Darcy
The next morning, Darcy slipped into black shorts, a white T-shirt, and sneakers. She found Ned on his porch, whittling a piece of hickory as always—his faded veterans cap pulled low, bits of wood dusting his lap.
“How’d you like the band?” he drawled without looking up, his pocketknife moving in practiced arcs.
“Oh, I loved it.”
Ned’s lips tugged up at the corner. “Told Mary Lou you’d fit right in. There’s fresh coffee in the pot—real stuff, not that fancy café brew she drinks,” he added with a wink.
She poured a cup, the rich aroma drifting through the open doorway, and mentioned that Burke was picking her up.
Ned’s brow rose. “Sheriff Scott comes from good stock. I’ve known the Scotts my whole life—can’t ask for better folks. His daddy wore the badge twenty years, kept this county straight. Now he’s retired, working that big farm of his and raising some of the best cattle you’ll see.” He gave her a half grin. “You could do worse than a man like that.”
I know exactly what worse looks like,she thought, keeping her smile steady.
When Burke arrived—fresh in a pressed white polo, badge glinting at his belt—he traded a quiet word with Ned. Ned tipped his chin, then flicked a thin shaving of hickory off the porch.
“You take good care of her, Sheriff—and don’t let her pay for her own coffee.”
Burke laughed. “Yes, sir.”
Darcy rolled her eyes, smiling as she climbed into the truck. Ned’s knowing grin followed her all the way down the drive.
“There’s a café up the road—Stacks,” Burke said as they drove. “Best pancakes around.”
“Pancakes sound perfect.”
Burke held the door, and the Saturday buzz rolled over her—chairs scraping, low talk undercut by the sizzle from the kitchen. Bacon and coffee warmed the air. Checkered tablecloths brightened the room; mismatched mugs steamed in front of regulars. Framed photos of local ball teams lined the walls beside faded postcards from travelers who’d passed through.
“Sheriff,” Barb called, weaving between tables with a coffeepot. A quick smile lit her face as she came closer.
Burke didn’t answer. His eyes had locked on a man two tables over—a newspaper raised, but not high enough to hide the scar knifing down his jaw. The same man from Catch My Draft’s Sky Bar. Watching.
“Sheriff, you hear me?” Barb tried again, now beside them with the pot.
Burke blinked and mustered a smile. “Sorry, Barb. Didn’t mean to ignore you. This is Darcy.” He set a hand lightly at her back. “Told her you serve the best pancakes in town—figured I’d prove it.”
Barb tipped her head, giving Darcy a once-over before her smile widened. “Well, hello there, Darcy. Now I see why thesheriff’s distracted.” She set two menus on the table, laughter light and knowing.
Darcy slid into the booth by the window. That’s when she saw him too—the scarred man lowering his paper just enough to meet her gaze. Cold. Unblinking.
Not here. Not now.The cheer of the café dimmed.
Burke noticed. He always did. Her shoulders had gone rigid, her gaze fixed past him. He followed it, catching the man’s eyes before the paper rose again.
When the man stood, folding the newspaper under his arm, Burke watched without moving. The stranger pushed through the door, crossed the street, and slid into a black Dodge Ram with out-of-state plates.
Burke leaned back, outwardly calm, mind locking onto the details—make, model, partial plate.Fine. I’ll be on the lookout. And I’ll damn sure find out who you are.
“You good?” he asked lightly, as if nothing were wrong.
Jason’s hand had once done the same—reaching across a table, calm before the storm. The memory flared, but Burke’s touch never came. Just space. Air. Choice. Solid. Ordinary. The smallest kindness, and the fear loosened a notch. Jason’s kindness had always cornered.
On the way back to her Jeep, Burke said, “Mind if we stop at my place? Left some papers there.”
Darcy hesitated. She knew she should say no—the word hovered on her lips—but it caught before she could push it out. Alone with him was dangerous. Not because of him, but because of her. Because wanting this was its own kind of risk.
They turned onto a gravel road lined with tall trees, which soon opened to a wide view. To the left, a red barn with crisp white trim stood in plain sight of the lane, weathered but well-kept. Beyond it, tucked against the woods, sat a log cabin overlooking the lake—a wide porch draped with hanging ferns, astone chimney climbing tall, a dock with blue Adirondack chairs waiting at the water’s edge.
