Outside, the sidewalks were shoveled, but an inch of fresh powder cushioned his footsteps as he walked, and deep slush piles lined the road when he crossed. The newscasters were crowing about this being the snowiest winter on record in the last twenty years.
He didn’t mind the snow itself. It was peaceful, even pretty, especially on the early-morning drive into work when it was still fresh and made the world look quiet. What he hated was the jolt of dread every time the radio crackled with another accident. Fender benders were fine. He could handle those, but the calls that came for anything near the Canal made cold sweat break out on his forehead. Those were rare, and so far minor enough he’d been able to send Tanner or Wendell to the scene.
He tugged the collar of his sheepskin jacket higher and nodded to the people he passed. They smiled and waved. The best thing about Northfield was also the worst thing: There was no chance of anonymity here. Everyone knew one another and looked out for one another, for the most part.
He was the only person who hadn’t done that, and walking up and down the streets day in and day out, he knew they all deserved a better sheriff. Someone who didn’t break out in a cold sweat when he went near water. Someone who wasn’t still carrying ghosts he couldn’t manage to put down.
Movement caught his eye—an older woman stepping onto the curb in front of the studio from a sleek black Mercedes. A second later, her feet slipped, and she went down hard on her knees.
Rush’s adrenaline spiked as it always did in that split second, and his boots were moving before he had time to think.
“Ouch,” the woman said, bundled up in a scarf and some sort of fur-lined hat against the cold.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” he asked, dropping to his knees.
“Oh yes,” she said, laughing.
Automatically, Rush clocked the details—expensive hat, soft brown leather gloves, pearl earrings. “I think so.”
Rush’s next words froze, unspoken, as he stared into the woman’s eyes—Caroline Whitmore’s cool blue eyes stared back at him from her mother’s face.
Then she looked at him fully. “Sheriff Callahan,” she said, uncertainty flickering across her face. She hesitated then extended her gloved hand. “If you’d be so kind as to give me your arm.”
His arm moved automatically, steadying her as she rose and brushed the snow off her fine wool coat.
“Are you injured anywhere?” he asked briskly, schooling his features into the impassive mask he wore on duty. He scanned her, running through an assessment of potential injuries. “Anything hurt? Did you hit your head?”
“No, I don’t think so. Except maybe my pride.” She smiled ruefully. “Thank you, Sheriff.”
“No thanks needed, ma’am. Just doing my job,” he said formally, everything within him completely shut down and locked away behind a mask of professionalism.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” Mrs. Whitmore said gently, her hand still on his arm when he tried to pull away.
Panic clawed up his throat. For twelve months, he’dmanaged to avoid this. He’d gone to Caroline’s funeral, stood in the back with the rest of the deputies and first responders, and watched her family mourn their only daughter. Watched as Caroline’s daughter, Chloe Whitmore, placed a single red rose on her mother’s casket.
That image drove him to the punching bag night after night until his fists bled and exhaustion finally forced him to sleep.
“I wanted to thank you,” Mrs. Whitmore went on, her voice catching, “for everything you did for Caroline and Chloe.”
“I appreciate that,” he said through the hard knot in his throat. “But that’s not necessary.”
“I think it is. And… we noticed you didn’t make it to the memorial.” Her eyes were too soft, too knowing, and Rush took a step back, forcing her to let his hand go.
“No, ma’am, I was out of town.” He fixed his gaze on Lily’s soft blue studio door at the top of the steps, clinging to it like a lifeline.
“We’d like you to come to dinner,” Mrs. Whitmore said quietly. “Mr. Whitmore and I would like the chance to thank you.”
Every muscle in his body screamed to retreat. “My schedule’s tight,” he began. “Trying to pack and move?—”
“Yes, I heard,” she said calmly. “Still, I’d like you to consider it.”
“If you’re all right,” he repeated, taking another half step back. He just needed to escape those eyes, that feeling, that small face before the panic swallowed him whole.
“Sheriff Callahan,” Mrs. Whitmore said firmly.
Her voice blurred into static, replaced by another, softer and slightly breathless.
“Hi there. Sorry we’re running a little later than usual this morning.”
