Chapter Two
~ Daniel ~
I drummed my fingers against the stack of paperwork that never seemed to end. Small town policing wasn't what the academy had prepared me for—less crime-solving, more form-filling.
Three months in McKenzie River, and I was still adjusting to the pace, the politics, and the peculiar way everyone knew everyone's business. The sheriff's station smelled like cheap coffee and even cheaper air freshener, a combination that somehow made the hours drag even longer.
The front door creaked open, letting in a gust of spring air that momentarily cleared the staleness. I glanced up, and my pen stilled mid-signature.
Harlow McKenzie stood in the doorway, hat in hand, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.
His broad shoulders nearly filled the frame, making the station seem suddenly smaller.
His presence commanded attention without him saying a word—a contradiction to the way he ducked his head, avoiding eye contact with anyone in the room.
I'd seen him around town since I'd arrived, always from a distance.
Up close, he was even more striking—tall enough that he had to duck slightly under the doorframe, with hands that could probably snap a fence post in half.
Yet there was something gentle in the way he held his worn hat, fingers tracing the brim nervously.
"Can I help you?" I called out, setting my paperwork aside before he could answer.
Deputy Collins, who'd been slouched at the desk nearest the door, swiveled his chair toward me as Harlow approached. Collins leaned over, his voice dropping to what he clearly thought was a whisper.
"That's Harlow McKenzie—you know, the slow one," Collins murmured, side-eyeing Harlow like he was discussing a curiosity at a fair. "Watch yourself with that family. They're protective as hell, especially about him. Sheriff says to handle with kid gloves."
Something hot and sharp flared in my chest. I kept my eyes on Harlow, who was making his way across the room with careful, measured steps, but my words were for Collins alone.
"If you ever speak about him like that again," I said, my voice low and even, "you'll be eating through a straw for the next six months." I smiled for Harlow's benefit, but there was nothing friendly in my eyes when I finally glanced at Collins. "Are we clear, Deputy?"
Collins' face flushed, his mouth opening and closing like a fish on land. He muttered something that might have been agreement and turned back to his computer, suddenly very interested in whatever was on his screen.
Harlow reached my desk, still clutching his hat, eyes fixed somewhere around my shoulder.
"Deputy Latham," he said, his voice deeper than I expected, with a richness that contradicted his hesitant demeanor. "There's a horse missing from the Miller farm. Chestnut mare, white blaze on her face. She's due to foal any day now."
I reached for a report form, noting how his gaze followed my hands. "When was she last seen?"
"Yesterday evening at feeding time. She was in the north pasture." His fingers worked the brim of his hat, turning it slowly in a circular motion. "The fence was intact. No sign of it being cut or broken. She's just... gone."
I nodded, filling out the details. "Any idea where she might have headed? Favorite spots? Other places she's been known to wander?"
Harlow shifted his weight, and I caught the subtle change in his posture—the slight straightening of his spine, the firming of his jaw. This was his territory now. Tracking. Animals. The nervous fidgeting subsided.
"There's a stream about two miles north of the Miller place," he said, his words coming easier now. "Leads to a meadow with sweet grass. She might've gone that way if she was looking for a quiet place to foal."
I glanced up from my writing to find him looking directly at me for the first time. The impact was immediate—like a physical jolt to my system. His eyes were a warm brown that caught the light from the overhead fluorescents, making them appear almost amber.
When our gazes locked, a flush spread across his cheekbones, disappearing into the short beard that framed his jaw. He looked away first, the hat in his hands twisting faster.
"I can track her," he offered, still not meeting my eyes again. "I just thought... protocol says to report missing livestock."
"That's right," I confirmed, finishing the report. "You did the right thing."
I stood up, deliberately invading his space just enough to gauge his reaction. He didn't back away, but I noticed his breathing quickened slightly.
Interesting.
"I'll need to take your statement officially," I said, reaching for my jacket. "Mind if I ride along while you track the mare? Two birds, one stone."
The surprise on his face was evident. "You want to come with me?"
"Is that a problem?"
He shook his head quickly. "No, sir. Just... usually when I report things, you all just take the information and say you'll look into it."
"Well, I'm new in town," I said, allowing a small smile. "Still learning the lay of the land. Seems like you're the expert on finding things that don't want to be found."
That earned me another flush, deeper this time, spreading down his neck. My smile widened just a fraction. Something about his reactions made me want to provoke more of them, to see just how far that blush could travel.
"I should get going," he said abruptly, taking a half-step back. "Miller's real worried about that mare."
I nodded, handing him his copy of the report.
Our fingers brushed in the exchange, and he pulled back like he'd touched a hot stove.
The reaction was so genuine, so unguarded, that it stirred something protective in me.
This wasn't the practiced retreat of someone playing hard to get.
This was a man who'd been told his feelings were wrong—or worse, that he wasn't entitled to have them at all.
"I'll meet you at Miller's in twenty," I said, making it clear it wasn't a suggestion.
He nodded once, jammed his hat back on his head, and turned to leave.
I watched him walk away, noting how he kept to the edges of the room, how his massive frame seemed to curl inward as if trying to occupy less space.
The contradiction fascinated me—a man with his size and strength moving through the world as if apologizing for his existence.
Collins muttered something under his breath as Harlow passed, too low for me to catch, but I saw the way Harlow's shoulders tensed.
I grabbed my jacket, sliding it on with more force than necessary. This town and its judgments, its gossip, its neatly constructed boxes for who belonged where and with whom—it all grated against my skin like sandpaper.
I'd left St. Louis to escape constraints, not to find new ones. And something about Harlow McKenzie made me want to tear down every fence this town had built around him.
The door closed behind him, and I fastened my gun belt with practiced efficiency. Let them talk. I'd never much cared what people thought of me, and I wasn't about to start now. Besides, I was interested in seeing if I could create that flush again.
* * * *
I squinted through the windshield as another sheet of rain hammered against the glass. The wipers fought a losing battle, barely clearing my line of sight before the next deluge obscured it again.
Highway 126 curved through the darkened Douglas firs like a black river, my headlights catching the reflective paint of the center line then bouncing off the curtain of water coming down. Three hours into a double shift, and the storm had turned a routine patrol into a white-knuckle driving test.
The patrol car's heater blasted against the foggy windows, creating a cocoon of artificial warmth that contrasted with the chaos outside.
I'd spent the afternoon tracking a missing mare with Harlow McKenzie, watching his large hands pointing out barely visible signs on the forest floor, his voice gaining confidence as he explained what each broken twig or disturbed patch of earth meant.
We'd found the horse safe in exactly the meadow he'd predicted, already nursing a newborn foal.
The radio crackled to life, cutting through my thoughts. "Unit four, we've got reports of an abandoned vehicle on Highway 126, mile marker 47, eastbound shoulder. Silver Honda Civic, Oregon plates. No reported injuries, but caller says it's been there at least an hour with hazards on."
I reached for the radio. "Dispatch, this is unit four. I'm about three miles west of that location. I'll check it out."
"Copy that, unit four."
I eased off the gas, scanning the roadside for the mile markers that were barely visible through the downpour. The clock on my dashboard read 10:37 PM. Not many travelers would be out on a night like this, which made an abandoned vehicle all the more concerning.
The wind picked up, sending a barrage of pine needles and small branches skittering across the asphalt. My headlights caught the reflection of something metallic ahead—mile marker 47. Just beyond it, the faint pulsing of hazard lights cut through the rain.
I slowed the patrol car and pulled in behind the Civic, positioning my vehicle to shield it from any oncoming traffic. The abandoned car sat at an odd angle, its right front tire dipped into the shallow drainage ditch that ran alongside the highway.
I radioed my location to dispatch, then grabbed my flashlight and rain slicker from the passenger seat. Before opening the door, I took a deep breath, mentally preparing for the drenching I was about to receive.
The moment I stepped out, the storm assaulted me from all sides.
Rain driven sideways by the wind stung my face like tiny needles.
My uniform pants were soaked through within seconds, the slicker doing little to keep the water from finding every possible entry point.
The wind howled through the treetops overhead, an eerie counterpoint to the steady drumming of rain on metal and pavement.
I approached the Civic cautiously, flashlight beam cutting through the darkness. The hazard lights blinked a steady rhythm, reflecting off the wet asphalt in distorted orange puddles. All four doors were closed. No signs of forced entry or damage beyond the awkward position in the ditch.
I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered through the driver's side window, then tried the door. Unlocked. The interior light flicked on as I opened it, revealing an empty seat and a dashboard still slick with rain. The keys dangled from the ignition.
"Hello?" I called out, my voice immediately swallowed by the storm. No response.
I swept my flashlight across the interior—no blood, no signs of struggle. The passenger seat held nothing but a fast food bag and an empty coffee cup. The back seat was clear except for a child's booster seat, securely fastened but unoccupied.
A chill that had nothing to do with the rain crawled up my spine. A family vehicle, abandoned in a storm, with no explanation and no indication of where its occupants had gone.
I checked the glove compartment for registration, finding it neatly tucked inside a plastic sleeve along with proof of insurance.
Sarah Jennings, an address in Eugene. I pocketed the information and quickly examined the trunk, which contained nothing but a spare tire and roadside emergency kit, apparently untouched.
Back in my patrol car, I radioed dispatch with the vehicle details and requested they try to contact the owner. The rain hadn't let up; if anything, it was coming down harder. Visibility was down to just a few yards beyond my headlights.
I turned on my light bar to alert any approaching traffic while I completed my report.
The blue and red flashes bounced off the raindrops, creating an almost strobe-like effect through the trees.
Once my report was filed, I'd need to call for a tow truck, though it would likely be hours before one could make it out in these conditions.
I put the patrol car in drive, planning to pull forward slightly to better position my lights around the abandoned vehicle. The wheels rolled forward, then suddenly lost their grip on the road. My stomach lurched as the back end of the car began to slide.
Hydroplaning.
I'd driven through countless storms, knew exactly how to handle the skid—turn into it, ease off the gas, no sudden movements—but this wasn't a normal skid. The patrol car had found a deep pool of standing water hidden in the darkness, and physics took over where skill left off.
The world outside my windows blurred as the car spun.
I caught flashes of tree trunks, the abandoned Civic, the center line of the highway, all rotating past my windshield in a disorienting carousel.
My hands gripped the wheel, muscles straining against the inevitable, but the car had become untethered from my commands.
The back end swung wide, pulling the vehicle toward the ditch. I had a split second to brace myself before impact, my body tensing against the seat belt.
The first hit came from the side—the crunch of metal and plastic as the patrol car slammed into the drainage ditch.
Then came the roll. The world turned upside down, gravity releasing its hold as the roof of the car briefly became the floor.
The airbags deployed in an explosion of white, a chemical smell filling the cabin as glass shattered overhead.
My head snapped forward then back, connecting with the steering column despite the airbag. Pain exploded behind my eyes, bright and sharp, then immediately dulled to a throbbing pressure. The taste of copper filled my mouth.
The car settled with a final groan of twisted metal. Rain pattered against the crumpled roof, sounding distant now, as if coming from the end of a long tunnel. The light bar continued to flash, sending weakening pulses of blue and red through the broken windows.
I tried to move, to reach for my radio, but my limbs felt disconnected from my commands. The world began to narrow, darkness creeping in from the edges of my vision.
My last coherent thought was of Harlow McKenzie's face when we'd found that mare and her foal—the pure, uncomplicated joy that had transformed his features, making him look suddenly younger, unburdened.
Then everything went black.