Chapter Six #2
Hetty's second maneuver involved medication timing. Dr. Miller had prescribed painkillers to be taken every six hours "as needed." Hetty had apparently interpreted this as "mandatory administration at times precisely coordinated with Harlow's absence."
"Here's your medicine, Deputy," she'd announce, appearing at my side with clockwork regularity, always exactly when Harlow was feeding livestock or mending fences or running errands in town. "Doctor's orders."
I'd accept the pills with a polite smile, sometimes slipping them into my pocket rather than swallowing them.
I needed a clear head more than I needed pain relief.
Each time, I'd check my watch afterward, noting the precise minutes ticking by until Harlow's boots would thump on the porch steps, signaling his return just as Hetty would suggest I "rest my eyes for a bit. "
Dinner provided the only reliable window where we occupied the same space, though Hetty's vigilance never wavered. She positioned herself between us at the table, maintaining a steady stream of conversation that required no input from either of us.
Still, I caught Harlow watching me when his mother was distracted with serving or clearing dishes. Those brief, stolen glances carried more honest communication than all of Hetty's carefully orchestrated small talk.
On the third night, I deliberately dropped my fork, watching it clatter to the floor by Harlow's feet.
He bent to retrieve it before his mother could intervene, his large hand closing around the utensil and then, briefly, around mine as he returned it.
The contact lasted less than two seconds, but his touch scorched through me like wildfire.
When our eyes met, I saw the same heat reflected there, banked but unmistakable.
Later that evening, I made my first overt move to disrupt Hetty's careful choreography.
As she brought me a cup of her herbal tea—another transparent excuse to check on my whereabouts—I casually asked, "Mrs. McKenzie, has Sheriff Hardesty called about when I might return to duty? I should check in with the station."
The question hung in the air between us, the first acknowledgment that my stay wasn't permanent. Hetty's expression flickered between relief and uncertainty.
"I haven't heard anything," she said finally. "But surely Doctor Miller wouldn't clear you for duty yet. Those ribs need time to heal properly."
I nodded, glancing pointedly at my watch. "Of course. Just thinking ahead."
The following morning brought Hetty's most blatant maneuver yet.
I emerged from the guest room to find Harlow alone in the hallway, carrying fresh towels toward the linen closet.
We both froze, suddenly aware we were unsupervised for the first time since our conversation in the darkness during the power outage.
Before either of us could speak, Hetty appeared at the top of the stairs, inserting herself physically between us with the precision of a Secret Service agent.
"Harlow, I need those towels in the downstairs bathroom," she said, her voice overly cheerful. "And Deputy, your breakfast is ready. Don't let it get cold."
As I watched them descend the stairs—Hetty practically herding her son before her like a prized bull at auction—something hardened inside me.
This constant interference, this deliberate denial of Harlow's choices, only strengthened my resolve.
Every thwarted glance, every interrupted conversation, every strategic separation made my determination burn hotter.
I returned to my room, checking my reflection in the mirror. The bruising had faded to yellowed shadows, the stitches ready to come out. I was healing, regaining my strength day by day. I had been patient—more patient than most who knew me would believe possible. But patience had its limits.
I thought about Harlow—his gentle strength, his quiet intelligence that everyone overlooked, the way his eyes followed me with hunger he probably didn't even understand himself.
Something possessive and primal uncoiled in my chest. He was already mine in all the ways that mattered. He just didn't know it yet.
I'd waited this long for something worth having.
I could wait a little longer. After all, Hetty McKenzie might control the farmhouse, but she couldn't keep her son behind these walls forever.
And when the time came for me to leave—which was coming very soon—I had every intention of taking what belonged to me.
Not immediately, perhaps. But inevitably.
The day of my departure from the McKenzie homestead arrived with little fanfare, but considerable relief—on Hetty's part, at least. Dr. Miller had removed my stitches the previous afternoon, declaring me fit enough to return to my own apartment though not yet ready for active duty.
I packed my borrowed clothes with deliberate slowness, each folded garment buying me a few more minutes under the same roof as Harlow. Not that it mattered much—Hetty had sent him to the far pastures at dawn with tasks that would conveniently keep him occupied until long after I was gone.
Sheriff Hardesty had arranged for a deputy to drop my truck off earlier that morning. I'd caught a glimpse of its familiar outline through the guest room window, keys left discreetly on the nightstand while I was in the shower. The message was clear: my welcome had expired.
Hetty knocked on the bedroom door as I was zipping up my duffel bag. "Deputy? Sheriff Hardesty called. Said to tell you he expects you back at the station on Monday for desk duty."
I nodded, slinging the bag over my shoulder and ignoring the twinge in my side. "That's generous of him. Five more days of recovery time."
Hetty's expression flickered between relief that I was leaving and that instinctive maternal concern she couldn't seem to help. "Doctor Miller says you should take it easy. No heavy lifting, no exertion."
"I'll keep that in mind," I replied, though we both knew I had my own ideas about what constituted "taking it easy."
She led me downstairs, her movements brisk and efficient.
I took one last look around the living room where I'd spent most of my convalescence.
The ancient couch with its sagging springs.
The family photos on the mantel. The worn carpet where Harlow's heavy boots had left impressions coming and going.
I'd memorized every detail of this house, cataloging them alongside my observations of the man I hadn't been allowed to properly talk to.
"Your department called the garage about your patrol car," Hetty said, filling the silence as we reached the front door. "Bob says it's totaled. Insurance should cover a replacement."
"That's good to know," I said, though I'd already received this information directly from Sheriff Hardesty via text. The car was the least of my concerns.
We stepped onto the front porch, the mid-morning sun warm on my face after days spent mostly indoors. The sky was clear blue, not a hint of the storm that had thrown Harlow and me together. A pleasant breeze carried the scent of freshly cut hay and distant wood-smoke.
"Well," Hetty said, her hands fluttering aimlessly before settling on my jacket, unnecessarily straightening the collar. "You take care, Deputy. Remember to take those antibiotics until they're gone, even if you're feeling better."
I stood still under her fussing, playing the role of gracious guest while my eyes scanned the property for any sign of Harlow.
The barn stood silent. The tractor was gone from its usual spot by the equipment shed.
The vast expanse of the McKenzie farm stretched out before me, but its most important occupant was nowhere to be seen.
"I can't thank you enough for your hospitality, Mrs. McKenzie," I said, the words practiced but sincere enough. Whatever her faults, the woman had opened her home to me. "Please extend my gratitude to your husband and to Harlow as well."
Hetty's hands stilled at the mention of her son's name, her eyes darting briefly to mine before she nodded. "Of course. I'm sure Harlow would want to say goodbye, but he's fixing fences in the north pasture. That boy works from sunup to sundown."
That boy. As if her twenty-something son was still a child needing protection from the big bad wolf at their door. Little did she know, the wolf was already inside, had already marked its territory.
I was about to step off the porch when movement caught my eye—a flutter of curtain in an upstairs window.
My gaze snapped up, finding exactly what I'd been searching for.
Harlow stood in what must have been his bedroom window, his broad frame partially hidden behind thin fabric, watching our exchange with undisguised longing.
I paused deliberately, making sure Hetty was occupied with picking invisible lint from my sleeve.
Then, with calculated precision, I looked directly up at Harlow's window.
Our eyes locked across the distance, and I felt that same electric current that had sparked between us from the first moment in the sheriff's office.
Slowly, deliberately, I smiled at him—not the polite smile I'd been offering his mother, but something darker, more possessive. Something that promised rather than thanked. Then, knowing full well that Hetty couldn't see my face from her angle, I winked at him.
Even from this distance, I saw the flush spread across his cheeks, saw his massive hand press against the glass as if trying to bridge the gap between us.
Message received.
I turned back to Hetty, the smile transforming seamlessly into something appropriate for a departing guest. "Goodbye, Mrs. McKenzie. I'm sure I'll be seeing you again soon."
She nodded, clearly relieved that the awkward ordeal of hosting me was finally ending. "Take care, Deputy."
I walked to my truck with measured steps, conscious of both Hetty watching from the doorway and Harlow from above.
Despite the lingering ache in my ribs, I maintained a confident stride, refusing to show any weakness.
The truck door creaked as I opened it—I'd need to oil that hinge soon—and I slid behind the wheel with only the slightest wince.
As I started the engine, I allowed myself one last glance up at Harlow's window. He was still there, one large hand pressed against the glass, his expression a mix of longing and something that looked surprisingly like determination.
Good. He was learning.
I pulled away from the farmhouse, gravel crunching under my tires as I headed down the long driveway toward the main road.
In my rearview mirror, I watched Hetty retreat into the house, closing the door firmly behind her.
Harlow remained at the window until the trees obscured my view of the house entirely.
I smiled to myself as I turned onto the county road, heading back toward town and my empty apartment.
Hetty McKenzie thought she'd won this round, keeping her precious son safely away from my corrupting influence.
She had no idea what I was capable of when I wanted something.
And I wanted Harlow McKenzie with an intensity that surprised even me.
She thought she was protecting him, sheltering him from desires she believed he couldn't understand. But I had seen the hunger in his eyes, felt the strength in his hands, witnessed the man beneath the gentle exterior everyone else chose to ignore.
Harlow McKenzie was absolutely mine. He might not know it yet, but that would change. I had claimed him in my mind from the moment he carried me through that storm like I weighed nothing, and I had no intention of unclaiming him now.
Hetty's protective barriers, the town's dismissive attitude, even Harlow's own hesitation—none of it mattered. I always got what I wanted.
And I wanted him.