Page 17 of Dove
I close my eyes and let myself follow that thread a bit further, just to torture my own ego. I'm not a man who should be in charge of anything. I'm the man who always wants to run. The man who wants a real family who will actually accept me and want me, rather than constantly telling me I'm not enough.
I want the safety and security I've never had, and I want someone to share it with.
I actually laugh now, because that might be the stupidest thought I've ever had, and then I grab the stack of reports, standup, and head for the door. I've barely been in here five minutes, but it's not like anyone will mind if I leave to go out and take care of complaints.
After all, I'm just the sheriff.
Hardly important at all.
Penny Royal's as a long, low-slung building in a parking lot of its own, set against a backdrop of deep green pines and lush ferns. The place has to be at least one hundred years old, the wood weathered and rotted out in some places, and in any large city, it would have been torn down years ago, to make space for something sleek and modern and concrete.
Here, though, it's the only bar in town, and has been around so long it's become part of the town's spine. Christ, I don't know if Wood could stand up without the place. It's almost never crowded–most people don't drink enough to even need a bar–but it's got that settled, stable look that tells you it's a landmark. A fixture in the fabric the town is built of, and the first place any visitors stop on their way into Wood.
Take it away, and as far as I know, the whole town would collapse.
I glance down at the report in my hand again, and then back up at the bar. There've been reports of tourists making trouble here, getting into fights in the parking lot and the back room of the bar, and this is the third report I've seen about it this week. When I look up at the building again, wondering why so many people are choosing violence in a town so quiet it only has one hotel, I see a group of people moving roughly for the door.
And they're not being gentle with the locals they're running into.
I jump from my truck and rush toward them just in time to catch one of the tourists throwing a punch at the mechanic's kid, and the kid ducking and swinging back. I grab the kid's arm, cursing myself for not being able to remember his name, and push him behind me, then turn toward the tourist. The guy is tall and bulky, but has the look of someone who drinks more than he lifts, and though he's at least two inches taller than me I stand to my full height and stare at him.
"Sheriff Hawke," I say quietly. "What the fuck is going on here?"
He scoffs. "Ask your boy, Sheriff. He started it."
Shouts from the group of locals indicate otherwise, and I turn to one of the other kids.
"What happened?"
"We were just going into the bar, Bear, and these guys started shoving. Asking about who else was in there and what they were doing. Miller here said that it was none of his business but if he really wanted to know, the bar was open to the public, and this guy decided he'd been insulted."
Miller. That's the kid's name. Of course.
I look at the tourist, who's now sneering, and narrow my gaze on him. The man is puffy and saggy at the same time, which I didn't know was possible, his eyes bloodshot and the blood vessels on this nose breaking.
Definitely drinks too much beer.
Definitely a bully.
A quick glance around tells me he's not here with his family, either, given how many men are behind him. What the fuck is this, another bunch of out-of-towners? After the motorcycle gang incident yesterday, my senses are on high alert, and I file this away in my memory to look at later.
Right now, I have to lay down some law.
"Out," I tell him simply. "I want you and your friends out of this parking lot. Head back to your campground or wherever you're staying, and leave these kids alone."
He looks at me like I've just spat in his cheerios, or something worse, and then scowls. "You can't just tell me to leave."
The fuck I can't.
I step up until I'm toe to toe with the man, my chest pushed out and my chin up. I know for damn sure that my sheriff's badge is glinting in the morning sunlight, and though I realize it might be petty, the sign of my authority gives me a thrill of pleasure.
"Pretty sure I just did, friend," I say, my voice dropping to a growl. "This is my town, and these kids live here. I'm the law in these parts, and that means that what I say goes. Now I say you get the fuck out of this parking lot and stop bothering these kids. If I see you making trouble again, I'll arrest you. And I guarantee you'll have more fun in town or at the campground than rotting in the tiny jail cell in the sheriff's office. Get out of here. Behave yourself. Leave the locals alone. Or I'll arrest you. Got it?"
He wants to fight with me. I can see that he's dying to do it. His eyes flit to the kids behind me and then to his friends, standing on his other side, and I tense, wondering if he's actually going to do something he'll regret.
God, I sort of hope he does. I'm bored as hell and want so badly to prove myself that I can almost taste it. The townspeople don't like that I've been made sheriff, but if I can take out a troublemaker and prove that I'm working for them...
Unfortunately, he backs down before that can happen and, with a mumbled curse, turns and walks the other way, his friends falling in around him as they walk toward their cars.
