The funniest part was when Harlow simply opened his hand and Luther crashed to the ground as if gravity had just decided to make beast friends with him and wanted to be closer.
Luther glared up at me, then at Newt, but there was nothing behind it now but hatred and the beginning of a new story he’d tell himself about being the victim.
If there’s a sound more satisfying than the crunch of gravel under a county sheriff’s cruiser, I hadn’t heard it. Sheriff Hardesty timed his arrival to the second, dust cloud rolling ahead of the Ford like a cavalry charge.
He parked broadside at the edge of the property, lights off, engine purring with the quiet confidence of a man who knew the law was about to become an extension of his own will.
He stepped out, every inch the small-town lawman—boots spit-shined, hat squared, aviators already in place even though the sun was still making up its mind. He carried a clipboard fatwith paperwork, and the sight of it made Luther’s face lose what was left of its color.
Hardesty strolled over like he had all the time in the world. He didn’t even bother to glance at the rest of us, just aimed himself straight at me.
“Morning, Knox,” he said, deadpan, then let his gaze slide down to where Luther still knelt in the dirt, one hand clutching his ribs. “Got those trespassing affidavits you wanted,” said the sheriff, tapping the clipboard. “And that restraining order you asked about. Judge signed it this morning.”
He said it so casual, you’d think he was talking about the weather, but you could see the calculation behind his eyes—the way he measured the threat, the drama, the probable fallout.
Hardesty was nobody’s fool, and he’d picked a side long ago.
Luther tried to speak, but all that came out was a wet cough and a string of invective that didn’t quite survive the oxygen. His goons stood back, cowed, each one pretending to be engrossed in the finer points of a weed sprouting through the gravel.
Hardesty knelt—yeah, he actually bent his knee, just so he could look Luther in the eye. “You’re done here,” he said, voice flat. “This is your official notice. Any more of this, and I’ll see you locked up so fast you won’t have time to call Daddy for bail.”
He peeled a paper from the stack, folded it with bureaucratic precision, and handed it to Luther. “Congratulations. You’re famous.”
I watched Luther’s hand shake as he took the paper. He stared at the words like they might spontaneously combust, then looked at me. He tried for that sneer again, but it came out lopsided, a parody of itself.
“You think this matters?” he spat. “You think you can just erase us from the valley? The Bridger name—”
I cut him off, not with a shout but a whisper. “The Bridger name doesn’t mean what it used to. You proved that all by yourself.”
The words landed hard. I saw them hit, like buckshot, but if you want to know the sound of total defeat, it’s not a gunshot or a scream. It’s the sound of a man realizing he never stood a chance.
Sheriff Hardesty stood, dusted his hands, and gave me a look that was halfway between “job well done” and “Jesus Christ, son.” He turned to the rest of the McKenzies. “Anyone else got business with the sheriff today?”
Ransom grinned. “Not unless you’re buying a round at the bar later.”
Hardesty didn’t smile, but his mouth twitched. “Let’s keep it civil, boys.” He gestured to Luther’s entourage. “Time to go.”
They collected their wounded, half-dragged Luther back to the car he’d driven in, and slunk off. No one looked back.
When the dust settled, Hardesty lingered a second longer, just to make sure the job was done. He tipped his hat to Newt, who still stood rooted behind me, hands curled tight in his sleeves, face pale but eyes alight.
“Take care of yourself, son,” the sheriff said, soft. Then he got back in his cruiser, reversed with a flourish, and was gone.
For a long minute, nobody said anything.
Newt exhaled, shaky. I turned, and this time I put both hands on his shoulders, not for show but for anchor. His mouth worked, and then he laughed, short and shocked. “You planned that, didn’t you?”
I shrugged. “I like certainty.”
But Newt was still shaking, and there was something in the way he looked at me—like I’d just rewritten the laws of nature and he hadn’t decided if that scared him or made him want to jump me right here.
I kept my hands on him until the tremors faded. Then I let go, just long enough to pick up the restraining order from where it had fallen.
I handed it to him. “Proof,” I said.
He smiled, a small, secret thing. “I never had anyone fight for me before.”
I bent, whispered so only he could hear, “You’re mine now. I fight for what’s mine.”
