The multi-jurisdictional task force isn't just bureaucracy. It's a community of operators who trust each other.
"The feds just expanded our jurisdiction," I say. "Alaska, Washington, Oregon. You're lead analyst for trafficking operations."
"I wouldn't want it any other way." She leans in and kisses me. Soft at first, then deeper. When she pulls back, her eyes have darkened. "Take me to bed, Sheriff."
"Yes ma'am."
I stand and pull her up with me. She wraps her arms around my neck as I lift her. Her legs go around my waist, locking at the ankles behind my back. I carry her to the bedroom, her mouth hot and urgent against mine. Each step sends friction through both of us. She makes a sound low in her throat.
We fall onto the bed together. She yanks my shirt over my head while my hands work the buttons on the flannel. Too slow. I give up and pull it open. Buttons scatter across the floor. She laughs breathlessly against my mouth.
"Impatient?"
"You have no idea."
I slide the flannel off her shoulders and toss it aside.
Her skin is warm under my palms. Soft. I trace the curve of her waist, her ribs, up to cup her breast. She arches into my touch, head falling back.
I lower my mouth to her throat. Taste salt and the faint scent of her soap. Her pulse hammers against my lips.
Her hands move to my belt. Fingers quick and efficient. My jeans hit the floor. Then hers. Nothing between us now except heat and want.
I settle between her thighs. She's already wet. Ready. The first slide inside steals my breath. She gasps and rises to meet me, hips tilting to take me deeper. Her nails dig into my shoulders.
"Don't hold back," she breathes.
I don't. The rhythm builds fast. Hard. Each thrust drives deeper. Her body tightens around me. The coil of pleasure winds tighter in my spine. She wraps her legs around my hips, changing the angle. The sensation nearly breaks me.
Her breathing turns ragged. Broken gasps against my ear. My name becomes a chant. A plea. I reach between us, find the bundle of nerves that makes her cry out. She shatters. Her entire body goes rigid. Pulses around me. My name tears from her throat.
The sensation drags me over with her. Release slams through me. I bury my face in her neck, groaning against her skin. Shuddering. Gasping. Coming apart in her arms.
After, I pull her against me. She traces patterns on my chest with her fingertips.
"I love you," she murmurs.
"I love you too."
She drifts toward sleep, her breathing evening out. Her warmth pressed against me.
The network is rebuilding. Someone is coordinating.
Harlow shifts in her sleep. Her hand curls against my ribs.
The Marshal is out there. We'll deal with it, but not tonight.