A warmth rolls through me that isn't only the mate ache but the burn of being seen. He doesn't offer protection like a trade—he offers it like a vow. My stubbornness hums against it. So does my fear. For once, neither wins outright.
We pile into his truck. Jamie curls into the space between us like a secret. Ethan's hand finds mine for a second—heavy, sure—then it's gone, business in his spine, wolf in his eyes.
At the sheriff's office the deputy looks at me with equal parts curiosity and pity. He asks questions by rote. Ethan answers when I falter, giving names, timelines, details—things he could have learned from watching us in the kitchen these past days. He protects without pressing.
We give the phone and the card to the deputy. We tell them about the truck, the tire treads, the place they said to meet. Paperwork, signatures—bureaucratic ritual that makes threats official and also draws attention.
I feel both relief and a familiar dread. Once a complaint is filed, eyes open wider. Once there's a paper trail, a prosecutor can demand everything. Once the sheriff has a name like Ethan Cole attached to violence at a bus stop, rumors teeth out.
When we're finished, the sheriff takes Ethan aside in the hall. He speaks low; I can't hear at first. I busy myself with Jamie's shoelace.
Then the sheriff's voice carries, flat across the linoleum. "You were seen, Mr. Cole. People saw you and your men. Tell me everything."
Ethan's shoulders stiffen like someone bracing for a winter wind. The deputy's hand closes over a pen like it's a lever.
My breath stops.
8
ETHAN COLE
“You were out on the road that night,” Sheriff Dale said, as if he’d just told me something new. He tapped a file with a red tab. Rain smeared the window behind him like a bruise. My boots left wet prints on the floorboards each time I shifted. The chair was too soft. The questions were not.
“I was,” I said. Short. True. Controlled.
Dale leaned back. “Neighbors say they saw headlights. A man on the lane. Your men were seen moving around the barn. People talk, Cole. People get nervous. There’s a kid involved now. That changes things.”
It did. Every syllable of the sheriff’s lecture was a lever someone else could pull against us—against the ranch, against Jamie, against the pack I’d worked ten years to keep out of sight. Sight meant threat.
“I told you what I could,” I said. “It was two men on the bus route. We stopped them. I called it in. We turned them over.”
He didn’t take his eyes off me. “And the burned notice? The slashed blanket? You sure you don’t want to give me more to go on?”
Of course I wanted him to go away. Of course I didn’t want to give him more to go on. The truth lived in shadows—muted howls and a territory no county recordbook would ever understand. Facts are the currency of law; scents and teeth do not cash.
“I’ll be available,” I said, and meant it. I’d make sure he had what he needed without handing over the pack. The county needed a record. We needed protections that looked ordinary on paper.
Outside, the rain tightened its fist. Inside the sheriff’s office I felt both small and ancient: a man who could move a whole line of timber with a glance, arguing to be taken seriously by signatures and forms.
On my way out I stopped by the evidence locker. The busted phone from the attempted abduction. The security card from some firm everyone with too much money carries. The consultant card with Kane Rivers’ name on it. Small, ordinary things that connected to an ugly, organized push against us. I photographed, logged the chain, made sure nothing was mishandled. Law liked boxes and chains. I’d learned to speak it.
Nora waited in the truck when I stepped into the drizzle. Jamie slept against her shoulder, damp hair clinging to her jacket. She watched me with tired, guarded eyes. I read her like a book I didn’t want to crack open sometimes: how she held the line between fear and iron, how she loved that boy with a blunt, steady hunger.
“You okay?” she asked. Her voice dropped when she mentioned the sheriff. She still hated the word social worker like it was a stone.
“I’m fine.” It was professional. It was a lie in the way I said it: the lie that kept heat in my chest steady. “There’s paperwork. I’ll take care of it.”
We drove to town together. The diner lights smeared gold through the rain. I’d arranged an afternoon with my attorney—Connelly & Price—because paperwork was the one thing thatcould tie loose ends in a way the law would respect. If you can’t be invisible, you make the visible option solid and boring.
In the small conference room I watched Nora fill out forms with those long, efficient fingers of hers. No melodrama, just focus. She wrote Jamie’s name, his school, the last medical checkup. She answered every question like she’d been expecting it for years. You keep a child safe with records, signatures, witnesses. She lined everything up.
Mara Price moved with hawk efficiency. “Temporary guardianship pending review,” she said. “We prepare emergency custody documents that look convincing. We draft a continuity letter from you confirming Jamie’s placement. We add witness statements from the school and community members who’ll vouch for his life here.”
I nodded. “And Kane Rivers? The developer?”
“File an injunction if they push for sale based on intimidation,” Mara said. “We’ll need evidence of harassment—phone records, that security card, the phone with the voicemail. Get all that together and we can get a temporary stay. It’s time-sensitive, but doable.”
Doable. A small victory that tasted like tobacco on a porch. The law could stall, buy time. Time was what we needed—to unmask the who and the why without peeling back the whole pack.
