8. Eric
ERIC
The first thing I learned as a sheriff was simple.
People usually already knew the answer.
They just needed someone to ask the right question.
Hartwell was standing in the middle of three food trucks with increasingly impatient vendors and what looked like the beginning of another public argument.
She appeared overwhelmed. Drowning quietly.
She wasn’t trying to control the conversation so much as catch every word before another problem landed in her lap.
Her binder was tucked tightly against her side, her pen already uncapped, like she thought writing faster might somehow make the answers appear.
It wouldn’t. But I had to give her credit. She hadn’t walked away.
Most people would’ve started shouting. But she kept trying to listen to everyone at once.
Every time one vendor spoke, she’d instinctively turn toward them, only for someone else to interrupt from the opposite direction.
She’d nod, apologize, nod again, and then glance at the next person waiting.
She looked overwhelmed but too stubborn to admit it.
“Who’s handling parking?” I asked her.
She glanced at me. “Parking?” The hesitation told me everything I needed to know.
I nodded. “For the people attending the festival as well as the vendors.”
She stared another second before looking around the lot. “I…” She frowned. “I don’t know.” She looked genuinely annoyed with herself for not knowing, which told me more than any confident answer would’ve. She wanted to do this job right. She just didn’t know where to start.
“Okay.” I looked toward the pizza truck. “Tony.”
“What?” answered the chef.
“When you unload tomorrow, where are your customers going to park?”
He scratched his beard. “They usually use the municipal lot.”
I nodded once. “Overflow?”
Tony thought about it. “The church lets us use theirs.”
I looked back at Hartwell. “Write that down.”
She flipped open Helen’s binder, nearly dropping her pen before catching it at the last second.
She didn’t need me to answer everything.
She needed someone to slow the conversation down enough for her to think.
Right now, every problem was hitting her at once.
My job wasn’t to solve them for her. It was to help her deal with one problem at a time.
Hartwell was writing so fast her pen could barely keep up. She scribbled one note, drew an arrow beside it, crossed out a word, and then squeezed another sentence into the margin.
It wasn’t pretty, but it didn’t need to be.
Good.
She was gathering information instead of defending herself.
That was progress.
A volunteer hurried toward us carrying two folding tables. “Sheriff?”
I looked at him. “You’ll have to ask Hartwell.”
He turned toward her. “Where do you want these?”
She stared at the map. After a beat she looked up and glanced around the square. I watched her eyes move from the dessert truck to the pedestrian lane and back again. She wasn’t guessing as much this time. She was thinking. “Beside the dessert truck.”
The volunteer nodded. “Got it.” He disappeared.
Hartwell looked at me. “You knew where those should go.”
“I did.”
“Why didn’t you answer him?”
I stared at her face. Her cheeks were flushed from equal parts frustration and determination, making her blue eyes stand out even more against the morning light. I saw a stubborn streak there too. “Because it should be you.”
She frowned. “I might’ve gotten it wrong.” Her voice had softened, just enough that I wasn’t sure anyone else would’ve noticed. It wasn’t fear. It was the voice of someone who expected to be wrong.
“Maybe.” I shrugged. “Then you’d know for next time.”
She stared at me for a long second. Whatever she’d expected me to say, it hadn’t been that.
Another volunteer approached with a heavy roll of orange extension cords slung over one shoulder. Late twenties, work boots, faded jeans, sun-tanned skin, and the easy confidence of someone who spent more time outdoors than behind a desk. He shifted the weight of the cords as he reached us.
“Sheriff Walker?” His breathing was a little heavier from hauling the cables across the grounds, but he still managed an easy smile. Around here, volunteers always smiled first and complained later.
I nodded toward Hartwell next to me. “You’ll want Hartwell.” It would’ve been faster if I answered. Easier too. But that wasn’t the point anymore.
The young man offered Sophie an apologetic smile, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “Sorry. Ms. Hartwell?” Even he looked a little uncertain, like his instincts told him to ask me again anyway, but he was willing to give the new event planner a chance.
Hartwell gave him a confident smile. “Yes? What is it?”
He lifted the roll of extension cords slightly. “Where do these go?” He shifted the weight again, patiently waiting while the heavy orange cable slowly tried to slide off his shoulder.
She glanced around at the food trucks. “I… uh…” Her eyes bounced from the electrical boxes to the trucks and then back to the cords. I could almost see the gears turning. This wasn’t really about extension cords anymore. It was about trusting herself to answer before certainty showed up.
For just a second, I watched the panic creep back into her face. It arrived quickly, the same way it had yesterday. Only this time she caught it before anyone else did.
Then… it disappeared.
She took one slow breath. “Leave them beside the power boxes until the inspector signs off.” She didn’t rush the words. She simply picked a direction and committed to it, even if I knew she was still guessing.
The volunteer nodded immediately. “No problem.” He spun around and jogged away, the extension cords bouncing lightly against his back.
She looked at me again. “I guessed.” There wasn’t much pride in her voice. Mostly relief.
“I know.”
“It happened to be right.”
“I know.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Are you messing with me?” She looked almost suspicious now, like she’d decided there was no reasonable explanation for my behavior other than I was entertaining myself at her expense.
“A little.”
She sighed. “I can’t tell when you’re joking. You’ve got that sheriff face.”
I watched her. “What’s a sheriff face?” I wanted to know.
“It’s like…” She tilted her head, studying my face like she was trying to solve a puzzle.
“Your face has excellent customer service. Very polite. Very calm. Very reassuring. But your eyes are impossible to read. They give nothing away. It’s like trying to negotiate with a really attractive granite countertop. ” She winced. “That came out weird.”
“A little.”
“See?” She pointed at me immediately, as though she’d just won her own argument. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. I don’t know if you’re teasing me or evaluating me. You could tell me I was doing a great job and then arrest me five minutes later, and I’d never see it coming.”
“Maybe both.”
She groaned. “Exactly. Sheriff face.” She threw both hands into the air before letting them fall to her sides.
That made me smile. Just a little. It wasn’t the comparison. It was the look on her face the second the words left her mouth. Most people measured every word around me because of the badge. Hartwell didn’t seem capable of stopping her thoughts before they reached her mouth.
Her eyes flicked to my mouth, and her cheeks reddened further.
She’d noticed I’d smiled. But she was smiling too, despite herself.
And I noticed her shoulders relaxed a fraction.
Since I’d walked into the lot, she looked less like someone waiting for the next disaster and more like someone who might actually believe she could handle this one.
I looked up as Tony approached.
“What about the propane inspection?” he asked. He hooked both thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans, waiting without the impatience I’d seen earlier. Amazing what solving one problem could do for a person’s blood pressure.
Before I could answer, Hartwell spoke.
“When is it scheduled?” Her voice was steadier this time. Not completely confident, but confident enough. There was a difference.
Tony looked surprised. “One o’clock.”
She nodded and wrote it down. “Perfect. We’ll make sure nobody blocks access before then.” She flipped the binder shut with a small nod, as if she’d known the answer all along. If I hadn’t been standing beside her the whole time, I might’ve believed it too.
Tony stared at her. His expression softened almost immediately. “Okay. Thanks.” Then he walked away without another question, already calling instructions to someone across the lot. One answer. One decision. That was usually all people wanted before they moved on.
Hartwell looked after him. “Did that work?” she asked quietly.
I nodded. “It did.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I sounded like I knew what I was doing.” She looked genuinely puzzled.
“You did.”
“I didn’t.”
“I know.”
She laughed. Actually laughed. Not the nervous kind she’d been hiding behind all morning.
A real one that escaped before she could stop it, bright and warm enough that a couple of nearby volunteers glanced over with small smiles.
It caught me off guard because I found myself liking the sound of it a whole lot more than I should have.
Funny. In less than a day I’d watched this woman put out one fire after another. A goat. Alpacas. A miniature donkey blocking traffic. Food trucks parked in the wrong places. Somehow, trouble kept finding her.
But the first time she stopped pretending she had all the answers. The first time she asked a good question, listened, and made a decision. People started listening.
She hadn’t changed. Her approach had.
Yesterday she’d tried to prove she belonged.
Today she was letting people do what they already knew how to do.
I watched her scribble another note into Helen’s binder before tucking a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear with the back of her wrist, careful not to smear ink across her face.
She looked tired with faint shadows under her eyes that she hadn’t bothered trying to hide.
A smudge of blue ink stained the side of her hand, but she probably hadn’t even noticed.
A strand of hair escaped again almost immediately, falling back across her cheek.
She blew at it absentmindedly without looking up from the page.
It didn’t move. Neither of us mentioned it.
She’d hate knowing I’d noticed.
Not because she wanted to impress me. Because she wanted to convince everybody she belonged here.
That she knew what she was doing. Pride had very little to do with it.
It looked more like determination. The stubborn kind.
The kind that kept people showing up after bad days instead of packing a suitcase and calling it quits.
I’d seen that look before on new deputies, firefighters, first-year paramedics, and people thrown into jobs that felt one size too big.
Some rose to it. Some didn’t. The ones who succeeded usually weren’t the loudest or the smartest. They were the ones willing to ask one more question, work one more hour, and come back after making a mistake without pretending it hadn’t happened.
She caught me looking. “What?” she asked. She glanced down at herself, checking for spilled coffee or something, and then looked over one shoulder as if she expected to find another disaster standing behind her.
Considering the last twenty-four hours, I couldn’t blame her.
“Nothing,” I answered.
She narrowed her eyes. “That wasn’t a ‘nothing’ look.”
“I don’t have a ‘nothing’ look.”
She raised a brow. “You absolutely do.” She pointed vaguely toward my face. “It’s the same one you use for traffic violations, escaped livestock, and event planners.”
“I have one look.”
She smiled. “Exactly.” The smile arrived before she could stop it, small but genuine. It changed her whole face. I found myself noticing that too, which was becoming an increasingly inconvenient habit.
I looked away first. She wasn’t my responsibility. The festival wasn’t my responsibility. Technically, the only reason I was still standing here was because of permits and public safety. That’s what I’d tell anyone who asked. It also happened to be true.
That was the story.
A good story. Logical. Professional. The kind of story I could live with.
It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that every time another problem landed in her lap, she straightened her shoulders, took a breath, and tried again instead of walking away.
Or the fact that she’d stopped pretending in front of me before she’d stopped pretending in front of everyone else.
Trust wasn’t something people handed out by accident.
Especially not people who’d spent the last day trying so hard to convince the world they were fine.
I’d been married to someone who quit the moment things got difficult.
Different situation. Different woman. I wasn’t making comparisons.
I didn’t want to. Comparisons had a way of leading places I had no interest in going.
I’d spent enough years convincing myself that if I just worked harder, fixed one more problem, compromised one more time, everything would eventually fall back into place.
Sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes people simply left.
I’d already made enough mistakes where women were concerned—one marriage, one divorce, more lawyers than I cared to remember, and enough disappointment to last a lifetime.
I’d promised myself there wouldn’t be another relationship complicated enough to require attorneys billing by the hour.
Peace and quiet suddenly had a lot of appeal after that.
Life was quieter now. Exactly the way I liked it. My house. My job. My routines. Nobody arguing over where I spent my evenings. Nobody questioning why my phone rang after midnight. Nobody expecting me to leave being sheriff at the office when that had never been possible.
Then Hartwell showed up carrying a giant binder and somehow managed to inherit every problem in town.
It was temporary. The festival would end. She’d move on to whatever came next. Someone like Hartwell wasn’t built to stay in one place forever. She wasn’t built to stay in one place. She had too many ideas and never seemed to sit still.
I’d go back to normal.
That was the plan.
I preferred plans. They were reliable. Predictable.
Unfortunately, I’d already seen the look in Hartwell’s eyes.
And that usually meant trouble.