24. Eric
ERIC
Ilasted exactly twelve minutes.
I’d once sat through a six-hour hostage negotiation without losing focus.
Hartwell had beaten that record by a considerable margin.
I pushed back from my desk, grabbed my truck keys, and headed for the door.
There wasn’t any dramatic moment of decision.
Just the quiet realization that sitting in my office pretending to work while thinking about Hartwell every thirty seconds wasn’t accomplishing much of anything.
The paperwork would still be there when I got back.
It always was. Paperwork provided remarkable job security.
Jenna looked up from her paperwork as I crossed the bullpen. She’d somehow managed to review reports, answer phones, drink coffee, and keep one eye on me the entire time. It was one of the reasons she was a good deputy. Also one of the reasons it was impossible to get away with anything around her.
“Everything okay, boss?”
“I’ve got to check on something.” Technically true. Just strategically incomplete. Sheriffs occasionally specialized in carefully edited versions of the truth.
“The animals?” She didn’t even look surprised. Just curious enough to confirm the answer she already seemed fairly certain of.
“Yeah.” Again. Technically true. Also not the entire story. I’d become remarkably skilled at half-truths over the last twenty-four hours.
The corner of her mouth lifted—not smug, just knowing—enough to tell me she knew that wasn’t the whole truth. Jenna had spent too many years reading suspects, witnesses, victims, and fellow deputies to miss something as obvious as me.
She was smart enough not to say it, which I appreciated. Mostly because I wasn’t entirely ready to admit it out loud myself.
“Dr. Keller called,” she added before I reached the front door. “Everyone checked out healthy. They were picked up about twenty minutes ago.” She glanced down at a note beside her keyboard.
I stopped. My hand tightened around the keys before I even realized I’d done it. “Where’d they take them?”
“They’re staying temporarily at Hills Farm. Route Twelve.” She paused before adding, “Dr. Keller said the Petersons agreed to help until the handler finishes another job.”
I nodded once. Hills Farm. Route Twelve. My brain filed away both pieces of information before the rest of me had caught up.
“Thanks.”
Outside, the afternoon sun hit me square in the face, bright enough that I had to squint for a second. The parking lot shimmered with summer heat while somebody across the street unloaded fertilizer bags from the back of a pickup truck.
I climbed into my SUV, shut the door, and sat there for a second with both hands resting on the steering wheel. The familiar black leather felt reassuring beneath my palms, unlike the conversation currently taking place inside my head.
The engine wasn’t even running yet. Somehow that felt appropriate. My truck seemed to be waiting for me to decide where I actually intended to go.
The silence felt louder than the jail had. Funny how quiet worked. Sometimes it settled around you peacefully. Other times it seemed to ask uncomfortable questions you weren’t ready to answer.
I started the truck. The dashboard lit up as the engine turned over smoothly. The familiar rumble settled around me, and I backed out of the parking space, turning toward Route Twelve. Muscle memory took over while my mind wandered somewhere several miles behind the vehicle.
This wasn’t necessary. I repeated it with enough conviction that it almost sounded believable.
That’s what I kept telling myself. Over and over. Like repetition alone could somehow transform avoidance into wisdom.
The animals were safe. That part mattered. It genuinely did. Dr. Keller had checked them over. They weren’t hurt. They weren’t sick. They had somewhere to stay for now.
The handler wasn’t pressing charges. Another problem solved before it had the chance to become something much worse. Hartwell wouldn’t have a record. Dottie wouldn’t either. That should’ve been enough to let everyone move on.
Everything had been handled. Reports completed. Statements taken. Property recovered. From a law enforcement perspective, the file practically closed itself.
That’s what it should’ve been. One unusual incident among hundreds of others I’d dealt with over the years. Strange. Memorable. Finished.
Except it didn’t feel closed, mostly because every time I mentally stamped the word closed across the situation, Hartwell’s face appeared underneath it looking hurt, confused, and stubborn enough to ignore the stamp entirely.
Not even close. In fact, if I was finally being honest with myself… it felt like something had only just begun.
The tires hummed against the pavement as Main Road slipped past my windows. The familiar rhythm usually helped clear my head, but today it simply gave my mind something steady to argue over.
Hartwell occupied every second thought. Sometimes every thought.
She’d somehow wedged herself into the spaces between routine and responsibility with alarming efficiency.
I’d catch myself looking at the road and somehow end up remembering the way she’d laughed with the goat or rolled her eyes at me or looked completely horrified after kissing me.
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. Not because the road required it. Because admitting that out loud—even if only to myself—felt dangerous.
This was exactly why I’d avoided getting involved for so long. Because eventually feelings stopped respecting schedules, common sense, or professional boundaries.
They became complicated. Nothing stayed neatly labeled once emotions got involved. Every simple answer suddenly acquired footnotes.
Things became messy. And unlike paperwork, there wasn’t a filing cabinet for messy.
I knew that better than most. Experience had a habit of teaching lessons you never particularly wanted.
I’d spent years putting this badge first because I’d chosen to, every single time.
Long hours stole evenings before you realized they were gone.
Then came missed dinners, meals eaten cold three hours later because somebody else’s emergency refused to wait politely until after dessert.
Canceled weekends. Fishing trips that never happened.
Barbecues cut short. Movie tickets wasted. The badge didn’t care what day it was.
Emergency calls came in at two in the morning. Phones never rang because somebody wanted to tell you everything was going wonderfully. They rang because somebody needed you right now. And right now usually won.
People liked saying they understood what came with dating a sheriff. They meant it too. At least in the beginning. Everybody imagined they’d be the understanding one.
Most of them believed it. Confidence was easy when interruptions were still hypothetical.
Until they actually lived it. Reality generally had much worse timing than imagination.
Then birthdays got interrupted with candles blown out after the cake had gone stale. Vacations got canceled, hotel reservations lost to domestic disputes and missing hikers. Somehow criminals never checked holiday calendars before causing trouble.
Date nights ended because somebody’s fence had been hit by a drunk driver or somebody’s teenager hadn’t come home. There was always a reason, usually a good one. Good reasons still had an unfortunate habit of disappointing people.
Eventually, they stopped asking, stopped waiting. Empty chairs eventually became easier than hopeful expectations. They stopped believing next time would be different. I couldn’t blame them. Eventually even optimism got tired.
I understood why. Hell, if our positions had been reversed, maybe I would’ve done the same. Loving somebody whose first promise always belonged to everyone else wasn’t exactly an easy sell.
The job always came first—not because I loved it more but because sometimes it involved people having the worst day of their lives.
Those people deserved a sheriff who showed up.
At least that’s what I’d always believed.
If I started choosing when duty mattered based on convenience, the whole thing fell apart.
I’d convinced myself that was simply the cost. Some careers demanded sacrifices. I’d just decided relationships were one of mine.
Better to stay alone than disappoint someone. Things were cleaner and simpler with nobody waiting at home, wondering whether I’d make it back for dinner. Nobody was checking the clock every time my phone rang.
Better to keep my life quiet. Quiet didn’t ask difficult questions. It was predictable and controlled. I knew exactly what tomorrow would probably look like. Or at least I’d spent years pretending I did.
Things were safer that way for everyone involved, mostly because if I never let anyone get close enough to matter, I never had to watch them walk away disappointed.
At least, that’s what I’d been telling myself long enough that I’d almost started believing it. Funny how often the stories we repeated became the ones we trusted.
Then Hartwell showed up, like a tornado wearing white sneakers. She was loud without meaning to be, chaotic without malice. Somehow she left absolute disorder behind while making the place feel oddly brighter at the same time.
I’d spent years carefully organizing my life into neat little compartments, but she’d managed to scatter every single one of them in less than a week. And the frustrating part was, I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to put them back.
She argued with me and teased me. Sheriff face. My carefully cultivated professional image had lasted all of twenty-four hours around her.
She made me laugh, usually when I was actively trying not to. She had an unfortunate talent for saying ridiculous things with complete sincerity. She also stole a truck. That one still felt surreal.
And she kissed me.
Without warning. Without hesitation. Like she’d simply reached the point where overthinking had finally lost the argument.