That was what twisted my gut the most—the way everyone in this town, his family included, infantilized Harlow. So what if he processed information differently? So what if he struggled with reading or abstract concepts? The man had skills and intuition that put the rest of us to shame. He could track a person or animal through dense woods by noticing details no one else saw. He could gauge a coming storm before the meteorologists. He understood animals in a way that bordered on supernatural.
And those hands—those massive, gentle hands that had carried me through a downpour as easily as if I weighed nothing at all.
I took another swig of beer, remembering the moment I'd watched from my truck's rearview mirror as he stood in that upstairs window, his hand pressed against the glass like he could somehow bridge the distance between us. The naked longing on his face had been like a physical blow, knocking the breath from my lungs.
My phone sat on the counter, silent and accusing. I'd called the station earlier to check on my patrol car's replacement—a conversation that had quickly veered into Sheriff Hardesty asking probing questions about my "time with the McKenzies."
"Heard Hetty took good care of you," he'd said, his voice carefully neutral but his implication clear. The town had noticed my extended stay at their farm. People were talking. Let them talk.
I set the beer down harder than necessary, liquid sloshing over the rim. "He might not be able to do complex mathproblems," I said to the empty apartment, "but he's still a full grown man. He deserves the respect of being able to love whoever he wants to love."
The word "love" hung in the air, surprising even me. Was that what this was? This possessive heat that burned through my veins whenever I thought about Harlow? This fierce protectiveness that made me want to stand between him and anyone who underestimated him?
I didn't know. But I knew that what I felt for him was more intense, more real than anything I'd experienced before.
I resumed my pacing, passing the window that overlooked Main Street. Saturday evening was settling over McKenzie River, the sidewalks filled with locals enjoying the early summer weather.
From here, I could see Rosie's Bakery where I'd pulled Harlow into that alley, where I'd felt his pulse race beneath my fingertips, where I'd watched his eyes darken with understanding and desire. Where I'd asked him to meet me at the river bend tomorrow night.
A surge of something hot and primal coursed through me. Tomorrow, Harlow would step away from his family's protective bubble. Tomorrow, he would choose for himself, without his mother's interference or the town's judgmental eyes.
My phone buzzed suddenly, and I snatched it up, heart hammering against my ribs. But it wasn't Harlow—it was Knox McKenzie. I stared at the name for two rings, wondering what the oldest McKenzie brother wanted with me. I'd seen little of him during my stay at the farm, though I'd noticed how protective he was of his younger brother.
I let it go to voicemail.
Whatever Knox wanted, it could wait. Tomorrow night wasn't about the McKenzie family and their complicated dynamics. Tomorrow night was about Harlow and me. Aboutwhat was building between us, this thing neither of us had names for yet.
I moved to the window, staring out at the town that had become my reluctant home. McKenzie River was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone's business, where family names carried weight, where outsiders remained outsiders for generations. I'd understood that when I took the job. What I hadn't understood was how quickly one person could make a place feel like somewhere I wanted to stay.
My fingernails dug into my palms as I pictured Hetty McKenzie finding some last-minute chore to keep her son at home. Or worse, somehow discovering our plans and actively preventing him from meeting me.
No. I wouldn't allow it. If Harlow didn't show at the river bend, I would go to the McKenzie farm myself. I would face down the entire family if necessary. This charade had gone on long enough—this pretense that Harlow was somehow incapable of knowing his own mind or heart.
I'd seen the truth in his eyes in that alley. I'd felt it in the way his massive hand had enveloped mine, in how he'd laced our fingers together with deliberate intent. Whatever cognitive limitations he might have, his emotions were genuine and adult. His desires were his own.
And tomorrow night, we would finally have the chance to explore them without interference.
* * * *
I shoved the last of the paperwork into my desk drawer and glanced at the clock on the station wall—6:17 PM. Another day of mind-numbing desk duty complete. Doctor Miller might have cleared me to return to work, but Sheriff Hardesty was keeping me chained to administrative tasks like I was made of glass. Myribs barely ached anymore, and the scar above my eyebrow had faded to a thin, pale line. But rules were rules, and I had another week of this purgatory before I could get back on patrol.
I grabbed my jacket from the back of my chair and headed for the exit, nodding at Deputy Collins as I passed his desk.
"Off to anywhere interesting, Latham?" he called after me, a hint of something knowing in his tone.
I didn't bother turning around. "Just home."
The evening air hit me like a welcome embrace after the stale atmosphere of the station. I inhaled deeply, catching the scent of fresh-cut grass and distant wood-smoke that seemed to be McKenzie River's permanent perfume. The parking lot was nearly empty—just my truck, Collins' sedan, and an unfamiliar compact car parked at an angle near the entrance.
I was halfway to my vehicle when a slight figure stepped out from behind the compact car. I recognized him immediately—Newt Bridger, Knox McKenzie's partner. We'd met briefly during my stay at the McKenzie farm, though our interactions had been limited by my recovery and his obvious nervousness around strangers.
Now he stood in my path, shoulders squared in a posture that seemed borrowed from Knox. His strawberry blond hair caught the evening light, making him look even younger than his actual years.
"Deputy Latham," he said, his voice steadier than his fidgeting hands suggested he felt. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"
Through the station windows, I could see Collins watching with undisguised curiosity. Small town gossip mill at work—I could practically hear the rumor spreading already. I unlocked my truck and gestured toward the passenger side.
"Why don't we talk in here," I suggested. "Unless you'd prefer an audience."
