He squeezed my hand, thumb brushing over my palm like he was reading my future in the lines there. “You wanna know what I see?” he said, voice low.
“What?”
He leaned in, so close I could feel his breath against my skin. “I see a kid who survived hell, and came out smarter, and braver, and—” He stopped, laughed, ducked his head. “Fuck. I’m really bad at this.”
I smiled, for real this time. It felt strange and beautiful, like finding a wildflower growing out of concrete.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m bad at it, too.”
He reached up, brushed a piece of hair from my forehead, then let his palm rest on my cheek, careful not to touch the bruises.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked, and it was the first time anyone had ever bothered to ask.
I nodded. He leaned in, slow, tentative, like a man sneaking up on a miracle. His lips were soft, and the kiss was so gentle it almost didn’t register as real.
But it was. It was real, and it was everything.
When he pulled back, he kept our foreheads together, his hand never leaving mine. “You’re not alone anymore,” he said, and this time I believed it.
I let myself fall into him, let the warmth and the safety and the impossible hope fill me up.
If Dennis ever came back, I’d be ready.
But for now, I just held on.
And for the first time, that was more than enough.
Chapter Seven
~ Burke ~
There’s a specific quality to the sound of tires on gravel that tells you whether you’re about to get company, a delivery, or trouble. I heard it before the dog did—a low, uneven rumble, heavy on the right side, probably from a half-busted tie rod. My ears did the calculus, and before the cruiser even crested the rise, I knew who it belonged to.
Sheriff Calloway.
The ranch dog, predictably, lost his damn mind at the first flash of gold-on-brown up the drive. I moved quicker. My gut told me this wasn’t a social call. My gut was rarely wrong.
I hit the window and confirmed: department-issued Ford, Montana plates. Calloway drove with one hand, the other braced on the wheel like he was steering an oil tanker through a hurricane. Even before the siren lights came into view, I felt the buzz of adrenaline start up in my chest.
I took a second to check my reflection in the glass. My hair was a mess, but at least I didn’t look half as sleep-deprived as I felt. I debated waking up Rawley or Hooper for backup, then decided against it. Better to handle this before it got messy.
I stepped out onto the porch and crossed my arms, making it clear that whatever this was, I had no intention of playing dumb. The truck rolled to a stop with a crunch that sent a spray of pebbles pinging off the front stoop. Sheriff Calloway let the engine idle while he eyeballed the property, taking in every detail. His poker face was legendary, but I could tell by the tic at the corner of his mouth that he wasn’t thrilled to be here.
He swung out of the truck and straightened up, a little stiffer than last time I’d seen him. He must’ve banged his knee again—the limp was worse than usual. He paused just shy of the bottom step, hands resting easy on his utility belt.
“Morning, Burke,” he called. “Bit early for a house call, I know, but we had a report from town.”
I didn’t smile. “From the Jenkins place?”
He nodded, once. “Thought it’d be better coming from me than one of the green kids they just hired.”
I shrugged, as if this was all standard procedure. “You want to tell me what the report said or you want to see for yourself?”
Calloway looked me over. His gaze was clinical, not unfriendly, but you didn’t get to his rank without knowing how to size up a threat. “Why don’t we talk inside,” he said.
“If it’s all the same, I’d rather you just say it. We both know why you’re here.”
He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture betraying a flash of real exhaustion. “There’s been an accusation that Danny Jenkins is being held here against his will. Dennis Jenkins filed it.”
