Chapter 7
Riley
My room above the Red Fang Saloon was modest but charming with its Wild West authenticity. Yesterday, Jessi had handed me the key with a warm smile and directed me to the second floor, where guest accommodations occupied the entire level.
“Room four,” she’d said. “It’s one of our smaller ones, but I think you’ll find it comfortable.”
I’d only taken a moment yesterday to leave my suitcase and hadn’t truly looked around.
Smaller was relative in a town built for orcs.
The door swung open to reveal a space that would’ve been considered spacious in any human establishment.
An orc-sized bed dominated one wall, its wooden frame carved with mountains and trees.
A dresser and wardrobe stood opposite, both built to accommodate someone Dungar’s size.
The nightstand held an old-fashioned oil lamp, converted to electric but maintaining its rustic appeal.
My single suitcase sat untouched by the door, a stark reminder of how little I possessed. Everything I owned in the world fits into that standard case. I’d been living that way for so long that the idea of unpacking, of settling in, felt foreign.
I toed off my boots and collapsed onto the bed fully clothed. The mattress enveloped me, soft and inviting after the narrow jail cell bunk. I should shower and unpack. Do anything other than lie here thinking about Dungar Bronish and the way his arms had felt around me.
I closed my eyes, intending to rest them for a moment. Instead, exhaustion claimed me, pulling me down into a dreamless sleep.
A bang outside pulled me back to consciousness. I blinked, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar ceiling above me, my heart racing from the ongoing bangs. Sunlight slanted through the window at a different angle now, telling me I’d been asleep for hours.
And a quick glance out the window showed another stagecoach robbery reenactment in progress.
I slumped back on the bed, memories of the night flooding my mind. Dungar’s body curved protectively around mine. The rumble of his voice as he shared stories of his childhood. The way he’d calmed me through my nightmare without pushing for explanations I couldn’t give.
I groaned and pushed myself up, my body stiff from sleeping on the bunk. A quick check of my phone showed it was past noon. I’d slept nearly four hours, longer than I’d intended but not enough to waste the entire day.
The bathroom was as thoughtfully designed as the bedroom, with fixtures that could accommodate both human and orc users.
I stripped and stepped into the shower, letting hot water cascade over me.
As I washed away the remnants of my night in the jail cell, my fingers unconsciously traced over my right wrist.
The spot still tingled, an echo of the strange burning sensation I’d felt when his tongue had traced from my palm to my wrist. Some sort of traditional orc greeting, I assumed, though the intensity of his reaction afterward had been puzzling.
I shut off the water and stepped out, wrapping a towel around my body. After drying, I wiped condensation from the mirror and stared at my reflection. My eyes looked less haunted, more alive than they had in years.
“Remember why you’re here, Riley,” I told my reflection sternly. “As always, no attachments. No complications.”
But as I dressed in fresh clothes and prepared to return to the sheriff’s office, I couldn’t ignore the insistent whisper in my heart that it might already be too late.
The wooden stairs creaked beneath my boots as I descended to the main floor of the saloon.
My stomach growled, reminding me that sleep wasn’t the only thing I’d missed since arriving in Lonesome Creek.
The wall clock showed past noon, but my body clock was thoroughly confused after everything that had happened.
The saloon had transformed from its quiet morning state to a bustling lunch spot.
Tourists filled the tables, their excited chatter creating a pleasant hum beneath the tinkling piano music coming from a self-playing instrument in the corner.
The whole scene felt like stepping into a movie set, except the orcs were real, and somehow, I belonged here.
An orc wearing a chef’s apron arranged sandwiches behind the glass counter. Each looked like an edible work of art, piled high with colorful ingredients I couldn’t identify from this distance. This must be Lavon, the chef Jessi had mentioned yesterday.
Aunt Inla stood beside him, her silver-streaked hair pulled into a loose bun beneath her poke bonnet. She hovered over his shoulder, rearranging his carefully placed plates while batting her eyelashes at him.
“If you put the cragroot fritters here, Lavon, they’ll catch more light.” She moved a plate of golden-brown nuggets to a different spot.
Lavon’s expression showed equal parts exasperation and fondness. “Inla, I’ve been arranging food displays for thirty years.”
“And I’ve been looking at handsome males for far longer,” she said with a wink that made the chef’s cheeks darken.
At the far end of the bar, Greel leaned close to Jessi, nodding toward Aunt Inla and Lavon with a roll of his eyes. He whispered something that made Jessi snicker and cover her mouth to stifle her laughter.
Watching their easy intimacy sent a pang of sadness through my chest. I wasn’t jealous. I guess it felt more like hunger. These people had built lives together. They had inside jokes and shared stories. They belonged to each other.
For someone who’d spent the last few years carefully avoiding attachment, the sudden longing for that kind of connection felt like a betrayal of my survival instincts. Yet I couldn’t deny the pull.
I approached the bar, and Lavon’s attention shifted to me. “You must be our new deputy. Riley, right? Welcome to Lonesome Creek.” He reached beneath the counter and pulled out a mug he filled with coffee from a pot sitting on the long shelf behind, handing it over. “Cream or sugar?”
“Just cream, and I love you for this.” I almost cringed at how friendly I sounded, how personal. For all I knew, I’d just committed a grave faux pas and insulted an orc elder.
He gave me a tusky grin. “Love you too.” He plunked a creamer that matched the mug on the counter between us. “If I’ve learned nothing since coming to the surface, it’s that humans adore their coffee. Some might even say they love it.”
“I do. Thank you.”
Inla beamed. “Did you sleep well? I heard about your escapades from last night. That boy is full of mischief.”
“I hope he didn’t get into too much trouble. And yes, I slept great.”
“He’ll understand that locking people inside a cell together and taking the keys is wrong, and I guess that’s the lesson he must learn,” she said.
I stared down at the gorgeous mug, deep azure blue with swirls of cream and gold that seemed to dance through the glaze, then took a sniff of the lovely coffee inside. The handle fit my hand perfectly.
“Did Hail or Allie make this?” I asked, lifting the piece up to eyelevel to study it further. “It’s beautiful.”
Lavon nodded, his dark eyes warming. “Hail makes all our dishware. Says it helps people feel more welcome when they’re eating from something made with care.”
“He’s right.” I took a sip of the rich coffee, moaning my appreciation as I swallowed.
“Staff eats for free,” Lavon told me with a nod toward a basket full of wrapped muffins.
I picked one of the muffins, holding it up, admiring the deep purple berries scattered through the rich, golden mix. “These look amazing.”
“Dartling berries,” Inla said with a sweet smile. “We make them here ourselves from berries we import from the orc kingdom. A lot of dishes feature orc ingredients.”
“I can’t wait to try the muffin.”
“Take the coffee with you.” Inla plucked four muffins from the basket and popped them into a paper bag along with the one I’d selected, handing the folded-top bag to me over the counter. “Take the extras to Dungar, would you? He adores them.”
“I will. Thanks again.” Bag and coffee in hand, I headed for the door.
Everyone in the saloon seemed paired off.
Tourists with their families, orcs with their human mates, even Aunt Inla and Lavon with their flirtatious dance.
Each person orbited around someone else, creating a constellation of connections I’d denied myself for much too long.
My pace quickened as I stepped onto the boardwalk, my thoughts already racing ahead to Dungar, with his careful movements and thoughtful eyes. To the way I’d felt safe in his arms last night.
For the first time in two years, I was walking toward something instead of away.
I strode across the town square, sipping my coffee and munching on a muffin.
Midday tourist activities were in full swing, giving the place an authentic frontier atmosphere.
A group of children wearing too-large cowboy hats galloped past me on stick horses, their parents following behind in matching western gear.
Near the general store, a photographer had set up an old-time portrait booth where a family dressed in period costumes posed with exaggerated serious expressions.
The whole scene felt like a carefully crafted fantasy, yet the laughter felt genuine and the excitement real. These people had come seeking an escape, just as I had, though for vastly different reasons.
The sheriff’s office door swung open easily under my elbow’s push. Inside, Dungar sat at his desk, going through a stack of files. He looked up, and the way his eyes brightened sent a flutter through my chest that had nothing to do with caffeine.
“Riley.” He rose, his chair skidding backward on its wheels to thunk against the far wall.
Color filled his face as he retrieved it, centering it just so in front of the desk before rounding it to greet me.
He dragged a chair over, positioning it beside his desk with equally careful precision.
“Your desk should be delivered later today. I hope this will work for now.”