Chapter Two
Rush Callahan stoodat the gas pump, pulling his cap lower as fat snowflakes drifted down. The ancient green Chevy, a gift from Pop, groaned even after he killed the engine.
Riggs sprawled in the passenger seat, his ears twitching as the pump clicked. Rush envied the dog’s ability to not give a damn about anything. Lucky bastard.
Rush tugged the collar up against the cold, surveying the church lot across the street jammed with cars. There were parking violations galore, but he dismissed the thought just as quickly. He was off duty for the next week. His deputies could handle whatever happened in Northfield.
The town wasn’t exactly a hotbed of crime anyway. For the most part, life here moved at a leisurely pace. Parking tickets, the occasional drunk and disorderly call from the pub, the proverbial cat stuck in a tree—those were the kinds of calls that filled his days as the sheriff. It was a far cry from the Marines, but that’s exactly what had drawn him to the job.
Inside the Pump ’n Go, Norma Leggett looked up from her magazine and smiled. “Hey, Sheriff.” Her short silver curls bounced as she set aside her magazine on a towering stack ofwell-wornNational Tattlers. Wrapped snugly in her cardigan, Norma radiated the kind of grandmotherly concern that put Rush on high alert for what was coming.
“Been thinking about you. How are you holding up?” she asked.
Rush smiled briefly, pulling a few bills from his wallet and setting them on the counter. “I’m good, Norma. Tell Dale I said ‘hi.’”
Norma’s brows pinched together, concern etched across her face.Here it comes, Rush thought, stiffening slightly. “You know, if you ever need to talk?—”
Rush flinched inwardly. “Appreciate the offer.”
Without waiting for a reply, he stepped outside into the blowing snow. In a town as small as Northfield, everyone knew everyone, including all their business. It was both a blessing and a curse, especially when you were the center of the latest big news.
Outside, at least, the crisp air felt easier to breathe.
Dale Leggett, his hands stuffed deep into his down parka, hunched slightly against the biting wind, waited for him outside. “Hey, Rush. Headed up to the cabin?”
“Dale,” Rush greeted, nodding at his Pop’s oldest friend. For the past year, Rush had been going out of his way to get gas at the station closer to his house rather than in Northfield to avoid moments like this. Looked like his luck had finally run out. “Yep,” Rush said, already edging toward the driver’s-side door.
Dale’s smile faded, and his tone softened. “You been over to see your Pop lately?”
“Last weekend,” Rush said. He hesitated. “He was having a good day.”
Which meant he remembered Rush’s name, and Rachel and Sarah’s, his sisters, before the confusion set in. Lately, the gooddays were fewer and further between, and there was only a shadow of the man who’d raised him and the girls.
Most days, Pop just stared out the window of the nursing home, his fingers still twitching like they were wrapped around a wrench.
Rush hated seeing him like that. Drifting. Silent. The man who could rebuild a carburetor in his sleep and taught Rush how to change the oil on the Chevy when he could barely see over the hood.
The truck still ran like a dream, mostly because Rush kept it alive out of pure stubbornness, and because part of him felt like if he let the truck go, he’d lose that last piece of Pop that still made sense.
Dale nodded slowly. “That’s good. He always did light up when you walked in.” Dale jerked his chin toward the church across the street. “Big wedding over there today. Another one of those Hart girls is getting married. Lily, I think.”
Rush paused, his hand hovering over the door handle as he glanced at the church, cataloguing the information.
He knew Lily Hart and her family. Not well, but he made it a point to know everyone in town—it came with the badge.
Lily was the pretty little redheaded one who blushed whenever they ran into each other. She owned the wellness studio on Main Street across from the sheriff’s department.
Even if he didn’t make it a point to know the residents of Northfield, it would have been hard to miss her, since she taught a yoga class on the village green last summer. He was no more immune to long legs and big breasts begging to be freed from tight yoga outfits than the next red-blooded man.
Lily Hart had that golden-girl personality—kind, sweet, sunny, with a shy smile for everyone, which was why it was a surprise to him to hear she was marrying Tucker Cawthorn.
On paper, those two made perfect sense. The beautifulsmall-town girl and the former high school football star. The problem was that Rush had had a few run-ins with Tucker over the years, usually for something minor, like getting too loud at the pub and mouthing off when he’d had a few too many beers.
Nothing serious, nothing worth arresting him over, but enough for Rush to file him under “potentially problematic.”
From what he knew about the man, Tucker spent more time at the bar reminiscing about his high school football days over beers with his friends than a man should with a woman like Lily at home. A man like Tucker usually put himself first, which made him think Lily deserved better, even though he didn’t know her well enough to say why.
But he wasn’t in the mood for small talk about residents today. He had a tank full of gas and enough food and good whisky to last him a week up at Pop’s old hunting cabin high in the Adirondack Mountains, where he could finally breathe without someone asking him how he was holding up.
