Chapter Five
~ Daniel ~
The darkness was immediate and absolute, wrapping around us like a tactical advantage I hadn't planned for but would gladly use.
Harlow's hand tightened in mine, his skin warm and calloused from farm work.
Lightning flashed, illuminating his face for just a moment—eyes wide, lips parted in surprise, impossibly innocent despite his imposing size.
Something fierce and protective surged through me, a feeling I'd never experienced before coming to this town, before meeting him.
"Well, looks like we've got a problem," I said, my voice lower than I intended. In the darkness, with no one watching, I allowed myself to stand closer to him than I would have dared in the light.
"What was it you wanted to tell me?" he whispered, his breath warm against my face.
Thunder crashed outside, violent enough to rattle the old farmhouse windows. I felt Harlow jump slightly, his massive frame somehow vulnerable in that brief moment.
"I think someone doesn't want me here," I said carefully, measuring each word. "And I don't mean your mother."
"What do you mean?" His voice was barely audible, even standing this close.
I hesitated. Part of me—the part that had undergone tactical training and learned to keep civilians at arm's length—wanted to brush it off, to handle this on my own.
But another part—the part that had felt something crack open inside when Harlow carried me through that storm like I weighed nothing—needed him to know.
"My accident wasn't an accident," I admitted. "Someone tampered with my brakes."
Harlow's hand tightened around mine, nearly painful in its intensity. "How do you know?"
"The brake line was cut—not completely through, but enough that the pressure would fail after a few hard stops." I kept my voice steady, factual. "I felt something off this morning when I left the station. Should have checked it then."
Lightning flashed again, catching the shift in Harlow's expression—the innocent concern giving way to something harder, something I recognized from my own reflection when someone threatened what was mine.
"Who would do that?" he asked, his voice deeper than usual.
"I've got some ideas." I wasn't ready to share all my suspicions, not until I had more evidence. "Been investigating some illegal activity on the outskirts of town. Seems like someone doesn't like me poking around."
I felt rather than saw Harlow fumbling in his pocket with his free hand, refusing to let go of mine with the other. A moment later, the blue glow of his phone screen illuminated the space between us, casting strange shadows across his features.
"We should get you to the guest room," he said, his jaw set in a way that reminded me he was a McKenzie after all, despite his gentle nature. "You need to rest."
I nodded, reluctant to break the moment but aware of the pain creeping up my side with increasing intensity.
Harlow raised the phone, using it as a makeshift flashlight as we navigated the dark hallway.
I winced with each step, the adrenaline that had carried me through the evening finally wearing off.
Harlow noticed immediately. "You're hurt worse than you let on."
"I'm fine," I said automatically, the words so practiced they felt empty even to me.
"No, you're not." His voice held a certainty that brooked no argument, even from me.
We reached the guest room, the door standing half-open. Harlow guided me inside, the phone light sweeping across a neatly made bed with a patchwork quilt and simple wooden furniture. The room smelled of lavender and cedar, homey in a way my apartment in town never managed to be.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, unable to suppress a groan as my ribs protested. Harlow crouched in front of me, his face level with mine, the phone casting eerie blue light upward that made his eyes look even more intense.
"You're still hurting," he said, not a question but a statement of fact.
I wanted to deny it, to maintain the facade of control I'd cultivated for years. But something about those eyes made lying seem impossible.
"Ribs," I admitted. "And my head. Doc Miller said nothing's broken, but..." I trailed off, unwilling to show more weakness than I already had.
"Why didn't you say something?" There was hurt in his voice, like I'd betrayed him somehow by not sharing my pain.
"Didn't want to worry you." The truth slipped out before I could catch it. "You've done enough, carrying me through that storm, bringing me here, and getting me the help I needed."
Harlow stared at me for a long moment. I could see the emotions working across his face—concern, confusion, and something else I wasn't ready to name, but recognized deep in my gut.
His hands, those massive, gentle hands that had carried me so effortlessly, clenched into fists at his sides. "Someone tried to kill you," he said finally, his voice barely controlled. "Someone cut your brakes and left you to die on that road."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. The reality of how close I'd come to dying alone in that ditch hit me fully for the first time, sending an involuntary shiver through my body.
Harlow must have noticed, because he reached for the quilt and pulled it around my shoulders without asking. The gesture was so tender, so at odds with the rage I could see building in him, that I almost reached for him then.
"I'm going to find out who did it," he said, a promise that sounded like a vow. "Nobody hurts people on McKenzie land. Nobody hurts what’s—" He stopped abruptly, but I heard the unspoken word as clearly as if he'd shouted it.
Mine.
Lightning flashed again, illuminating his face just as his expression shifted into something primal and fierce. His jaw tightened, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
In that moment, I saw past the gentle giant everyone in town underestimated. I saw a man capable of violence to protect what he cared about.
It should have concerned me, that look. Instead, it sent heat coursing through my veins. I'd spent my life being the protector, the shield, the one who stood between danger and others. Having someone want to protect me, especially someone like Harlow, was as intoxicating as it was unfamiliar.
"We'll find them," I said, emphasizing the 'we' deliberately. "Together. But not tonight. Tonight, we both need rest."
Harlow nodded slowly, the fierce look gradually fading from his eyes, replaced by something softer but no less intense. "I'll be right across the hall if you need anything."
Something shifted between us in that moment, something fundamental and irreversible. As I watched him leave the room, I knew with absolute certainty that whoever had tried to kill me had made a fatal miscalculation. They hadn't just made an enemy of me. They'd made an enemy of Harlow McKenzie.
And God help them when he found out who they were.
The rain continued its assault on the farmhouse, each drop a tiny percussion instrument in nature's relentless symphony.
I sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the storm's fury and wondering if it was simply mirroring the tempest building inside me.
Anger at whoever had tampered with my car warred with an unfamiliar warmth that had taken root when Harlow had carried me through that downpour.
Both emotions demanded action. Both felt dangerously close to consuming me whole.
I hadn't expected Harlow to return after his mother's not-so-subtle dismissal, but ten minutes after he'd left, there was a soft knock at the door. He entered without waiting for my answer, a steaming mug in one hand and a battery-powered lantern in the other.
"Thought you might want some tea," he said, setting both items on the nightstand. "Ma says it helps with healing."
The lantern cast a soft golden glow across the room, illuminating Harlow's features in a way the harsh phone light hadn't. His expression was guarded but determined, like he'd made a decision he wasn't going to back down from.
"Your mother know you're back up here?" I asked, accepting the mug with a nod of thanks. The tea smelled of herbs and honey, comforting in its simplicity.
"No." A single word, but the way he said it—straightforward, unapologetic—caught me by surprise. There was a streak of defiance in Harlow McKenzie that nobody in town seemed to see, nobody but me.
He settled onto the bed beside me, the mattress dipping under his weight. His thigh pressed against mine, a solid warmth I could feel even through the borrowed sweatpants. Neither of us moved to create distance.
"Tell me about who might have tampered with your car," he said, his voice low but insistent. "And why."
I took a sip of tea, considering how much to share.
In my three months as deputy, I'd learned that small towns had intricate webs of relationships and loyalties.
The McKenzie family was at the center of that web in many ways.
But something told me Harlow wouldn't appreciate being sheltered from the truth—he'd had enough of that in his life.
"I think someone's using your family's back acres for poaching," I said finally. "Been finding evidence of it for weeks now. Deer carcasses stripped of their best cuts, the rest left to rot. Shell casings from rifles that aren't registered to anyone in the county."
Harlow's brow furrowed, his jaw tightening. "Where exactly?"
"That's the thing—it's scattered. Near the old fire road that cuts through your south woods. By the creek that feeds into the Miller property. Always just inside your boundary lines, like they know exactly where your land begins and ends."
Recognition dawned in Harlow's eyes. "I know those places. Found some strange things there myself. Tire tracks that didn't belong to any of our vehicles. Beer cans that weren't ours."
I nodded, not surprised he'd noticed. "I think it's organized.
Multiple people. Probably selling the meat under the table to restaurants over in Eugene or Springfield.
" I placed my mug on the nightstand, turning to face him more directly.
"I started asking questions at The Edge about who might be coming and going on the fire roads late at night.
Next day, my brakes start feeling soft."
"Someone at The Edge did this?" His hands clenched into fists on his thighs.
"I don't know yet," I admitted. "But I was getting close to something. Too close, apparently."
Harlow was quiet for a moment, processing. When he spoke again, his voice had that certainty I was coming to recognize as uniquely his. "I can help you find evidence. Once you're better. I know every inch of our land. Know how to track without being seen."
The offer shouldn't have surprised me, but it did—along with the fierce protectiveness that rose in my chest at the thought of Harlow putting himself at risk.
"It could be dangerous," I warned. "These people have already tried to kill once."
Harlow's eyes met mine, unwavering. "They were on my family's land. Using it to do something wrong. And they hurt you." He said it like that explained everything. Maybe it did.
Lightning flashed outside, momentarily brightening the room beyond the lantern's glow. In that brief illumination, I saw a determination in Harlow's face that matched my own. The storm had created a bubble around us, a private world where pretenses seemed pointless.
I reached for his hand, my fingers wrapping around his much larger ones. His skin was warm and calloused, the hand of someone who worked the land and understood its secrets.
"You're nothing like people say you are," I said softly, the words escaping before I could censure them.
He stilled, eyes fixed on our joined hands. "People talk a lot," he replied, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Most of them don't know much."
The simple wisdom in his response made me laugh, a genuine sound that surprised both of us. Harlow's smile grew, transforming his face in a way that made my chest tighten.
We sat in comfortable silence for a while, shoulders touching, hands still linked.
The rain drummed steadily against the window, a natural metronome marking time in our private sanctuary.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt this at ease with someone, this content to simply exist in shared space.
"Harlow?" His mother's voice called up the stairs, breaking the spell. "Everything all right up there? Is Deputy Latham settled in?"
Harlow tensed beside me but didn't pull his hand away. "Yes, Ma," he called back. "Just making sure he has everything he needs."
There was a pause, then, "Well, come on down when you're finished. It's getting late."
The command was clear, even wrapped in politeness. Harlow sighed, reluctantly releasing my hand and standing. The loss of his warmth beside me was immediate and unwelcome.
"I should go," he said, though his body language suggested the opposite. "Ma will come up if I don't."
I nodded, understanding the politics of the household I'd landed in. "Thank you for the tea. And the company."
He moved toward the door with that careful grace that seemed at odds with his size. Before he could leave, I stood—ignoring the protest from my ribs—and caught his wrist. The solid thickness of it in my grasp sent a jolt of desire through me that had nothing to do with the case or the storm.
"Harlow," I said, my thumb finding the pulse point at his wrist, feeling it quicken at my touch. "Thank you for finding me today."
His eyes darkened, pupils dilating in the dim lantern light. "I'd always find you," he said, the words simple but loaded with meaning.
"I believe you would," I replied, reluctantly releasing his wrist.
After he left, I stared at the door for a long time, listening to the storm and replaying his words in my head.
Two realizations crystallized with perfect clarity: someone was using McKenzie land for illegal activities serious enough to attempt murder, and despite the danger surrounding us, I'd never felt more alive than when Harlow looked at me like I was something he'd cross a storm to find.
I settled back onto the bed, my body aching but my mind strangely at peace. Tomorrow, we would begin hunting whoever had tried to kill me. And maybe, in the process, I'd figure out what to do about this unexpected connection with a man everyone in town had underestimated.
Including, perhaps, himself.