Chapter Twelve
~ Daniel ~
I sat at the worn wooden table in the McKenzie kitchen, acutely aware of every scrape of silverware against plates.
The invitation to dinner had been reluctant at best, a concession rather than a welcome.
Knox's eyes bored into me from across the table, while Ransom made no attempt to hide his assessment as he shoveled potatoes into his mouth.
Only Harlow's gentle smile offered any comfort in the stifling silence that had descended upon us like an unwelcome guest.
The kitchen itself told the story of the family that occupied it. Decades of McKenzie history surrounded us—the table scarred with knife marks and water rings, chairs that didn't match but somehow belonged together anyway.
Family photos lined the walls in mismatched frames, chronicling the growth of the five brothers from chubby-cheeked children to the imposing men they'd become.
I caught sight of a younger Harlow in several pictures, his smile unchanged despite the passage of years—open and genuine in a way that made my chest tighten.
Hetty McKenzie moved around the kitchen with the efficiency of a woman who had prepared thousands of meals within these walls. Her movements were practiced but stiff, her spine ramrod straight as she ladled stew into bowls and placed them before each of us with precise movements.
When she set mine down, her hands withdrew quickly, as if prolonged proximity might somehow legitimize my presence at her table.
"Biscuits," she announced, placing a basket in the center of the table. "Fresh baked this morning."
Harlow caught my eye across the table and gave me a barely perceptible nod, silently reassuring me.
The simple gesture carried so much meaning—an acknowledgment of the awkwardness, a promise that we'd get through it together.
I reached for a biscuit at the same time as Ransom, our hands colliding briefly over the basket.
"After you, Deputy," he drawled, withdrawing his hand with exaggerated politeness.
"Thanks," I murmured, taking a biscuit and passing the basket to Jebediah, who had remained suspiciously quiet throughout the exchange in the kitchen. His weathered face revealed nothing as he accepted the basket, his eyes darting between his son and me with calculated assessment.
The silence stretched on, punctuated only by the clink of spoons against bowls and the occasional request to "pass the salt" or "more water, please.
" I focused on the stew—rich with vegetables from the garden I'd seen Harlow tending earlier and chunks of beef that practically melted on my tongue.
Whatever her feelings about me, Hetty McKenzie was one hell of a cook.
"Good stew, Ma," Harlow said, his deep voice breaking through the quiet like stones disturbing still water.
"Thank you, honey," she replied, her voice softening in that way it always did when she addressed him directly. "There's plenty more if you want seconds."
Knox cleared his throat, drawing my attention. "So, Deputy," he began, emphasizing my title slightly, "how's the investigation coming? Into your accident?"
I felt the air around the table grow heavier with unspoken questions. "Ongoing," I replied carefully, aware that this wasn't the time or place for the full story. Not yet. "Sheriff's taking it seriously."
"Should hope so," Ransom muttered, reaching for another biscuit. "Not every day a cop gets run off the road in McKenzie River."
"Ransom," Hetty warned, her tone sharp enough to cut glass.
He shrugged, unapologetic, but fell silent again.
I watched the interactions between family members with the trained eye of someone who'd spent years reading people. Jebediah communicated with his sons through subtle glances and the occasional grunt of approval when one of them refilled his coffee without being asked.
Hetty monitored each person's plate with the vigilance of a woman who measured her worth partly by how well she fed her family.
Knox maintained his rigid posture—military habits die hard—while occasionally letting his guard slip when his gaze landed on Harlow, revealing the protective older brother beneath the stern exterior.
And then there was Harlow himself—my Harlow, I found myself thinking with a surprising possessiveness.
He ate methodically, his large hands surprisingly delicate as they handled the silverware.
Occasionally his knee would bump mine beneath the table, the brief contact sending warmth through me that had nothing to do with the steaming stew.
"Pie for dessert," Hetty announced as we finished the main course. "Apple or cherry?"
"Both," Harlow said with a grin that transformed his face, making him look younger and less burdened by the tension surrounding us.
His mother's expression softened momentarily. "One slice of each, then," she conceded, the closest thing to warmth I'd seen her direct my way all evening.
As she cut generous slices of pie, Jebediah pushed back from the table and stood up. "Going to check on that new calf," he announced to no one in particular. "Rest of you can take your dessert to the porch. Evening's too nice to waste indoors."
It wasn't a suggestion; it was a directive, delivered with the quiet authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed. Even Knox straightened slightly at the words.
"Good idea, Pa," Ransom agreed, already standing and stretching his long frame. "Been cooped up in here long enough."
Hetty handed out plates of pie with mechanical precision, her eyes carefully avoiding mine when she placed a slice of apple in front of me. "There's coffee in the pot," she said, turning away to busy herself with cleaning up.
I caught the meaningful look that passed between Harlow and his brothers—some silent communication I wasn't yet privy to. Knox nodded almost imperceptibly at Harlow before heading toward the door, while Ransom lingered behind, gathering a handful of forks with deliberate slowness.
"Coming, Deputy?" he asked, raising an eyebrow in clear challenge. "Unless you'd rather help Ma with the dishes."
"We're coming," Harlow answered for both of us, his steady voice brooking no argument. He stood and collected both our plates, nodding toward the door. "Got some things to talk about out there."
The evening air greeted us as we stepped onto the porch, thick with tension and the sweet scent of honeysuckle growing wild along the edge of the property.
I stood for a moment at the threshold, suddenly aware that I was about to face the full force of the McKenzie brothers' protective instincts, with only Harlow standing between me and whatever interrogation they had planned.
The McKenzie brothers settled into positions on the porch that spoke of years of habit. Knox leaned against the railing, his posture military-straight despite the casual setting, while Ransom claimed the old rocking chair, setting it into a lazy rhythm with one boot against the porch boards.
I stood awkwardly near the steps, plate of pie in hand, until Harlow gestured to the empty chair beside his own worn spot on the porch swing.
"Sit with me," he said softly, and despite the weight of his brothers' stares, that simple invitation felt like stepping into a fortress.
The evening air carried the scent of fresh-cut hay and distant pine, the sun setting behind the mountains in a way that painted the farmland in golden hues.
Under different circumstances, I might have appreciated the view.
Instead, I felt the weight of unasked questions hanging over us like storm clouds.
Knox cleared his throat, clearly ready to begin what I imagined would be a thorough interrogation about my intentions toward his brother.
Ransom's fingers drummed against the arm of the rocking chair, his tattoos shifting with each movement.
I braced myself, mentally rehearsing the answers I'd prepared.
But before either brother could speak, Harlow's deep voice broke the silence. "Dan needs to tell you something important," he said, the words coming out steady and clear in a way that made my chest swell with pride. "About his accident."
All eyes turned to me, the unexpected announcement shifting the atmosphere instantly. Knox's body tensed, his hand instinctively moving to where a sidearm would have rested during his military days. Ransom stopped rocking, leaning forward with sudden alertness.
"What about it?" Knox asked, his voice clipped and wary.
I set my untouched pie on the small table between us and leaned forward, elbows on my knees. "It wasn't an accident," I said, the words hanging in the evening air. "Someone tampered with my brake lines."
"Jesus Christ," Ransom muttered, his eyebrows shooting up. "You're sure about that?"
"The mechanic confirmed it," I nodded. "Clean cut with something sharp. Professional job, too—not easily noticeable unless you were looking for it."
Knox pushed away from the railing, his body coiled with tension. "And you're just now mentioning this?" His voice carried an edge of accusation, though I noticed it was directed more at the situation than at me personally.
"I've been investigating on my own," I explained, meeting his gaze directly. "Didn't want to tip off whoever was responsible until I had more information."
"And now you're ready to share," Ransom observed, his eyes narrowed slightly. "Why? What's changed?"
I glanced at Harlow, who nodded encouragingly, his large hand coming to rest beside mine on the swing between us—not quite touching, but close enough that I could feel his warmth.
"For one thing, this," I said, gesturing slightly between Harlow and myself. "And for another, I've connected some dots that involve your family land."
That got their full attention. Knox stopped his pacing, turning to face me fully, while Ransom's expression darkened like a thundercloud.