Chapter 2
Casper
“Would you stop doing that!” I yell, smacking my partner Chris on the shoulder. We’re in our patrol truck, parked off the highway, watching cars roll by. It’s Saturday, and Lord knows the young ones like to drink and drive after a football win.
“It’s a slurpy! You’re supposed to slurp it, Cas!”
I give Chris my best side-eye and choose not to go into this discussion. We’ve been working together for the last four years. I joined the department straight out of the police academy at twenty-two, and just a month ago, I became sheriff here in Lander at twenty-six. Now he’s my deputy.
I check the time on the dashboard and sigh. Another half hour, and I can finally go home to Max, my German shepherd.
“What do you say we drive another round this last hour, boss, and then make our way home?”
I snort. “You mean my mama’s home, you parasite!”
“What! Your mama loves me and loves cooking for me, you dumb ass.” Chris looks at me smugly.
“Yeah, yeah, she’s making pork chops tonight.” I smile at him and see his eyes go wide. “I love your mama!”
“Watch it!” I warn him. Nobody talks shit about the women in my life.
That’s my mama and my baby sister Grace.
I’m the oldest of six, which means I’ve had plenty of practice keeping everyone in line and failing spectacularly at it most days.
Ethan’s twenty-five, a firefighter, dependable and steady, the one you call when the world is falling apart.
Dex, twenty-three, owner of Midnight Rodeo, the local bar in town, and a walking storm of trouble, knows how to make every day interesting.
His twin, Jude, prefers quiet: he bought a piece of land, works with horses, and watches the rest of us with that signature raised brow, as if we’re all part of some chaotic experiment.
Jace, twenty-one and a professional bull rider, never went to college, never met a dare he didn’t like, and has charm for days.
And then there’s our baby sister, Grace, just turned eighteen, still in high school, fierce, fearless, and capable of putting all of us in our place without even trying.
Almost every evening, we gather for dinner at my parents’ ranch. Everyone but Jace, who’s usually somewhere out there living on adrenaline. But even with him gone, the laughter, teasing, and occasional chaos make everyone feel right at home.
These last four years, Chris has invited himself to dinner at my mama’s almost every night after our shift. And my mama, being the best southern hospitality woman there is, loves cooking for this douche. Sometimes Asher, Ethan’s best friend, comes over too.
You’d think my mama would tire of having a house full of people every night?
Nope. Lily Hawthorne loves to cook and entertain.
Running her Bed and Breakfast on the ranch is not enough socializing for her.
If someone complains about the house always being full, she just shushes them and serves them another portion of food.
My dad agrees, obviously, his wife’s happiness is his only real mission in life.
“Alright, let’s do another run and call it a day,” I say, turning the key and easing the patrol truck onto the highway. The engine hums under my hands; the sun is sliding down, setting the Wyoming sky on fire in wide bands of orange and gold. The air smells like sage and dust, clean and sharp.
Then I see it … a small car pulled over on the shoulder, one wheel sunk in gravel.
“Flat back tire,” Chris says, shaking his head.
I slow the truck and squint at the Honda. The driver’s seat looks empty from here. I kill the engine, swing my door open, and hop out with Chris. Gravel crunches under our boots.
“Over there,” Chris nods toward the front of the car.
At the base of the hood, a woman is sitting on the ground, red hair falling over her face as she leans her head on her knees. She’s hunched like she’s trying to fold herself small, like the world’s weight has settled on her shoulders.
“Excuse me, ma’am.” My voice is soft, the kind of voice that intends no surprise, but she startles anyway. Big whiskey-brown eyes snap up. Damn she’s gorgeous. She scrambles to her feet and steps back like she wants distance.
“Officer…” she says, voice small and warm, like a mug of hot chocolate on a cold night.
“It’s Sheriff, ma’am.” I correct her gently. Chris snorts behind me; I give him a side-eye that would bruise if it could.
I study her. She’s shaking. Fear radiates off her in hot, brittle waves.
One eye is swollen and black, her lower lip split, fingers bruised; faint handprints ring her throat.
My fists tighten. Who did this to her? The urge to pick her up and put her somewhere safe while hunting down that son of a bitch hits me like physical pain.
Years on the job have taught me to stay measured. Caution first.
She looks from me to Chris and back again, like a deer caught in headlights. Her breath is shallow. Her clothes have dust on them; her shoes have road grit.
“It’s okay,” I tell her, forcing a smile that I hope she reads as harmless. “We’re not going to hurt you. We just want to help.” I take a small step forward. Relief blooms when she doesn’t bolt.
“I just… need to change my tire and I’ll be on my way… uh, Sheriff,” she murmurs, eyes fixed on her trembling hands.
“Okay. Let us help with that.” I motion to Chris.
“Oh no, I’m okay, thanks,” she manages a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Alright, but just so you know, some wolves like to come out at night around here.” I nod toward the tree line, the woods beyond the shoulder. The warning sits in the air between us.
Color drains from her face. “Oh, uh… well…” She wrings her hands, voice wobbling. “I was looking for my spare, but” she shakes her head, “my ex-boyfriend must have taken it without me knowing, and, well, I don’t have one.”
Ex-boyfriend. My jaw clamps. She’s not with him anymore. That should mean something. Relief fizzles into something darker.
“I’m sorry, miss…?” I trail off. I want her name pinned in my brain.
“Penelope Lawson.” she whispers.
“Okay, Penelope. I’m Sheriff Hawthorne, but you can call me Cas. And that’s Officer Barnes” I nod towards Chris “just call him Chris… or Idiot.” I grin, trying to lighten the mood.
She actually laughs, a small, warm sound, and her hand flies to her split lip with a wince, freckled skin flushing from the memory like heat. My chest tightens. I force the urge to wrap her in my arms down; instead I keep my hands loose, visible.
“I fell and, uh… hit the wall… I mean stairs…” she mumbles, voice jagged, hands balling into fists. The story fits like a paper patch over something ragged. I don’t push. I’ve learned how fragile the first answers can be.
“Just so you know,” I say quietly, “if someone hurt you, we can help.”
She shakes her head, a tiny, hopeless movement. “I can’t,” she whispers.
“Why not?” I step closer. Her scent hits me, peaches and vanilla, and for the briefest second my brain performs a cruel double take.
Not now. She’s a victim. Focus!
“He’s rich, works in politics. He knows people. And I… I don’t have the means to go up against him.” A tear slides down her cheek. My hand moves before I think and I wipe it away. She flinches. Damn it.
“I see,” I say, keeping my voice level though my insides are screaming for retribution.
I point to my patrol truck “I don’t have a spare that fits, and every shop around here’s closed.” I look at the darkening tree line. “Will you allow me to call a female officer to come take you wherever you need to go while we tow your car? You can call the mechanic on Monday.”
Her face falls. “I have to wait until Monday?” She looks around panicked, “I don’t really know where I am,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper, cheeks flushing with quiet shame.
“So you have nowhere to go?” I ask, keeping my tone gentle, careful not to push.
She nods, eyes darting away, shoulders drawing in like she’s expecting the wrong reaction.
“If you want, you can stay at my parents’ B Chris nods, backing me up with a grin.
She hesitates, eyes flitting from her car to me. “Please, I can’t just…”
“You can.” I speak slow and firm. “My mama will be happy to have you, and you wouldn’t be the first person in need that my parents help out, so don’t worry about it right now. You won’t be a customer, you’ll be a guest.” I glance at Chris for support.
He smiles and says, “Absolutely.”
She wrings her hands, torn between pride and need. Finally, she takes a small, shaky breath and nods.
“I don’t want to impose,” she whispers.
“You won’t,” I assure her. “Do you feel comfortable riding in the truck with Chris and me, or should we call our female officer, Corinne?”
She shrugs. “It’s okay. I’ll come with you.”
She grabs a small bag and a camera bag, shuts her car with a final glance back, and walks toward us. Only one tiny bag and a camera bag. Not much else.
My jaw tightens.
I help Penny into the passenger seat of the truck, careful and deliberate.
Chris climbs into the back, giving her space.
She folds herself in like she’s trying to disappear, and I hate that for her.
Every move I make is measured: check for signs of injury, give her space, let her choose small things so she can start to feel safe again.
I mentally go over everything I’ve learned about handling abuse victims.
The cab smells faintly of old leather and coffee.
I settle into the driver’s seat and start the engine.
The heater hums to life, a low, steady sound that seems to settle the air between us.
Penny's fingers brush the vinyl armrest once, then clamp around the strap of her camera bag as if to anchor herself.
From the back seat, Chris shifts quietly; the soft click of a seatbelt and the distant chirp of crickets beyond the highway are the only other sounds.
I turn on the radio, letting soft music fill the cab, a small comfort against the tense quiet.
A cold promise settles behind my ribs: I’m going to find that bastard and make him regret ever laying eyes on her.