"Should hope so," Ransom muttered, reaching for another biscuit. "Not every day a cop gets run off the road in McKenzie River."
"Ransom," Hetty warned, her tone sharp enough to cut glass.
He shrugged, unapologetic, but fell silent again.
I watched the interactions between family members with the trained eye of someone who'd spent years reading people. Jebediah communicated with his sons through subtle glances and the occasional grunt of approval when one of them refilled his coffee without being asked.
Hetty monitored each person's plate with the vigilance of a woman who measured her worth partly by how well she fed her family.
Knox maintained his rigid posture—military habits die hard—while occasionally letting his guard slip when his gaze landed on Harlow, revealing the protective older brother beneath the stern exterior.
And then there was Harlow himself—my Harlow, I found myself thinking with a surprising possessiveness. He ate methodically, his large hands surprisingly delicate as they handled the silverware. Occasionally his knee would bump mine beneath the table, the brief contact sending warmth through me that had nothing to do with the steaming stew.
"Pie for dessert," Hetty announced as we finished the main course. "Apple or cherry?"
"Both," Harlow said with a grin that transformed his face, making him look younger and less burdened by the tension surrounding us.
His mother's expression softened momentarily. "One slice of each, then," she conceded, the closest thing to warmth I'd seen her direct my way all evening.
As she cut generous slices of pie, Jebediah pushed back from the table and stood up. "Going to check on that new calf," he announced to no one in particular. "Rest of you can take your dessert to the porch. Evening's too nice to waste indoors."
It wasn't a suggestion; it was a directive, delivered with the quiet authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed. Even Knox straightened slightly at the words.
"Good idea, Pa," Ransom agreed, already standing and stretching his long frame. "Been cooped up in here long enough."
Hetty handed out plates of pie with mechanical precision, her eyes carefully avoiding mine when she placed a slice of apple in front of me. "There's coffee in the pot," she said, turning away to busy herself with cleaning up.
I caught the meaningful look that passed between Harlow and his brothers—some silent communication I wasn't yet privy to. Knox nodded almost imperceptibly at Harlow before heading toward the door, while Ransom lingered behind, gathering a handful of forks with deliberate slowness.
"Coming, Deputy?" he asked, raising an eyebrow in clear challenge. "Unless you'd rather help Ma with the dishes."
"We're coming," Harlow answered for both of us, his steady voice brooking no argument. He stood and collected both our plates, nodding toward the door. "Got some things to talk about out there."
The evening air greeted us as we stepped onto the porch, thick with tension and the sweet scent of honeysuckle growing wild along the edge of the property.
I stood for a moment at the threshold, suddenly aware that I was about to face the full force of the McKenzie brothers' protective instincts, with only Harlow standing between me and whatever interrogation they had planned.
The McKenzie brothers settled into positions on the porch that spoke of years of habit. Knox leaned against the railing, his posture military-straight despite the casual setting, while Ransom claimed the old rocking chair, setting it into a lazy rhythm with one boot against the porch boards.
I stood awkwardly near the steps, plate of pie in hand, until Harlow gestured to the empty chair beside his own worn spot on the porch swing.
"Sit with me," he said softly, and despite the weight of his brothers' stares, that simple invitation felt like stepping into a fortress.
The evening air carried the scent of fresh-cut hay and distant pine, the sun setting behind the mountains in a way that painted the farmland in golden hues. Under different circumstances, I might have appreciated the view. Instead, I felt the weight of unasked questions hanging over us like storm clouds.
Knox cleared his throat, clearly ready to begin what I imagined would be a thorough interrogation about my intentions toward his brother. Ransom's fingers drummed against the arm of the rocking chair, his tattoos shifting with each movement. I braced myself, mentally rehearsing the answers I'd prepared.
But before either brother could speak, Harlow's deep voice broke the silence. "Dan needs to tell you something important," he said, the words coming out steady and clear in a way that made my chest swell with pride. "About his accident."
All eyes turned to me, the unexpected announcement shifting the atmosphere instantly. Knox's body tensed, his hand instinctively moving to where a sidearm would have rested during his military days. Ransom stopped rocking, leaning forward with sudden alertness.
"What about it?" Knox asked, his voice clipped and wary.
I set my untouched pie on the small table between us and leaned forward, elbows on my knees. "It wasn't an accident," I said, the words hanging in the evening air. "Someone tampered with my brake lines."
"Jesus Christ," Ransom muttered, his eyebrows shooting up. "You're sure about that?"
"The mechanic confirmed it," I nodded. "Clean cut with something sharp. Professional job, too—not easily noticeable unless you were looking for it."
