24. Eric #2
I huffed a quiet laugh despite myself. The sound surprised me. I’d spent the last hour trying to convince myself this situation wasn’t funny. Some part of my brain disagreed.
Hell.
I stared out the windshield. The truth was, this wasn’t about the stolen truck anymore. That had become obvious somewhere around mile three. Trucks could be returned. Reports could be filed. Insurance companies existed for exactly that sort of thing.
Or the arrest. I’d do it again if the circumstances were identical. I hated admitting that, but it was true. The badge didn’t come with exceptions for women who kissed you unexpectedly.
It was about how I’d looked at her standing outside the station, small and quiet, trying very hard not to let anyone see she’d been hurt. I’d seen victims wear that same expression after somebody they trusted let them down.
I’d seen the hurt in her face. She’d hidden it well enough that most people probably missed it. I didn’t. Maybe because I’d put it there.
And I’d walked away anyway. Every step had felt deliberate, professional, necessary.
I’d convinced myself distance was the responsible choice because walking away had been easier than having the conversation.
Easier than admitting I’d handled the situation badly.
Easier than looking into her eyes and seeing disappointment I couldn’t arrest or write a report about.
Distance was safer. Feelings had a way of complicating judgment. Distance didn’t. I’d spent years believing control solved everything. Funny how often it only delayed it.
It also happened to be the wrong thing to do. Some mistakes weren’t about actions. Sometimes they were about silence.
I should’ve listened. Really listened. Not as the sheriff evaluating a suspect. As the man she’d kissed the night before.
I should’ve let her explain. Even if it changed nothing legally, it would’ve changed something between us. Instead I’d skipped straight to procedure.
I should’ve answered the one question she’d actually asked. She hadn’t begged me to let her go. Hadn’t argued about the handcuffs. Hadn’t demanded special treatment.
Where are the animals?
Instead, I’d hidden behind the badge. What a convenient place to hide, respectable too. The trouble with hiding behind something long enough was eventually forgetting where you ended and it began.
I reached toward the console and pressed the hands-free phone button. If I couldn’t say it in person yet, maybe I could at least start somewhere.
“Call Sophie Hartwell.”
The system chimed.
Calling…
Her phone rang through the speakers. Each ring seemed longer than the last.
Once. Twice. Three times. Four.
Then her voicemail answered. “Hi, you’ve reached Sophie. Leave a message and…”
The beep sounded.
I opened my mouth… and nothing.
Not a single useful sentence. Plenty of thoughts. None of them fit together in a way that sounded like something worth hearing.
What exactly was I supposed to say? Sorry I arrested you? Sorry I ignored you afterward? Good news about the animals?
None of it sounded right. Every sentence stopped halfway because the words that mattered most refused to line up in the correct order. None of it sounded like enough. Maybe because it wasn’t. Some conversations deserved eye contact instead of speakerphones.
After several seconds of silence, I reached over and ended the call. The screen went dark.
I let out a long breath. I just hoped it wasn’t too late. Because I wasn’t driving toward a problem I needed to solve. I was driving toward a woman I genuinely didn’t want to lose.
I drove another few miles as town slowly disappeared behind me. The last stop sign gave way to open country, and the familiar rhythm of civilization slowly surrendered to fields, trees, and long stretches of empty road.
The road narrowed. Fresh asphalt gave way to older pavement patched here and there from harsh winters and heavy farm equipment.
I eased off the gas automatically as the center line faded and the shoulders became little more than packed gravel.
I’d driven these roads a thousand times. Today they somehow felt different.
Fields replaced storefronts. Fresh-cut hay lay drying in neat rows while cattle grazed lazily behind weathered fences, completely unconcerned with human complications.
A rusted tractor sat abandoned beside an old red barn, looking like it’d been there since before I became sheriff.
Farm life had its own pace. Nobody seemed in much of a hurry except me.
The farther I drove, the clearer everything became.
Funny how distance worked. Sometimes getting away from a problem was exactly what you needed to finally see it properly. Somewhere between town limits and Route Twelve, I’d stopped trying to convince myself this drive was about livestock.
Jenna had been right. That realization sat there without much argument now. I’d spent the better part of the morning defending myself to her. Turns out she’d needed about three minutes to undo what had taken me several hours to convince myself of.
I’d handled the arrest like the sheriff with procedure and professionalism, every step by the book. I’d done exactly what people expected of me, exactly what the badge required, and exactly what I’d sworn to do years ago.
I’d forgotten to handle the aftermath like me. Eric. Somewhere between putting the handcuffs away and finishing the paperwork, I’d let the uniform answer every question. I’d forgotten there was a man underneath it who actually cared whether Hartwell walked away hurting.
Hartwell deserved better than silence. Silence had protected me. It hadn’t protected her. If anything, it’d probably convinced her I regretted the kiss. That thought sat about as comfortably as gravel in a boot.
She deserved honesty. Not polished explanations. Not carefully measured sheriff answers. Just the truth. Simple enough in theory. Considerably harder once feelings entered the conversation.
The truth.
I liked her. There wasn’t much point pretending otherwise anymore. Jenna had seen through it. Hell, I’d finally seen through it.
I more than liked her. That was the part I’d been avoiding. Liking someone was manageable. You could ignore that. More than liking someone… that tended to ignore you right back.
That kiss hadn’t surprised me because she’d kissed me. If anything, some part of me had been hoping she’d do exactly that. Maybe not in the middle of the festival. Maybe not within eyesight of half the town. Hartwell wasn’t exactly known for choosing conventional timing.
It had surprised me because it felt exactly like I’d imagined it would. I’d wondered more than once what it’d be like to kiss her. I’d never admitted that to another living soul, but the thought had crossed my mind often enough.
Only better. Reality had outperformed imagination by a comfortable margin, which was irritating because imagination had set a fairly high standard.
I’d wanted to pull her closer. The memory came back with uncomfortable clarity. Her hands against my face. The warmth of her standing so close. The surprised little sound she’d made that she’d probably hoped I hadn’t heard. I had.
I wanted to kiss her again, slower this time, longer. Without the entire population of Maplewood Falls serving as accidental witnesses.
The gravel road appeared ahead. Tires crackled beneath the SUV as I eased onto it, a light cloud of dust rising in the rearview mirror. The farm sat somewhere beyond the trees, hidden from the road like most places out here preferred to be.
A weathered wooden sign stood beside a white fence.
HILLS FARM
The paint had faded in places, but somebody had clearly taken the time to repaint the letters every few years. Flower boxes overflowed beneath the sign with purple petunias and yellow marigolds, giving the entrance an unexpectedly welcoming feel.
I slowed the SUV and turned into the long driveway. Ahead, I could just make out the roof of a farmhouse, several paddocks, and a large red barn sitting against a backdrop of green pasture.
Whatever happened next, running away from it wasn’t an option anymore.
Not from the conversation. Not from the apology.
And definitely not from the woman who’d somehow managed to steal a truck, rescue livestock, arrest my common sense, and make me hope—against every instinct I’d spent years cultivating—that maybe this time, doing the harder thing was worth it.