“Who’s asking?” Nate’s voice drops to something low and lethal.
The man smirks. “Friends of Travis Carrick. He’s been lookin’ for her. Thought we’d stop by, see if she was in the mood for company.”
“Wrong night,” Nate says, stepping forward.
They fan out a little—predatory instinct. One circles toward the counter. Another leans against a stool, tapping his fingers on the Formica. The one in front crosses his arms.
“Where’s Greta, big man?”
Nate doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move. He just watches them like a wolf deciding which one to break first.
I swallow hard. “You should leave.”
“Ah,” the tall one grins. “There she is.”
He takes a step toward me.
Nate’s on him before I can blink.
One second the man’s smirking, the next he’s flying backward into a table. Wood splinters. Coffee cups crash to the floor. The second guy lunges and gets a forearm to the jaw so hard he stumbles into the jukebox. The third swings at Nate and might as well have punched a brick wall.
It’s chaos and I can’t breathe, can’t move, can barely process the speed of it.
“Nate!” I shout, ducking behind the counter.
“Stay down,” he growls.
I fumble for the diner phone, heart hammering, and dial 911 with shaking fingers.
“This is Greta Pine at Sugar Pine Diner,” I say to the dispatcher. “We need the sheriff—now.”
The men curse, one spitting blood, the other crawling for the door. Nate grabs him by the collar and slams him back against the wall.
“Tell Travis,” he says, voice like steel, “if he comes near her, I’ll bury him so deep the worms’ll need GPS.”
The guy nods frantically, face pale, lip bleeding.
Nate releases him, lets him drop. He’s shaking—not from fear. From fury he’s barely holding back.
The door bursts open, bell clanging, and Sheriff Tom Donaldson storms in, hat low, badge glinting under the diner lights. Two deputies follow.
“Christ, Nate,” Tom says, surveying the mess. “Couldn’t wait for me?”
“Didn’t have time,” Nate answers.
The sheriff eyes the three groaning men on the floor. “Someone wanna tell me what the hell happened?”
“They came looking for me,” I say, voice still shaky. “Said they were friends of Travis Carrick.”
Tom’s expression darkens. “Carrick’s in my jurisdiction now?”
“Looks like it,” Nate says. “And these three idiots are his messengers.”
Tom nods to his deputies. “Cuff ’em.”
As the men are hauled out, cursing and muttering, Tom crosses his arms and looks at Nate. “You really know how to make my nights interesting, Bishop.”
“You’re welcome,” Nate says dryly.
