Hiding in Dusty Gulch

Chapter 004 The Longest Night

The sound of the heavy brass key turning in the lock echoed with a finality that made my stomach drop all the way to my boots.

"Billy!" I shouted, gripping the cold iron bars. "Billy, come back!"

But the heavy outer door of the station had already slammed shut, sealing us in. Through the front windows, I could see the dusty street bathed in the golden light of late afternoon, but the sounds of the town—the laughter, the chatter of tourists—felt a million miles away.

"He’s gone," Thokk said. His voice was deep, calm, and entirely too close.

I turned. The jail cell, which had seemed quaint and "authentically rustic" five minutes ago, suddenly felt like a shoebox. A shoebox containing me and seven feet of solid, muscle-bound orc.

"He can't be gone," I said, a little hysterical. "His grandmother said she was counting to one hundred. He has to come back."

"The reenactment is starting," Thokk said, nodding toward the window.

Outside, a gunshot cracked through the air—blank rounds, loud and theatrical. A cheer went up from the crowd. Then another shot, followed by the swelling sound of dramatic western music pumping through the town's speaker system.

"Sheriff and deputy locked in their own jail!" I yelled at the window, waving my arm through the bars. "Could you help?"

A family walked past on the boardwalk, eating ice cream. The father pointed at us, laughed, and gave a thumbs-up.

"They think it's part of the show," Thokk said, leaning against the back wall. He looked massive in the small space. His shoulders nearly brushed the sides of the cell, and he had to hunch slightly to avoid hitting his head on the top bunk.

I slumped against the bars. "This is ridiculous. Someone will come in. The station is open until six, right?"

"Technically," Thokk said. He checked his wrist, then realized he wasn't wearing a watch. He patted his pocket, frowned, and looked at the desk outside the cell. "My phone is on the blotter. Yours is in your purse."

"Right next to it," I muttered.

We stood in silence for a long moment. The air in the station was cool, smelling of old paper and lemon polish, but inside the cell, the temperature seemed to be rising. Or maybe that was just the radiant heat coming off Thokk.

"My brothers should realize I’m missing by then," he said. "When I don't show up for the family dinner."

"When is dinner?"

"Seven."

"Okay," I said, exhaling a breath I didn't know I was holding. "Seven is fine. We can wait until seven."

But seven came and went. The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and charcoal grays. The streetlights flickered on outside, casting long, barred shadows across the floor of our cell. The music died down. The crowds thinned.

And nobody came.

As the light faded, the cell seemed to shrink. The shadows in the corners grew thicker, reaching out like ink spilling across the concrete.

I sat on the edge of the lower bunk, my hands gripping the edge of the thin mattress. My heart was starting to do a frantic drum solo against my ribs.

It’s just a room, I told myself. It’s just a room with bars. It’s not the closet.

But my brain wasn't listening. The darkness pressed in, heavy and suffocating. The smell of lemon polish faded, replaced by the phantom scent of industrial cleaner and stale fear. The walls of the cell turned into the storage closet of Blainsworth Industries’ executive floor. I was back there. Hiding behind a rack of servers, listening to the heavy footsteps of men who wanted to kill me.

"Cassidy?"

The voice was deep, rumbling through the floorboards, but it sounded distorted, like I was hearing it underwater.

I couldn't breathe. The air was too thin. The walls were too close.

I scrambled off the bunk and pressed my back against the cold cinderblock wall, trying to find a corner, somewhere to disappear. My vision tunneled.

"Cassidy, look at me."

A shadow loomed over me. Huge. Terrifying. I flinched, throwing my hands up to protect my face.

"Hey, hey," the voice softened. It wasn't the men. It was Thokk. "It’s just me. It’s Thokk. You’re in Dusty Gulch."

I gasped, trying to suck in air that wouldn't come. My chest felt like it was wrapped in iron bands. "Can't... breathe."

"You can," he said firmly. He didn't touch me. He just crouched down, bringing himself to my eye level, though he was still massive. "Copy me. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four."

He demonstrated, taking a slow, exaggerated breath. His chest expanded like a bellows.

I tried to mimic him, but my breath hitched and stuttered.

"Focus on my hand," he said. He held up one large, green hand, palm facing me. "Count the fingers. How many?"

"F-five," I wheezed.

"Good. What color is my shirt?"

"Tan. Uniform."

"Good. You're here. You're safe."

"I'm not," I whispered, the words tearing out of my throat. "They're going to find me. The closet..."

"No one is finding you," Thokk said. His voice dropped an octave, becoming a growl that vibrated in my bones—not aggressive, but protective. A sound that said barrier. "I am the Sheriff of this town. I am seven feet tall and I weigh four hundred pounds. Nothing gets past me. Nothing touches you."

Slowly, the tunnel vision widened. I saw the gold badge on his chest. I saw the tusks protruding slightly from his lower lip, not scary, just... him.

"I need to..." I gestured vaguely, my hands shaking so hard I couldn't control them.

"You need to ground yourself," he said. "Can I touch you? Just my hands on your shoulders."

I nodded jerkily.

His hands, so big they could easily crush me, gently cupped my shoulders. They were warm. Solid. The weight of them was an anchor, holding me to the earth when I felt like I was going to float away into the panic.

"Feel that?" he asked softly. "I've got you."

I closed my eyes and leaned into the touch. "I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm sorry, I just—I don't like small spaces. Not anymore."

"I gathered," he said dryly, but his thumbs rubbed soothing circles against my collarbone. "I don't know what happened to you, Cassidy, and you don't have to tell me. Just know that as long as I’m here, you’re safe."

We stayed like that for a long time, him crouching in the dark, me pinned against the wall by nothing but fear and his gentle hands. Eventually, my heart rate slowed. The closet dissolved back into a jail cell.

"I'm okay," I said, my voice sounding rusty.

Thokk slowly withdrew his hands, though he stayed close. "You sure?"

"Yeah." I wiped a hand across my face. "God, that was embarrassing."

"It wasn't," he said simply. He stood up, his knees cracking loudly in the quiet room. "It was a reaction. Like sneezing."

I let out a weak laugh. "A really loud, messy sneeze."

He moved to the bars, gripping them and giving them a futile shake. "It’s getting colder."

He was right. The temperature had plummeted since the sun went down. The station didn't seem to have the heat on, and the desert night was seeping through the brick walls. I rubbed my arms, realizing I was still wearing my thin blouse from the afternoon.

"I think we need to accept that we might not be found until morning," Thokk said, turning back to me. "My brothers... they respect boundaries. If I didn't show up, they probably assumed I was busy with work or..." He trailed off, looking awkward.

"Or what?"

"Or that I was on a date," he muttered. "They know I met you."

"Oh."

"Yeah." He looked at the single, narrow bunk. It was barely wide enough for one person, let alone two. "We need to figure out sleeping arrangements. It’s going to get down to the low fifties in here."

I shivered, the cold already biting at my skin. "I can take the floor," I lied.

"Absolutely not," Thokk said immediately. "I have a thick hide. You'll freeze. You take the bunk."

"And you'll what? Sleep on concrete?"

"I'll sit. I'll be fine. Orcs run hotter than humans."

I looked at him. He was wearing his uniform shirt, but he didn't look cold. In fact, he looked like he was radiating heat.

"I can't let you sleep on the floor, Thokk. You're the Sheriff. You have a bad back or something, probably."

He snorted. "My back is fine. But thank you for the concern."

I sat on the bunk. The mattress was thin, effectively a yoga mat on a steel slab. "Look, it's freezing. If you sit on the floor, you're going to be miserable, and I'm going to feel guilty, which means I won't sleep. And if I don't sleep, I'm cranky. You don't want a cranky deputy."

He hesitated, looking at the bunk, then at me. "It's a very small bed, Cassidy."

"I'm a small person. Relatively speaking."

He sighed, a gust of air that ruffled my bangs. "Fine. But if I snore, you have permission to elbow me."

We sat down on the bunk. It was awkward instantly. We sat side-by-side, our thighs touching, staring straight ahead at the bars like two teenagers on a first date gone wrong.

"So," I said, teeth chattering slightly. "This is cozy."

"It's efficient," Thokk corrected. He glanced at me, noting my shivering. "You're still cold."

"I'm fine."

"You're vibrating." He shifted, turning his body toward me. "We should... combine heat sources."

"Combine heat sources?" I raised an eyebrow. "Is that Sheriff talk for cuddling?"

"I was going to say optimize our position for maximum thermal exchange, but sure, snuggle works too."

I laughed, and the sound felt good, chasing away the last remnants of the panic. "Okay, Sheriff. Optimize away."

We maneuvered awkwardly until we were lying down. Thokk took the back, curling his massive frame around mine. It was a tight fit. His knees were bent, tucked behind mine, and his arm draped over my waist, heavy and solid.

"Is this okay?" his voice rumbled against my back.

"Yeah," I breathed.

It was more than okay. It was intoxicating.

"You're like a space heater," I murmured, relaxing into him.

"It’s a boiler," he corrected automatically.

"Excuse me?"

"A furnace blows hot air," he explained, his tone serious. "While a boiler heats water and radiates it through pipes. Since I am composed of seventy percent water, I am technically a boiler."

I bit my lip to keep from giggling. "Right. My mistake. You're a very effective boiler."

One large arm hesitantly settled over my waist, pulling me flush against his chest. Heat—glorious, wonderful heat—enveloped me from behind. I could feel the slow, powerful thud of his heart against my shoulder blades.

"Better?" he asked.

"Much."

We lay in the dark for a while, the only sound the distant hum of a vending machine in the lobby. It felt intimate in a way that should have terrified me. I didn't trust easily. I didn't let people behind my back. But with Thokk, the proximity didn't feel like a threat. It felt like a shield.

"So," I whispered, staring at the shadows of the bars. "Tell me about your family. Sixteen siblings? That sounds like chaos."

"Organized chaos," he said. "My family’s ranch has been in Bronish hands for many generations. Our family owns vast caverns where we raised sorhoxes. It’s... quieter down there. Darker. I miss it sometimes."

"Is that why you built a fake Wild West town? To escape the dark?"

"No. I built it because I like the code," he said. "In the movies, the rules are simple. Good guys wear white hats, bad guys wear black hats. The Sheriff protects the town. Justice is swift. The world makes sense."

"You like things to make sense."

"I need things orderly," he admitted quietly. "Patterns, systems, everything in its proper place. It helps me... process. When things are messy, my brain gets loud. It itches."

I shifted slightly, interlacing my fingers with the massive hand resting on my stomach. "Is that why you count things? Like the steps to the bakery?"

He went still. " You noticed that?"

"I notice a lot of things. I'm a detective, remember?"

"Deputy," he corrected gently. "And yes. Counting helps. It's a rhythm."

"How many Westerns have you watched?"

"Every single one available on streaming and DVD," he said without hesitation. "Three thousand and twenty-seven of them, to be exact."

"Three thousand?"

"And twenty-seven. I have a spreadsheet. Ranked by historical accuracy, hat quality, and satisfying endings."

I smiled in the dark. "You're a nerd, Thokk."

"I am a connoisseur of cinema," he huffed, though I could hear the smile in his voice. "What about you? What's your story, Cassidy Smith?"

My smile faded. This was the part where I usually ran. Or lied.

"Not much to tell," I said, reciting the script I’d perfected over the last three weeks. " grew up in Denver. Parents died in a car accident three years ago. I was a cop there, but... the city got too loud. Too busy. I needed a change."

"A car accident," Thokk repeated thoughtfully.

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry."

The guilt pricked at me. He was being so open, sharing his quirks and his family history, and I was feeding him the standard cover story.

"That's not entirely true," I whispered. The words slipped out before I could stop them.

Thokk didn't push. He just waited, his thumb tracing a slow line on my hip.

"They died five years ago," I said. "Not a car accident. Dad had a heart attack. Mom had cancer six months later. They... they went quiet. Just faded away."

"That is hard," he rumbled. "To lose your anchors."

"Yeah. After that, I didn't have anyone. No siblings. No aunts or uncles. Just me." I stared at the bars. "It makes it easier to move, I guess. Nothing holding me down."

"Sometimes," Thokk said softly, his breath stirring the hair near my ear, "the right place finds you when you least expect it. And the right people."

My throat tightened. "I'm not looking for people, Thokk. People are... messy. They're dangerous."

"They can be," he agreed. "But not all of them. My brothers... they're loud, and they eat too much, and Bram leaves flour everywhere, which drives me insane. But they would burn the world down to protect each other. To protect their mates."

His arm tightened around me, just a fraction. A subconscious reaction.

"We take care of our own," he whispered.

"I know," I said. "Allie told me."

I closed my eyes. The exhaustion of the day—the tour, the panic attack, the adrenaline—was finally crashing down on me.

"Go to sleep, Cassidy," Thokk said. "I'll keep watch."

"You're sleeping too," I murmured, my words slurring. "Order of the Deputy."

"As you command."

I didn't want to trust in anything. I’d learned the hard way that safety was an illusion, a thin coat of paint over a rotting wall. But as I lay there, wrapped in the warmth of an orc who counted his steps and watched cowboy movies, I felt something I hadn't felt in years.

I felt safe.

"Goodnight, Sheriff," I whispered.

"Goodnight, Deputy."

And for the first time in a long time, the nightmares didn't come.