I strode across the town square, sipping my coffee and munching on a muffin. Midday tourist activities were in full swing, giving the place an authentic frontier atmosphere. A group of children wearing too-large cowboy hats galloped past me on stick horses, their parents following behind in matching western gear. Near the general store, a photographer had set up an old-time portrait booth where a family dressed in period costumes posed with exaggerated serious expressions.
The whole scene felt like a carefully crafted fantasy, yet the laughter felt genuine and the excitement real. These people had come seeking an escape, just as I had, though for vastly different reasons.
The sheriff’s office door swung open easily under my elbow’s push. Inside, Dungar sat at his desk, going through a stack of files. He looked up, and the way his eyes brightened sent a flutter through my chest that had nothing to do with caffeine.
“Riley.” He rose, his chair skidding backward on its wheels to thunk against the far wall. Color filled his face as he retrieved it, centering it just so in front of the desk before rounding it to greet me. He dragged a chair over,positioning it beside his desk with equally careful precision. “Your desk should be delivered later today. I hope this will work for now.”
“It’s perfect,” I said, setting down my mug on his desk, placing the bag next to it. “Dartling muffins for you. Inla sent them.”
“She’s amazing.”
“She sure is.”
We shared a warm smile.
“Thanks for letting me sleep in,” I said.
“You needed it.” His gaze held mine for a moment before he sat and returned to his files. “I hope you feel rested.”
“I do.”
Sitting, I finished my muffin and coffee, watching him work. I could appreciate the methodical way he arranged each document. There was something mesmerizing about his efficiency, the way his large hands handled the delicate papers with surprising gentleness.
“There’s a system to everything,” Dungar said, tapping the green tab on the thick binder. “Tourist incidents are categorized by severity, location, and required resources.”
I stared at the meticulously organized pages, each scenario anticipated and addressed with flowcharts and bullet points. What had taken me days of scrambling during the Blainsworth investigation would’ve taken Dungar hours with this level of organization.
“This is impressive,” I said.
“Most people find it excessive.” Hisgaze didn’t quite meet mine. “Most people haven’t seen how the right system in the right moment can save lives.”
I touched his hand, pulling mine back quickly when my skin tingled. “In my old job, this kind of thoroughness would’ve been invaluable.”
His expression relaxed, and I’d bet anything he thought I’d judge him negatively about his organization. How could I when I could see how helpful it would be?
“I’ve prepared a daily schedule,” he said, sliding a laminated sheet toward me. “Color-coded by priority.”
The schedule was a marvel of organization. Red for urgent matters, orange for high priority, yellow for routine, green for administrative tasks, and blue for training. Each time slot had been carefully considered, with buffer periods built in for unexpected issues.
Looking around, I realized the entire office reflected this same attention to detail.
Labeled and color-coded folders lined the shelves, organized by incident type. Equipment hung on pegboards with outlines drawn around each item. Handbooks for every possible tourist scenario stood in perfect alignment on a shelf, their sides labeled in neat handwriting. Maps of the town with grid coordinates for quick reference had been pinned to a bulletin board beside his desk.
Dungar followed my gaze, and I swore he girded himself before speaking. “Most people find my systems excessive.”
“Not me. This is brilliant.”
We shared another smile, and I liked that we could feel so easy together.
Dungar explained his morning routine that included checks of the perimeter fencing, security sweeps of the town, and coordination with his brothers for the day’s events. What struck me was how his organization wasn’t quirky or obsessive but deeply practical. Every system had a purpose, designed to protect the people who lived and visited here.
The door swung open, and a flustered woman wearing a pink polka dot floor-length dress and a poke bonnet stepped in. “Excuse me, Sheriff? We signed up for the two PM stagecoach robbery, but my son has a peanut allergy. Is there anything he needs to know?”
Dungar reached for a handbook from the neat pile on his desk. “Page twenty-three covers all food allergens associated with our experiences.” He turned to the correct page and tapped it. “The stagecoach robbery involves chocolate gold coins that contain traces of tree nuts but no peanuts.”
The woman’s shoulders relaxed. “That’s perfect. Thank you.”
As the door closed behind her, Dungar’s eyes met mine. “Every detail matters when people put their trust in you.”
