Hiding in Dusty Gulch

Chapter 007 The Twinkle

I woke with a start, my hand diving under the pillow for a weapon that wasn’t there.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage, until my eyes adjusted to the unfamiliar ceiling. Not the water-stained plaster of my last apartment. Not the peeling paint of the motel before that. This ceiling was comprised of sturdy, polished wooden beams, smelling faintly of lemon oil and age.

Right. Dusty Gulch. The Red Fang Saloon. Room four.

I let out a long, shaky breath and flopped back onto the mattress. It was softer than anything I’d slept on in years, the linens crisp and high quality. The room itself was spacious, though I suspected by orc standards it was considered a broom closet. Smaller was relative in a town built for seven-foot-tall behemoths.

Sunlight streamed through the sheer curtains, painting stripes of gold across the floorboards. It was late. Past noon, judging by the angle of the light. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept so deeply, or so late. The previous night in the jail cell with Thokk had exhausted me in ways that had nothing to do with the lack of a proper bed.

I sat up, rubbing my face. My gaze drifted to the corner near the door. My single suitcase sat there, untouched. It looked pathetic against the warm, homey decor of the room—a stark, beat-up reminder of how little I possessed. How easily I could pack up and vanish if the wind changed.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. As I did, a phantom heat flared on my wrist.

I looked down at my hand. My skin was pale, unblemished. But the sensation was there, a ghostly echo of where Thokk’s tongue had traced from my palm to the sensitive skin of my inner wrist the night before. The memory hit me like a physical blow—the rough texture of his tongue, the overwhelming size of him, the terrifying sense of safety he radiated.

I rubbed my wrist, trying to erase the feeling. It didn't work.

"Get it together, Cassidy," I whispered to the empty room.

I stood and moved to the small washbasin. Cold water on the face. Teeth brushed. Hair pulled back into a severe, no-nonsense ponytail. I dressed in fresh clothes—utilitarian pants, a clean blouse, sturdy boots. The uniform of a woman who was here to work, not to swoon over the local sheriff.

I was the Deputy. I had a job to do. And that job required a clear head, not one filled with fantasies about bioluminescent mating marks and gentle giants.

I grabbed my badge from the nightstand, clipped it to my belt, and headed downstairs.

The main floor of the Red Fang Saloon was humming. It wasn’t the raucous, drunken noise of a nighttime bar, but the steady, cheerful buzz of the lunch rush. Tourists filled the tables, chattering over plates of food that smelled so good my stomach gave a loud, treacherous growl.

I navigated through the crowd toward the bar, keeping my eyes scanning the room out of habit. Exits clear. No immediate threats. Just families and couples enjoying the novelty of an orc-run western town.

Behind the bar, Lavon was a blur of motion. The massive orc moved with surprising grace for someone of his bulk, plating food and directing servers with minimal verbal commands. Standing near the pass-through window was a human woman with graying hair and a smile that could probably power the town’s grid.

Aunt Morna. She was laughing at something Lavon had said, her hand resting casually on his forearm.

"Just cream, and I love you for this," she said, accepting a steaming mug from him.

Lavon’s gruff features softened in a way that made him look ten years younger. "Love you too. Don't let it get cold."

I froze near the end of the bar, feeling like an intruder. It wasn't the words—people threw around 'love' all the time. It was the ease of it. The absolute, unshakeable comfort between them.

"If you put the cragroot fritters here, Lavon," Morna added, pointing to a display stand, "they’ll catch more light from the window. Presentation is half the battle."

"I have been arranging food displays for thirty years, woman," Lavon grumbled, though he immediately moved the fritters exactly where she’d suggested.

Watching them sent a sharp pang of sadness through my chest. It wasn't jealousy, exactly. I didn't want to be Morna, and I certainly didn't want to be telling an orc chef how to arrange pastries. It felt more like hunger. A deep, hollow ache for that kind of connection. The kind where you didn't have to look over your shoulder because you knew someone else was already watching your back.

I shook it off and stepped up to the counter.

"Afternoon, Deputy!" Morna spotted me, her face lighting up. "Sleep well?"

"Like the dead," I said, taking a seat on a stool. "Something smells incredible."

"That would be the tart," Lavon said, sliding a plate toward me before I’d even ordered. It was a small, intricate pastry topped with glistening purple berries. "Dartling berry tart. Fresh out of the oven."

"Dartling berries?" I picked up a fork. "I don't think I've heard of those."

"We make the filling here ourselves," Lavon explained, wiping his hands on a towel. "Import the berries from the orc kingdom. They have a... kick."

I took a bite. The flavor exploded on my tongue—sweet, tart, and with a strange, pleasant effervescence that tingled all the way down my throat. "Oh, wow. That is amazing."

Lavon looked pleased. "Coffee?"

"Please. Black."

He poured a mug and set it down. "Thokk’s already at the office. Said not to wake you."

"He's too polite," I said, blowing on the steam. "I should have been up hours ago."

"You had a rough night," Morna said gently. "Take the win, honey."

I drank the coffee, letting the warmth seep into my bones. Around me, the saloon continued its cheerful rhythm. It was a community. A family. And for the first time in a long time, sitting there with tart crumbs on my lip, I let myself imagine what it would be like to not just pass through, but to stay.

To have a usual order. To have someone save me the good seat.

Dangerous thoughts.

I finished my coffee quickly. "Thanks for breakfast. Put it on my tab?"

"House account," Lavon waved a hand. "Sheriff's orders."

Of course it was.

The walk to the Sheriff’s office was short, the afternoon sun bathing the dusty streets in a bright, exposing light. The town was busy. Kids ran along the boardwalks, their boots thumping on the wood, while parents browsed the storefronts.

I pushed open the door to the office, the bell chiming overhead.

Thokk was seated at his desk, his massive frame hunched over a stack of paperwork. As soon as the door opened, he jerked upright, scrambling to adjust his posture. He straightened a stack of papers that looked perfectly straight to begin with.

"Cassidy," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the floorboards. "You're awake."

"And caffeinated," I said, closing the door behind me. I held up a paper bag I’d snagged from the bakery on my way out. "I come bearing gifts. Lavon said you missed lunch."

Thokk looked at the bag as if it contained gold bullion. "You didn't have to do that."

"I know. But I figured a hungry sheriff is a grumpy sheriff, and I have to work with you." I set the bag on the edge of his desk.

He opened it, peering inside at the muffins. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, revealing the tip of a tusk. "Thank you."

I walked around the desk, intending to put my bag in the bottom drawer of the spare desk, but I stopped when I saw the open filing cabinet behind him.

I stared.

It was... beautiful.

Every file was color-coded. The labels were typed, perfectly centered, and free of bubbles or creases. The tabs formed a perfect diagonal line from front to back. It was a symphony of organization.

"Thokk," I said, stepping closer. "Did you do this?"

He stiffened, his shoulders rising defensively. He moved as if to close the drawer. "I know. It is... excessive. Most people find my systems overwhelming. I can tone it down if it bothers you."

"Bother me?" I reached out, running a finger along the crisp edge of a red folder. "This is brilliant."

He paused. "It is?"

"Are you kidding? My last precinct was a disaster zone. We lost case files if the wind blew too hard. This?" I pointed to the colors. "Walk me through it."

Thokk seemed to deflate, the tension leaving his frame. He looked at the files, then at me, his green eyes guarded but hopeful.

"Red is for urgent matters," he explained, his voice gaining confidence. "Immediate threats or active investigations. Orange is high priority—needs attention within twenty-four hours. Yellow is routine patrol logs and community disputes. Green is administrative tasks, budget, payroll. And blue..." He tapped a section of blue files at the back. "Blue is for training protocols and safety drills."

I looked at him. Really looked at him. This wasn't just being neat. This was control. This was a man who experienced the world as a chaotic, sensory-overloading storm, and he had built a fortress of order to keep his town safe.

"It makes sense," I said softly. "You don't just react to things. You categorize them so you know exactly how to handle them."

Thokk met my gaze. The air between us shifted, thickening with that same magnetic pull I’d felt in the cell. "Chaos is dangerous, Cassidy. Order saves lives."

"I know," I said. And I did. My version of order was checking exits and sleeping with a knife. His was color-coded tabs. We weren't so different.

He stared at me for a beat longer than was strictly professional. His gaze dropped to my mouth, then snapped back up. He cleared his throat and shut the drawer with a definitive click.

"We should patrol," he said, his voice slightly rougher than before. "The afternoon crowds are peak time for incidents."

"Right," I said, stepping back. "Lead the way, Sheriff."

Walking the streets of Dusty Gulch with Thokk was an exercise in celebrity management. Everyone knew him. The shopkeepers waved, the kids pointed, and the tourists stared with a mixture of awe and intimidation.

He moved with a deliberate, predatory grace, his eyes constantly scanning. I noticed that whenever the crowd got too dense, he subtly shifted his position, placing his massive bulk between me and the flow of traffic. It wasn't overbearing—he didn't herd me—but it was a constant, silent shield.

It felt natural. Comfortable. Dangerous.

"Excuse me, Sheriff?" A woman in a sun hat approached us, holding a map upside down. "What time is the sorhox ride?"

Thokk stopped, clasping his hands behind his back. "Trail rides are at 2:00, 3:30, and 5:00, ma'am. You have plenty of time for the 3:30 if you head to the stables now."

"Oh, thank you! And... could you take a picture of us?" She gestured to her husband, who was wearing a cowboy hat that still had the tag on it.

Thokk looked at the tiny smartphone she held out, then at his own massive, clawed hands. He looked terrified he might crush it.

"I've got it," I said, stepping in. I took the phone. "If you stand over there, near the hitching post, we can get the saloon sign in the background."

I snapped a few photos, directing them to shift so the lighting wasn't harsh. When I handed the phone back, the woman beamed. "You're a pro! Thank you, Deputy."

As they walked away, Thokk looked at me. "Good eye."

"I know my angles," I said with a shrug. "Plus, I saved you from accidentally turning her phone into a paperweight."

He chuckled, a low sound that I felt in the soles of my boots.

We continued walking, the boardwalk thumping rhythmically under our feet. We passed the water tower, a massive wooden structure that loomed over the north end of town.

"That's one of my favorite spots," Thokk said, nodding toward it.

I craned my neck. "The water tower? Why? Do you have a thing for plumbing?"

"There are stairs inside," he said. "And a secure deck at the top. It is the highest point in town."

I looked at the tower with new appreciation. "Tactical advantage."

"And quiet," he added. "You can see everything without being seen. Sometimes... the noise down here gets to be a lot."

I glanced at him. The constant scanning, the filing system, the need for quiet. "I get that," I said. "Sometimes I wish I could just press pause on the world."

He looked down at me, his expression unreadable but intense. "If you ever need to press pause, Cassidy, the key is in my desk. Top drawer. Blue tab."

My chest tightened. He was offering me his sanctuary.

"I might take you up on that," I whispered.

We reached the edge of town, where the buildings gave way to open paddocks. A small crowd had gathered around a fenced enclosure. Inside, a broad-shouldered orc with wild hair—Rokk, I recognized from the introductions yesterday—was holding court.

"Step right up, folks," Rokk boomed, his voice full of showman’s flair. "Prepare to witness the marvel of the subterranean ecosystem!"

I leaned against the fence next to Thokk. "What's the show?"

"Luminooks," Thokk said. "Rokk raises them."

Rokk reached into a crate and pulled out a creature that defied evolutionary logic. It looked like a cross between a rabbit and a lizard, about the size of a house cat. Its fur was iridescent, shimmering like an oil slick in the sunlight, and a row of delicate, translucent spines ran down its back.

The crowd ooh-ed and aah-ed.

"This here is a luminook," Rokk explained, stroking the creature’s head. As he did, the spines on its back began to pulse with a soft, blue light. "They’re native to the deep caverns where our people originated. Nocturnal, mostly, but they come out for snacks."

"They glow?" I asked.

"Communication," Thokk murmured beside me. "They hum and change the intensity of their light to talk to one another."

"And what do you call a group of them?" I asked, watching the creature nuzzle Rokk's hand. "A herd? A pack?"

Thokk smiled. "Chumbles have crumbles. Luminooks have... a twinkle."

I laughed. I couldn't help it. "A twinkle? You're kidding."

"I am serious. A twinkle of luminooks." He watched his brother handle the creature with gentle pride. "They are intensely social. If one gets lost, it pulses its light as bright as it can. The others will always answer. They guide each other back."

He looked at me then, his gaze heavy and significant. "My family is like that. We find our own. No matter how far we wander, the light will call us home."

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat returning. The idea was so foreign to me. A family that didn't just tolerate you, but actively sought you out? That signaled in the dark so you wouldn't be lost?

"That sounds... nice," I managed to say.

"It is necessary," Thokk corrected.

The peaceful moment—the warm sun, the glowing creature, the heavy, comforting presence of the orc beside me—felt fragile. Like a soap bubble waiting to pop.

And then, it did.

"Have you seen my daughter?"

The voice cut through the murmuring crowd like a jagged knife. It was high, thin, and edged with rising panic.

I straightened instantly, my hand dropping to my belt. Thokk’s demeanor shifted in a nanosecond. The relaxed, contemplative male vanished, replaced by the alert Sheriff.

A woman was pushing through the tourists near the paddock gate. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and darting frantically. She grabbed the arm of a stranger, then released him, spinning around.

"Marcy!" she screamed. "Marcy!"

Thokk was moving before I even processed the name. He closed the distance in three long strides.

"Ma'am," he said, his voice projecting clearly over the crowd without shouting. "I need you to look at me."

The woman turned, her chest heaving. She looked at Thokk, then at me as I came up beside him. "She was right here. She was just... she was looking at the ponies and I turned around to throw away a napkin and she's gone."

"Okay," I said, stepping into her line of sight. "What is her name?"

"Marcy. Her name is Marcy."

"How old is she?" Thokk asked, already pulling a notepad from his pocket.

"Six. She's six." Tears were spilling down the woman's cheeks now. "She's wearing a pale blue grannie gown. And a bonnet. A matching bonnet. She has a brown braid and blue eyes."

"Blue gown. Brown braid. Six years old," Thokk repeated. He looked at me.

The connection between us snapped into place. No longer just a man and a woman dancing around an attraction. We were partners.

"I'll take the perimeter," I said. "Check the exits and the road."

"I will lock down the town center and alert the brothers," Thokk said. "We find her. Now."

He turned to the crowd, his voice booming with authority. "Everyone listen up! We have a missing child. Six years old, blue dress. No one leaves this area until she is found."

As the crowd erupted into murmurs of concern, I took off running toward the main road. The cozy, postcard warmth of Dusty Gulch had evaporated, replaced by the cold, sharp edge of a crisis.

And somewhere in my gut, a familiar, dark feeling coiled. The feeling that safety was just an illusion, and the monsters were always waiting for you to look away.