As Willow set a BLT in front of her, grinning proudly, she said, “Those tomatoes are my pride and joy—organic and from my own garden. So enjoy!”
“It looks delicious,” Darcy said.
A deep voice chimed in from the counter. “Willow grows the best tomatoes and veggies in Jackson County—and you can’t beat her BLT.”
Darcy turned, startled, and he extended his hand. “Burke Scott,” he said.
She shook it—measured, reserved. The brief contact sent a small current through him, something he couldn’t quite define.
“Darcy Nolan. Nice to meet you, Officer.”
“Sheriff,” he corrected with a grin.
“Oh—you’re the sheriff! Sorry, I thought you were with the police.”
“The county sheriff’s department covers our town. We’re not big enough for both,” he explained.
“Got it.” She smiled politely, then turned back to her sandwich.
Burke sipped his coffee, pretending not to notice the knowing grin Willow flashed him from behind the espresso machine. But he did notice Darcy’s eyes—how they flicked to the door, then the windows, as if mapping every exit.
He dropped a few bills on the counter. “See you later, Willow. Nice to meet you, Darcy Nolan.”
Outside, sunlight flashed off windshields as the town began to stir. He slid on his sunglasses but couldn’t shake thoughts of her.
Sylva saw its share of wanderers—hikers, visitors, folks just passing through—but there was a quiet in her that didn’t belong to a smile like hers. She left an impression behind, unresolved—a mystery he couldn’t quite name.
Chapter 6
Escape
Caitlin
When consciousness clawed its way back, the world was blurred and spinning.
The bedroom was empty. Jason’s cologne hung in the air—faint and nauseating.
Somehow, she was alive.
She crawled to her knees, forcing her body to move. Adrenaline surged, clearing the fog just enough for instinct to take over.Get out.
Barefoot and shaking, she stumbled through the hall, down the stairs, into the garage. She grabbed her keys and the small duffel from the shelf—the one she’d packed earlier that week for their long weekend in Aspen. The irony cut sharp.
Moments later, the BMW shot out of the driveway, tires squealing against the brick. The gated street blurred past in streaks of light and shadow. Only one thought burned through her mind—go, go, go.
Officer Jackson
The midnight shift in Denver’s Cherry Creek neighborhood was usually quiet—sprinklers hissing, porch lights glowing behind security gates.
When Officer Eli Jackson saw the BMW fly past doing nearly fifty in a thirty-five, instinct kicked in. He flipped on his lights and pulled out.
The car slowed, wobbling to the shoulder. He approached cautiously, flashlight slicing through the dark.
“Evening, ma’am. License and registration, please.”
She handed them over. The beam caught her face—a bruise forming along her cheek, a cut at her temple, pupils wide with shock.
“Ma’am, are you hurt?”
