He nodded, his chin brushing against my hair. “Seven of us brothers decided to try something new. We’re the youngest ones, with the least claim to the family land. Our king helped fund this venture, a place where orcs and humans could learn about each other’s cultures.”
“And you chose the Wild West theme because…?”
“I…”
A long pause followed.
“You what?” I finally asked.
“I’m… I like Old Western films. I watch a lot of them.”
“How many?”
“Every single one. Um, three thousand and twenty-seven of them, to be exact.”
“Whoa. That’s a lot of yes, ma’am and howdy partner.”
“And giddy up, orc cowboy.”
My snort rang out.
“I proposed the idea, thinking that the freedom of the frontier matched our own journey to the surface. And our poet brother, Tark, thought the romance of orc cowboys would appeal to humans.”
“Your brother’s a poet?” I smiled at the thought of a seven-foot orc penning verses about the prairie.
“An…interesting one,” Dungar said with a low laugh. “He’s very passionate. Each of us brought different skills to the surface. Sel bakes, Hail works with clay, Greel manages the saloon, Tark handles marketing, Ruugar leads trail rides, and Becken oversees the rodeo.”
“And you became sheriff.”
He shrugged. “Someone needed to keep everything organized. My brothers are creative but not as organized as they could be. I prefer…structure.”
The way he said it made me curious. “You like things orderly.”
“Ineedthings orderly. Patterns, systems, everything in its proper place. It helps me make sense of the world.”
I thought of his meticulously organized office, the color-coded files, the perfectly aligned pens. “OCD?”
He was quiet for a moment. “We don’t have that term in the orc kingdom, but yes, that’s what humans call it. My brothers understand it’s how I function best.”
There was something touching about his matter-of-fact admission, about the way he accepted this part of himself without shame or apology. I found myself admiring him for it.
“It must be nice,” I said after a moment. “Having so many brothers, I mean. Always having someone who understands you.”
“It is, though lately…” His arm tightened around my waist. “They’ve all found their mates. All except me. They’re building their lives, starting families. It’s different.”
The loneliness in his voice resonated with the broken side of me. I knew what it was like to stand outside, watching others build connections I couldn’t risk having.
“What about you?” he asked. “Any family waiting for news of your first day as deputy?”
The question hit a tender spot. “No.” I kept my voice even. “I’m an only child. My parents died in a car accident three years ago.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie. My parentshaddied, but it was five years ago, not three, and from cancer and heart failure, not an accident. Small fabrications the agency gave me to maintain my cover story, but they still tasted bitter on my tongue. Would I ever be able to tell the truth?
“I’m sorry,” Dungar said, with genuine compassion in his voice.
“It’s okay. I’m used to being on my own.”
“How long were you with the Denver PD?”
