Page 18 of Dove
I watch him go, adrenaline still rushing through my veins, and wait until they're all in their cars and pulling out. Then I turn back to the kid who's been helping me.
Of course, I don't even have a guess as to his name.
"Thank you..." I say, pausing and lifting my brows to indicate that I don't remember his name.
"Simon," he supplies, sticking a hand out. "Simon Rose. My dad works with your brother."
"Of course he does," I say, realization flood back. "He's a carpenter, right? Does some of the most gorgeous pieces in town on his free time."
Simon grins like he's just won the lottery, and nods. "Sure is. And man is he proud of those pieces."
I grin back and drop my voice. "Gonna give my brother a run for his money, I bet. Put him out of business one of these days. Don't tell Gunner I said so, but I'm cheering for your dad."
This brings a shout of laughter amongst the boys, and I look around like I'm worried that Gunner or Gabe–my brother and nephew, who build furniture and artwork out of the wood they harvest in the forest–might hear us.
Simon claps a hand on my shoulder. "Don't worry, they're not around. I'll tell my dad you said so, though. See you, Sheriff."
"Bear," I correct. "I've known you your whole life, kid. Call me by my name."
Simon and his friends walk away grinning and laughing, and I have to smile as I watch them. Now that he's given me their names, I remember them as the children I once knew. Simon, Miller, and Jon all grew up in town with Gabe, and are a little older than Cameron and Sammy. Looks like most of them have stuck in town, and I have to admit that that makes me happy.
They're a lot easier to impress than their parents.
Their parents are my age, and they remember who I was whenIwas young.
They saw who I became as I got older, and how I managed my affairs in my twenties.
Needless to say, their parents aren't laughing at my jokes or thanking me for my service when I run into them. So feeling like the kids are on my side, even a little bit...
It makes things look a little better.
And these days, that's starting to seem like all I can ask for.
I watch them walk toward their motorcycles, then go speeding out of the parking lot, and for a moment I think that any good sheriff would go after them and give them all tickets for driving too fast.
Instead, I turn and walk toward the bar.
After all, I have no interest in being a good sheriff, and everyone here knows it. This isn't the life I chose. It's not the life I want.
I just wish I knew what Ididwant.
At least then I'd have something to live for.
Bear
Penny Royal's is 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 here so long it's become part of the town's spine. Christ, I don't know if the town 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 the place this week. When I look up at the building again, wondering why somany 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?"
