Chapter 2
Silas – POV
The woman standing beside the disabled rental car looked exactly like trouble.
Not criminal trouble. Silas Colter could handle criminals. This was a different breed entirely. Legal trouble. Capital city trouble.
Sheriff Silas Colter let his county truck idle on the gravel shoulder, the windshield wipers slapping a steady rhythm against the glass as he studied State Prosecutor Blair Adams through the downpour.
The woman assigned to handle the final state prosecution of Victor Hollister and the Blackthorn executives.
The Attorney, half the state legal system was talking about, was currently stranded exactly at the Whispering Pines welcome sign. Just his luck.
She stood beside the steaming hood of her rental sedan with one hand planted firmly on her hip and the other gripping a leather legal folder thick enough to stop a low-caliber bullet.
Rain had already darkened the sharp shoulders of her gray wool blazer and plastered loose, dark strands of hair across her cheeks.
She looked exhausted, soaked to the bone, and thoroughly annoyed.
Mostly annoyed.
Silas pushed his door open and stepped out into the elements.
The cold, heavy mountain rain immediately soaked the brim of his Stetson, sending a steady trickle off the front edge.
He adjusted his gun belt out of habit and walked around the front of his truck, his heavy boots crunching in the gravel.
"Car trouble?" he asked, his deep baritone cutting through the howling wind.
The look she gave him could have curdled fresh milk.
"That's one way to describe it," she said, her voice sharp and crisp despite the weather. "It died completely right as I crossed the sign."
Silas glanced down at the rental car. The engine block was silent, save for the faint, ticking sound of cooling metal. "Engine gave up?"
"Apparently."
"That's unfortunate."
Her eyebrows shot up, a pair of dark, elegant arches. "Unfortunate?"
Silas shrugged, resting his hands on his utility belt. "Generally helps when a vehicle runs. Especially on a mountain ridge in a Spring deluge."
For one long second, she simply stared at him, her mouth slightly agape as if she couldn't quite decide whether to argue with him or cite him for contempt. Then, he saw a tiny, involuntary twitch at the corner of her lips. She was trying desperately not to roll her eyes at him.
That almost made him smile. Almost.
Thunder rolled heavily across the ridge behind them, a reminder that the worst of the front was about to break.
Silas moved past her, leaning his broad frame over the engine bay to take a closer look.
A quick glance at the severed serpentine belt and the smell of scorched metal told him everything he needed to know.
He lowered the heavy hood, letting it latch with a definitive, metallic thud. "She's done. Alternator's fried, and the belt snapped."
Blair let out a long, heavy sigh, her shoulders dropping an inch. "I was afraid of that. Is there a local tow service I can call?"
"Miller’s Garage can look at it tomorrow," Silas said, wiping a stray drop of rain from his beard.
"Tomorrow?" The sheer disbelief in her city voice amused him more than it should have.
"That's generally how tomorrow works, counselor," Silas replied dryly, gesturing toward the cab of his truck. "Joe Miller closes his shop at five. And right now, the mountain is about to dump three inches of rain on us. You aren't going anywhere tonight."
This time, she did roll her eyes. Definitely city.
Silas fought the tug of a smile and lost. Just a little.
She swiped a damp strand of hair from her face, looking up at him beneath the shadow of his Stetson. "You must be Sheriff Colter."
He offered a brief, respectful nod.
Something softened slightly in her expression. A momentary flicker of recognition, followed by a quiet wave of relief. "Blair Adams."
"I know."
That caught her off guard. She blinked against the rain. "You know?"
"The entire county knows, Blair," Silas said. Whispering Pines wasn't used to being the center of a statewide corporate corruption scandal. Every diner stool and grocery store checkout line in the valley had discussed nothing else since the preliminary arrests.
Blair turned, looking through the rain-streaked windows into the back seat of her rental car. Silas followed her gaze and felt his eyebrows rise.
Boxes. Lots of boxes. Bankbox containers tightly packed with evidence files, trial binders, and legal documents.
His brow lifted. "Planning to stay awhile?"
"The trial is scheduled for three weeks, and I prefer to be thorough," she said defensively.
Silas eyed the mountain of paperwork, then looked back at her soaked, shivering frame. "You think all of this is going to fit in my truck?"
Blair looked at the stack, then at his truck bed, her confident posture slumping just a fraction. "No."
"Well," Silas said, stepping toward her rear door. "We'll make it fit anyway. Grab the binders from the front seat and get into the cab before you catch pneumonia."
Over her quiet protests, they began loading the heavy evidence boxes into the covered back of his F-250.
The work was clumsy in the downpour, but they moved with a strange, unspoken efficiency.
Until Blair attempted to hoist the largest, heaviest litigation box by herself, her wet heels slipping slightly on the gravel shoulder.
The box tilted dangerously sideways. Silas stepped in instantly, his large hands bracketing the cardboard just beneath hers, his chest nearly brushing her shoulder as he caught the weight before it fell.
"I've got it," he murmured, his voice low against the rumble of the thunder.
"I can carry my own files, Sheriff," she breathed, her face just inches from his.
"Didn't say you couldn't, counselor," Silas replied smoothly, easily lifting the forty-pound box from her grip. "But I'm the law in this town, and I'm not filling out an injury report on the state attorney because of a cardboard box. Get in the truck."
Twenty minutes later, they were finally on the road, descending into the belly of the valley.
The truck's powerful heater hummed softly, filling the cab with a comforting warmth. The interior smelled of old leather, rugged canvas, and the faint, rich aroma of the black coffee Silas kept in his thermos.
For several miles, neither spoke. Silas didn't mind the silence—he was a man shaped by quiet mountain patrols. Apparently, Blair Adams operated on a different frequency. She lasted exactly four minutes before she shifted in the passenger seat.
"What have people been saying?" she asked. The question sounded reluctant, like she wasn't entirely sure she wanted the answer.
He kept his eyes on the dark, winding road. "About what?"
"About me. About the state coming in."
Silas considered his words carefully. "Mostly that you're the woman trying to put Victor Hollister away for good. Folks around here want their valley protected. They don't take kindly to the fact that Blackthorn tried to tear this town apart and ruin local lives."
Blair’s rigid posture relaxed just a fraction, leaning back against the leather headrest. "That's fair."
"Some folks think you're a hero before you've even argued a motion," Silas continued, casting a quick glance her way. "Others think you're bringing a circus to town. Bringing a lot of unwanted trouble to our doorstep."
A small, weary smile tugged at her lips as she stared out at the dark trees. "That's probably fair too."
The truck rounded the final sharp curve of Miller Ridge, and the deep valley floor finally opened up before them.
Through the shifting curtains of rain, the lights of Whispering Pines emerged like a cluster of warm, fallen stars.
Golden windows glowed from the local bakery and the cozy porches of the historic homes.
Rising above it all was the white steeple of the community church, illuminated against the dark mountain backdrop.
"It's beautiful," she spoke softly, almost to herself.
The words caught him off guard. Silas looked toward the town—the place he’d spent his entire adult life protecting.
"Yeah," Silas said, a soft, genuine smile finally breaking through his dark beard. "It is."