Chapter 18
One Is the Loneliest Number
Austin
October blew in without ceremony. Montana had decided overnight that fall was here. The mornings bit a little now; frost rimmed the grass, silvering the pasture fences. Montana does seasons, but it never commits—it just changes its mind whenever it wants.
I heard Milly humming in the kitchen, the sound drifting down the hall into the office where I was buried in piles of receipts.
The tune was soft and absentminded, one she’d known since childhood.
A tune that came quickly and without thought.
I lingered at the doorway of the office long enough to hear a few bars, the melody from history, a whimsical sound that warmed the house beyond the fire in the fireplace.
We were still on shaky ground, but we were rebuilding, laying new footing over the cracks. My training and instincts shadowed every move, arguing with the promise I’d made to keep her informed. A duel of habit and heart—familiar and foreign at the same time.
The grandfather clock in the main hall chimed six times, the sound reminding me it was time for a barn check. Milly’s horse had figured out how to unhook its latch, a trick that needed solving before winter.
The yard stayed quiet and still as I stepped out onto the porch.
Sherlock and the goats hugged the fence line, and the chickens clucked low in their pen, pecking at the ground for hidden treasure.
I hugged my jacket closed and zipped it, walking the perimeter out of habit, boots snapping twigs, cold biting through my collar.
The air smelled of wood smoke from the chimney and about half a dozen stoves up the road—a hint that Montana was just teasing, and real cold wasn’t far off.
By the time I circled back, the porch steps complained under my weight. My boot prints were still visible in the frost. Inspector brushed against my leg as I opened the door.
“Come on, old boy,” I said, holding it for him. He sauntered in like he owned the place.
The fire I’d lit this morning still crackled in the hearth, throwing lazy light across the old pine boards. The coffee pot hissed, promising the rustic, dark bitterness I practically lived on. I poured a mug, took a swallow, and let the warmth take over.
“Hey, Austin.” Milly breezed past, calm as ever.
She topped off her cup, checked her watch, and darted toward her room, leaving half a mug on the counter—lipstick faint along the rim.
The warmth was gone, but the imprint of her was there, and it made my chest ache.
I touched it without thinking, then pushed it away.
I missed the mornings when we traded quips and she accused me of reorganizing her sticky notes just to watch her twitch, then pretended not to smile.
The kitchen table was buried under camera logs and printouts.
I flattened one sheet, read through the week’s patrol notes, and penciled new times in the margin.
The house felt lived in again but too neat—our truce measured in straightened stacks and polite silences.
What I missed was the noise, the teasing, the laughing.
The chaos she wrapped around me and pulled me into.
A comfortable free-for-all she tried to organize that made this home.
I went to the office and dragged the old evidence bin out from under the desk.
Something was gnawing at my gut, like I’d missed something—an address, a phone number.
My thumb jammed. “Agh—perfect,” I muttered, shaking it out and yanking it free.
The brick sat inside the basket, covered in a bag and secured with tape, ugly and accusing.
“Huh. Now isn’t that interesting,” I murmured.
I set it on the table, pulled at a strip of yellowed tape that had flipped up at the corner. A scrap of paper clung beneath the light—ink ghosted but legible enough: …omas.
I studied it a bit longer, then angled it closer—part of a store logo. My pulse steadied. Carl’s Hardware he kept carbon copies like they were heirlooms.
The back door sighed open, letting in a draft. Milly stepped inside, cheeks pink from the cold, hair tucked beneath a knit hat with a few rebellious strands escaping. She looked like she’d grown up here—like a natural Montanan.
“You’re really getting down to work early,” she said, tugging her gloves off.
“Technically, I never stopped.”
Her eyes flicked to the bin, the photos, the coffee half gone. “Another late-night security date?”
“Maybe a breakthrough.” I slid the picture toward her. “Receipt scrap from the brick. I think it came from Carl’s.”
She leaned in, studying it. “That’s his old logo—before he switched printers.”
“Exactly.”
“So, someone local bought the supplies.”
“Or someone who used to be local.”
She folded her arms. “You’ll ask him.”
“Today,” I promised. “And you’ll get every word of what I find.”
Her eyes lifted to mine—soft around the edges. “Good.”
For a moment, everything stilled. She adjusted the compass at her throat, morning light scattering silver across the table. Then she turned toward the stairs, boots creaking on the boards.
I watched her go, the warmth of her nearness lingering longer than the coffee steam.
The porch air bit when I stepped outside. Frost still clung to the fence rails, glittering like crystals. The world was still half asleep—sky the color of worn denim, frost sketching the grass in silver veins. I pulled out my phone, the scrap of paper folded in my palm.
We’re not finished. Not by a long shot. It was time to start asking questions.
Palmer answered on the second ring. “Palmer.”
“It’s Austin. Found something.”
I told him about the brick, the bit of receipt stuck under the tape, the logo that matched Carl’s. The wind kept shifting, carrying my voice toward the pasture and back again.
When I finished, Palmer let out a low whistle. “You think whoever threw it bought their supplies in town?”
“Or close enough to think they wouldn’t be noticed.”
“Leave it to me to ask the boring question—why keep a receipt?”
“I don’t think it was intentional, maybe they felt hurried,” I said. “But here it is.”
He made a sound that could’ve been approval or a yawn. “All right. I’ll log it. You headed into town?”
“Yeah. Gonna talk to Carl, see what he remembers.”
“Do that. And Adams—don’t overplay it. Just ask questions.”
“Wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.”
“Liar,” he said, and hung up.
The drive into Everwood took twenty minutes. White-tailed deer lifted their heads from the ditch as I passed, ears twitching, tails flashing white. The sky flirted with blue but couldn’t hold it.
Carl’s Hardware was already open, its windows bright against a mostly dark street. The bell over the door jingled when I stepped in, heat wrapping around me like a handshake. The place smelled of dust, pine, and machine oil—comforting in a rough-cut way.
Carl looked up from the counter, pencil behind his ear. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite security nut.”
“Morning, Carl. You got a minute?”
“For you, maybe two or three. What’re we hunting today—locks, nails, or trouble?”
“Paper trail.” I set my phone on the counter, photo open. “Recognize this?”
He squinted. “Old pad. Haven’t used that logo since spring.
” He ducked under the counter. “I keep a few around just to mess with my accountant.” He came back with a fat bundle of carbon copies bound by a rubber band.
The stove crackled behind us; dust motes drifted through the warm air.
He flipped pages with the care of a man turning memories.
“Here—late August. Cash sale. Tape, sealer, a couple of bits. Buyer told me the name Thomas when I asked for bookkeeping. My handwriting, not his.”
“Harold?”
Carl nodded slowly. “Yeah. Penny’s brother. Didn’t know he was an issue yet. Haven’t seen him in years. He looked rough—jumpy eyes, thin as a post. Hollow does that to people. Bought fast, didn’t talk much. You think he’s the one making trouble?”
“I’m starting to.”
He tore off the yellow duplicate and handed it over. “You keep that. I’ll hang on to the original.”
“Appreciate it.”
Carl leaned on the counter, his voice dropping. “Be careful, son. Penny used to say she was done feeding the Hollow wolves. Looks like they’re hungry again. If Harold’s stirring ghosts, they’ll come looking for a place to haunt.”
I nodded, the phrase digging in deep. “Thanks, Carl.”
“Anytime. And Austin, watch your six.” He waved me off, but his eyes followed me until the door shut.
Outside, the sun had broken through, throwing gold across Main Street. I crossed to the post office, the paper crackling in my jacket pocket.
Inside, it smelled of old paper and dust. Agnes looked up from her desk. “Morning, Austin. Picking up for Doc Thomas?”
“Yeah. And wanted to thank you for holding our mail. Saves us some headaches.”
She smiled, stacking the envelopes into two piles. “Oh, it’s no bother. Though, funny thing—about two weeks ago, a woman came asking if any of Penny Thomas’s mail ever got forwarded here. Old stuff. Legal-looking. Said it was family business.”
“She leave a name?”
“Nope. Just said she was ‘handling outstanding family matters.’ Wore a long gray coat, city type. Had one of those leather, legal-looking notebooks.”
“Accent?”
“Not from here. Eastern maybe. Polite, though. Said she might check back before the snow hits.”
I forced my voice steady. “If she does, call me or Sheriff Palmer.”
“Already on my sticky note,” she said with a wink, tapping a pink sticky note shaped like a heart.
I thanked her and stepped into the sunlight, a contrast to the crisp air making its way under my collar. In my pocket, the carbon copy and Palmer’s warning pressed together like puzzle pieces waiting for a fit.
The ranch came into view under a pale sky that couldn’t decide between flurries or nothing at all. Smoke drifted from the chimney. I parked by the barn, killed the engine, and listened to the quiet that follows answers you didn’t want.
Milly’s voice carried from inside—steady, coaxing, talking to one of the horses. I followed the sound, the smell of hay and iodine greeting me. She stood by the supply crate, sleeves rolled, curls loose from her braid. Light pooled around her shoulders like she was part of the barn’s dust and sun.
“Busy?” I asked.
“Always,” she said without looking up. “Find anything in town?”
“Enough.” I held up the yellow slip. “Carl’s records show a sale back in August. Cash, no ID. He wrote the name himself—Harold Thomas.”
Her hand stilled on the crate. “My uncle.”
“Yeah. Carl said he looked nervous. He thinks Harold’s been hanging around the Hollow again.”
She straightened, eyes wide but composed. “So he’s the one sending things?”
“Looks like it. And Palmer’s digging into a renewed P.O. box under the same name. Someone walked into the Hollow post office last month and paid cash for it.”
Milly stared at the receipt, her thumb tracing the edge. “I thought he was gone. Penny cut ties years ago.”
“She did. For good reason.” I hesitated, scraping my boots against the floor, the words heavier than the air.
“There’s something else. That night on the porch—you heard part of my call with Reaper.
” I waited for her reaction, and she paused, listening intently.
“You thought I said you were just an assignment.”
Her gaze flicked up, guarded.
“I didn’t,” I said quietly. “Reaper was teasing me—calling me out for breaking rules, for falling for the person I was supposed to protect. I told him I’d already crossed that line.”
The breath she took trembled a little. “All I heard was your voice go hard when he laughed. I thought he was right.”
“I should’ve cleared it up then. But I meant what I said: I love you. If that costs me this job—or whatever’s left of Penny’s estate—so be it.”
The mare snorted softly, as if agreeing. Milly’s eyes glistened but held steady. She reached across the crate and took my hand. Her fingers were cold from the morning, strong beneath the chill.
“I don’t care about the inheritance, Austin,” she said. “Penny may have left me the ranch as part of her legacy, but I’ve found that her real legacy was you, this town, and bringing us all together.”
“Then we restart. Reinforce what we have and rebuild what is broken.” A weight I’d held since I messed up eased off my shoulders. Communication was not my strong suit, but I was learning.
We spent the next hour piecing together a plan.
I called Palmer, gave him Carl’s lead; he promised to pull records from Red Hollow.
Milly labeled our notes in careful print, her calm steadying the adrenaline running through me.
By dusk, the house smelled of roast and pie—a scent that grounded us both.
Mason checked the cameras, Levi promised extra patrols, and Cassie texted a simple, “If you two need anything, I’m around. ”
When the last truck left the drive, Milly joined me on the porch. The boards creaked under our weight; the air carried pine. The valley beyond the ranch had already gone to blue shadow, the mountains holding the last light.
She leaned her shoulder against mine. “Feels like the world’s waiting for something.”
“Maybe it’s waiting to see if we blink first.”
We stood there until the stars pricked through the twilight sky. A coyote called to its brothers, answered by another farther off. Montana was alive and holding its breath.
Milly’s hand found mine again. “Whatever comes next,” she said, “we face it standing.”
“Together,” I said.
The horizon burned red before fading to night. I looked at her, at the compass glinting faintly against her throat.
Love is fighting when it’s easier to run. And if my job is the price, I’ll pay it every time.