Hiding in Dusty Gulch

Chapter 010 Thokk

The file on the corner of my desk was misaligned by exactly three millimeters.

I nudged it with the tip of my index finger, sliding it until it sat perfectly parallel with the edge of the blotter. Then I adjusted my stapler. Then the cup of pens.

It was a futile exercise. No matter how much I organized my physical surroundings, the inside of my head remained a chaotic storm of sensory input and unbidden instincts, all centering on one person.

Cassidy.

It had been four days since the search for Marcy. Four days since the barn. Four days since I had tasted her breath and felt the fragile, terrifying flutter of her pulse against my chest.

I closed my eyes, inhaling slowly. The station smelled of floor wax, stale coffee, and the faint, metallic tang of the old radiator, but if I concentrated, I could still conjure the scent of her. Rainwater and fear, overlaid with something sweet and uniquely her.

My inner beast rumbled, a low vibration in my chest that I tamped down with practiced discipline. Patience.

"You're doing it again."

My eyes snapped open. Cassidy stood in the doorway of my office, holding two cardboard cups from the bakery. She wore her uniform with a kind of rigid perfection that I suspected was armor, not vanity. Her hair was pulled back tight, exposing the delicate curve of her neck.

"Doing what?" I asked, though I knew.

"That thing where you stare at a pen like it personally offended you." She walked over and set a cup on the coaster I kept specifically for this purpose. "Black, two sugars. Bram said the roast is fresh today."

"Thank you." I wrapped my hand around the cup, letting the heat seep into my palm. "I was merely... cataloging my thoughts."

"Is that what they call it?" A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "You've been cataloging a lot lately. Since Tuesday."

Tuesday. The kiss.

The air in the small office suddenly felt thick. I looked at her, really looked at her, searching for signs of regret. I found caution, yes—Cassidy wore caution like a second skin—but beneath it, there was a warmth that hadn't been there a week ago.

"I have a lot to think about," I said, my voice dropping an octave. "I prefer to be thorough."

"I've noticed." She took a sip of her own coffee, her eyes dancing with a mix of amusement and nerves. "You're very consistent, Sheriff. It's one of your... qualities."

"Is it?" I leaned forward, the chair creaking under my weight. "Because I’ve been consistently thinking about Tuesday night, and I’m not sure your organizational skills can help with that."

Her breath hitched. A flush crept up her neck, pink and lovely. The scent of her spike—a sharp, chemical hit of arousal and anxiety—drifted across the desk. It took every ounce of my control not to stand up, walk around the desk, and lift her onto it.

"I—" She cleared her throat. "I think my organizational skills are strictly limited to paperwork and evidence logging."

"A shame," I murmured.

The front door of the station banged open, shattering the moment.

"Sheriff!" Aunt Morna’s voice boomed through the bullpen. "You need to get down to the General Store. It’s a disgrace! An absolute disgrace!"

I sighed, the beast in my chest growling in irritation at the interruption. I stood up, adjusting my belt. "Duty calls."

Cassidy set her cup down, her professional mask sliding back into place. "What is it, Morna?"

"Vandalism!" Morna appeared in the doorway, clutching her purse with white-knuckled fury. "Someone has defaced the side of the building. In broad daylight! And the things they wrote... well, I won't repeat them. But it is a direct insult to the law!"

I grabbed my incident kit—camera, evidence bags, measuring tape—and moved toward the door. Cassidy fell into step beside me, her stride lengthening to match mine.

"Vandalism?" she asked quietly as we exited onto the boardwalk. "In Dusty Gulch?"

"It happens," I said. "Usually teenagers bored on a Friday night. Or a dispute over grazing rights that got out of hand."

But as we approached the General Store, I saw a small crowd gathered near the alleyway wall. They parted as I approached, their expressions a mixture of amusement and sympathy.

I stopped and looked at the wall.

There, spray-painted in bright, neon green letters about three feet high, was the message:

SHERIFF THOKK STINKS

I stared at it. The letters were bubbly and uneven, the work of someone in a hurry or someone lacking fine motor skills.

"Well," Cassidy said, her voice trembling slightly.

I glanced down at her. She was biting her lip, her shoulders shaking.

"It is not funny," I said stiffly.

"No," she choked out. "No, of course not. It's... it's a direct insult to the law." She let out a snort of laughter she tried to disguise as a cough.

I felt the heat rise in my cheeks, turning them a darker shade of green. "It is factually incorrect. Orcs have excellent hygiene. I shower twice a day."

"I know," she said, her eyes watering with suppressed mirth. "You smell like pine and rain. It's very nice. But... Sheriff Thokk Stinks?"

I grunted and opened my kit. "Clear the area, Deputy. We need to document the scene."

Cassidy took a deep breath, composing herself. "Right. Okay folks, move along. Nothing to see here. Just some... art criticism."

While she dispersed the crowd, I stepped closer to the wall. I pulled on a pair of latex gloves and touched the paint. It was still tacky. I brought my fingers to my nose.

"Acrylic," I muttered. "Water-based. Washable."

"Washable?" Cassidy returned to my side, notebook in hand. "That's considerate for a vandal."

"It suggests they wanted to send a message without causing permanent damage," I said. "Or they used whatever was available in a craft drawer." I snapped several photos of the graffiti, making sure to include a scale reference. "The height of the lettering suggests someone of average human height, or perhaps a shorter orc."

"Or a tall child," Cassidy suggested.

"Or a tall child," I agreed. I scanned the alley. "No footprints in the dirt. The ground is too packed."

I turned to the back entrance of the store. Joyce Jones, a waitress from the Red Fang Saloon, was leaning against the doorframe, smoking a cigarette.

"Joyce," I said. "Did you see anyone back here?"

She exhaled a plume of smoke. "Saw a few people. Delivery guy for the grocery. And Mary."

"Mary Pickens?" I asked.

"Yeah. She was fixing the lanterns on the back porch about an hour ago. Carrying that big ladder of hers."

I noted it down. Mary was the head of maintenance for the town council. She was everywhere, usually invisible in plain sight.

"Did she see anything?" Cassidy asked.

"Didn't ask," Joyce shrugged. "She seemed focused. You know how she is."

I finished my photos and began packing the kit. The message on the wall mocked me, childish and absurd, but underneath the embarrassment, my instincts were pricking. This was the third incident of "polite vandalism" this month. A fence painted pink. A statue dressed in a tutu. Now this.

"It's precise," Cassidy said, tilting her head as she looked at the letters. "Look at the kerning between the 'T' and the 'H'. Even though the letters are bubbly, the spacing is even."

I looked. She was right. "Obsessive," I said.

"Takes one to know one," she teased gently.

I looked at her, startled. She was smiling at me, open and relaxed in the sunlight.

"It's sexy when you're thorough," she said, almost to herself.

My foot caught on a loose cobblestone. I stumbled, barely catching myself before I face-planted into the wall. I straightened immediately, smoothing my uniform, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

"I—" I started, my voice failing me.

Cassidy’s eyes widened, realizing what she’d said. Her face went crimson. "I mean... professional. It's good that you're professional."

"Right," I managed. "Professional."

We walked back to the station in silence, the air between us crackling with electricity so thick I could almost taste it.

---

Back at the jail, the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the floorboards. I sat at my desk, trying to focus on the incident report, but the words swam before my eyes.

It's sexy when you're thorough.

I rubbed my wrist, the skin beneath my cuff itching with a phantom heat.

"Thokk?"

I looked up. Cassidy was sitting on the edge of her desk, watching me. The playfulness was gone, replaced by a serious curiosity.

"Can I ask you something?" she said.

"Anything."

"On Monday... the day I arrived. You kept rubbing your wrist. And I’ve seen you do it every day since. Is it an injury?"

I froze. I had been careful. I had kept my sleeves buttoned tight. But Cassidy noticed everything. It was one of the reasons she was a good cop. It was one of the reasons she was mine.

I hesitated. My instincts screamed to hide it, to protect her from the weight of it. But I had promised myself I would not lie to her.

"It is not an injury," I said slowly.

I unbuttoned my left cuff. I rolled up the thick fabric of my uniform shirt, exposing the inner forearm.

There, etched into my green skin in shimmering gold, was a mark. It was intricate, a geometric pattern of swirls and sharp angles that seemed to shift slightly if you looked at it too long. It pulsed with a faint, warm light.

Cassidy slid off her desk and walked over. She stopped a foot away, her eyes locked on the mark.

"It's beautiful," she whispered. She reached out, her fingers hovering inches from my skin. "What is it?"

"It is a mating mark," I said. My voice was rough, gravel grinding on stone.

Her hand froze. She looked up at my face, her pupils blown wide. "A... mating mark?"

"Among orcs," I explained, forcing the words out past the lump in my throat, "we do not date in the human sense. We wait. When an orc encounters the person their soul recognizes... the mark appears."

"When does it appear?"

"When they meet."

She looked back at the mark. "It appeared Monday?"

"Within an hour of you walking through that door."

Silence stretched between us. I could hear the clock ticking on the wall. I could hear the rush of blood in my ears.

"So," she said, her voice faint. "This means... we're supposed to be together? Like, magic destiny?"

"It means my soul recognizes yours," I said firmly. "It means my instincts scream at me to protect you, to provide for you, to build you a home and fill it with soft things so you never have to feel hardness again. But Cassidy..." I leaned forward, catching her gaze and holding it. "It does not mean you have no choice."

She swallowed hard. "It doesn't?"

"No. I am not an animal. I am a man. And you are a woman with her own mind and her own life. I would rather have one day of you choosing to be with me than a lifetime of you feeling trapped by magic you didn’t ask for."

She let out a breath she seemed to have been holding. Her shoulders relaxed. "That’s... a lot of pressure, Thokk."

"I know." I rolled my sleeve back down, buttoning the cuff with deliberate movements. "That is why I did not tell you. I did not want to scare you."

"You didn't scare me," she said quietly. "You surprised me." She paused, a frown creasing her brow. "But... the other night. In the barn. And the way you are with me. You're so... careful. Where did you learn to be like that? If orcs just wait for marks?"

I felt a fresh wave of heat rise in my face. This was harder to admit than the mark.

"I... prepared," I said.

"Prepared how?"

I looked at a spot on the wall over her left shoulder. "I watched streaming images."

"Streaming images?" She blinked. "You mean movies?"

"Yes. Romantic comedies. Period dramas. The ones with the rain and the longing." I risked a glance at her. "I studied human courtship rituals. I learned that it is customary to bring gifts. To listen. To... sing under windows, though I decided against that one. My singing voice is... not tenor."

A laugh bubbled up out of her, bright and genuine. "You watched rom-coms to learn how to woo me?"

"I wanted to be ready," I said defensively. "In case you chose me."

She looked at me then, and the expression on her face made my knees weak. It was soft, unguarded. She stepped closer, her hand reaching out to touch the fabric covering my mark.

"You really are thorough," she whispered.

The front door opened with a chime.

We sprang apart like teenagers caught by a parent.

Mary Pickens stood in the doorway, holding a bucket of cleaning supplies and a mop. She was a tall woman, lean and wiry, with a long gray ponytail that whipped around her shoulders like a lash.

"Evening, Sheriff. Deputy," she said briskly. "Just here for the weekly scrub."

"Mary," I said, my voice sounding strangled. I cleared my throat. "Right on time."

She marched in, setting her bucket down with a clatter. She pulled a spray bottle of blue cleaner from her apron and began spritzing the glass partition of the front desk.

"Heard about the store," she said without looking at us. "Terrible business. Kids these days have no respect for public property."

I watched her closely. Her movements were efficient, sharp.

"We were just discussing that," I said. "Joyce mentioned you were working on the lanterns nearby around the time it happened."

Mary didn't pause in her wiping. "Was I? Suppose I was. Didn't see anything, though. I was focused on the wiring. You know how old those fixtures are. Fire hazard waiting to happen."

"You didn't see anyone with paint? Or hear anything?" Cassidy asked.

Mary turned then, fixing Cassidy with a flat stare. "Deputy, if I saw someone defacing my town, I wouldn't need the Sheriff. I'd have handled it with my mop handle."

I believed her.

"Well," I said. "If you remember anything..."

"I won't," she said, turning back to the glass. "Now, if you don't mind, you're standing on my floor."

---

The sun had fully set by the time we left the station. The desert air had turned sharp and cold, the kind of chill that sinks into your bones.

"I'll walk you back," I said. It wasn't a question.

Cassidy nodded, wrapping her jacket tighter around herself. "Thanks."

We walked down the boardwalk, the sound of our boots echoing in the empty street. The town was quiet, the windows of the shops dark. Above us, the stars were a spill of diamonds against the velvet black.

"It's peaceful," Cassidy said. "I'm not used to peaceful."

"Peace is something you have to build," I said. "And defend."

I moved to the street side of the walk, placing my body between her and the road. It was instinct, a compulsion I couldn't shut off. She noticed—she glanced at my position—but she didn't object.

"About what you said," she began, her voice hesitant. "About the mark."

"You do not have to say anything, Cassidy. I meant what I said. There is no timeline."

"I know. It's just..." She looked up at me. "I've spent a long time running. I've learned not to trust 'safe'. Safe is usually a trap."

"I am not a trap," I said softly.

"I'm starting to believe that," she said. "And that scares me more than anything."

We reached the hotel. The vintage neon sign buzzed overhead, casting a reddish glow on the pavement.

"Goodnight, breela," I said before I could stop myself.

She paused, hand on the door. "What does that mean?"

"It means... sweetheart," I translated loosely. It meant heart of my home, but that was too much for tonight.

"Goodnight, Thokk," she said.

She pushed open the door to the lobby.

I waited. I counted to ten. I would wait until I saw the light in her second-floor window turn on.

But before I reached five, the door flew open again. Cassidy stumbled out, looking frantic.

"Thokk!"

I was up the steps in two strides, my hands gripping her shoulders. "What is it? Are you hurt?"

"Water," she gasped. "Everywhere."

"What?"

"Sheriff!"

I turned. Krug, my night deputy, was jogging toward us from the direction of the saloon, his heavy boots thudding on the wood.

"Sheriff, I was just looking for you," Krug panted. "We got a situation. A water main blew out under the hotel about ten minutes ago."

"My room," Cassidy said, her voice rising in panic. "I opened the door and it's... there's two inches of water on the floor. My bag. My clothes."

I swore in Orcish. "Is the main shut off?" I asked Krug.

"Yeah, Mary got to it fast. But the damage is done. Second floor is flooded. It’s leaking down into the storage area. The owner says the rooms are uninhabitable until they dry out and check for mold. He’s closing the floor."

Cassidy slumped against the doorframe. "Great. Perfect. I’m homeless."

"The other hotel is booked for the rodeo prep," Krug added helpfully. "And the B&B is fumigating."

Cassidy looked at me, her eyes wide and exhausted. The adrenaline of the day had drained away, leaving her looking small and defeated. "I can sleep in the jail," she muttered. "There's a cot in the drunk tank."

"You are not sleeping in the drunk tank," I said.

"I don't have anywhere else, Thokk. Unless I sleep in my car."

My beast roared in protest at the thought of her curled up in a cold car, vulnerable and uncomfortable. The mating mark on my wrist burned like a brand.

"No," I said.

"No?"

"There is room at my place."

The words hung in the cold night air. Cassidy froze. Krug looked at his boots, suddenly finding them fascinating.

"Your place?" Cassidy repeated.

"It is small," I said, my voice steady despite the racing of my heart. "One bedroom. But the couch is comfortable. It is clean. It is warm. And it is safe."

She stared at me. I saw the calculation in her eyes—the fear of the "trap," the rules she lived by. But I also saw the exhaustion. And beneath that, the pull. The same pull that had drawn us together in the barn.

"You have one bedroom," she said.

"Yes."

"So we'd be..."

"Roommates," I supplied. "Temporary roommates."

She bit her lip. She looked at the dark hotel, then back at me.

"I snore," she warned.

"I do not," I lied.

A faint smile touched her lips. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay. I'll stay with you."

Relief crashed through me, so potent it made my knees weak. "Good. We... we can make it work."

"Yeah," she whispered, stepping away from the hotel and moving to my side. "We can make it work."

I nodded to Krug. "Secure the scene. I'm taking Deputy Smith home."

"You got it, Boss," Krug said, a grin splitting his face.

I placed my hand on the small of Cassidy's back—lightly, carefully. She didn't pull away. She leaned into my touch, just a fraction.

"Let's go home," I said.

And as we walked into the darkness toward the small house at the edge of town, the gold mark on my wrist pulsed, warm and steady, like a second heart.