Page 1 of Bartender Daddy’s Girl (Daddy’s Girl #11)

JUDGE

S heriff Larry Kimble sits opposite me with that shit eating grin of his. The one that says I win and there’s nothing you can do about it . He snorts, scoffs, and chuckles, sizing me up while his partner taps the tip of his pen against an old, dirty clipboard.

“Two guys left in a puddle of blood, beer, and piss, and you’re still standing.” Larry looks over his shoulder at the remnants of my altercation. Broken bottles, flipped over tables, and two chairs missing a few legs each. “Wanna tell me how that happened?”

“No,” I say. Larry’s visits are becoming more frequent. Always for the same reason, some dumb bastard who screwed around and learned their lesson.

His face hardens, jaw tenses, and I can see he wants to say something a cop shouldn’t. Maybe a threat, maybe something worse. However, it rouses a chuckle out of Frasier Murrow on the far side of the bar counter.

“Something funny?” Larry’s head snaps over to Frasier.

“Sure,” the old man replies, turning a page in his newspaper. Like me, he doesn’t go any further. We’re the sort of guys who keep our business in-house, our lips tight, and give the law nothing.

“Why don’t you run it by us again?” Emmette Anderson, the deputy sheriff, tries to diffuse the mounting tension.

“They hit me,” I say. “They hit me. There’s not much more to say about it.”

He jots down my answer on a sheet of yellow paper attached to the clipboard.

“Why did you hit them?” Emmette doesn’t look at me. Head down, gaze focused on the page, afraid.

“I was cleaning up a mess. If you want a report of what happened, you should ask Laura.”

“We did,” Larry takes over again. “But we want your account.”

“They hit me. I hit them,” I say.

Small town fuckery, that’s all this is. I’m new here, six months, give or take. But trouble has a way of following me around, and that’s bound to place me in their crosshair. This didn’t happen when I lived in the city. No cops coming by to break up bar fights.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that Larry’s just looking for his moment in the sun. A big bust to justify wearing the badge, even if it means barking up a tree that doesn’t carry any fruit.

“Over a little ass grabbing?” Larry leans in close. “The Stonework’s not exactly the cleanest bar in town, Mr. Harrow. It’s bound to happen in a place like this.”

“A little ass grabbing?” I snarl. It’s my turn for a hardened face and stiff jaw. “How quickly would I meet the business end of your Colt if I grabbed your ass, sheriff?”

Running a bar in a small town has its ups and downs.

Most days are quiet. A couple of mouthy lads looking for attention anywhere they can find it, but one look at me is usually enough to scare them off.

Days like today? Well, those guys got what was coming to them.

No one fucks with my people without facing justice.

“Mighty quick, Mr. Judge. Mighty quick, indeed.” He speaks with savage honesty.

As the long time local sheriff, Larry probably celebrated with Laura’s family on her birthday.

This prick should be patting me on the back for protecting her, rather than drilling me with this bullshit.

But he’s been looking for an excuse to lock me up since the day I got into town.

The sheriff must not be a fan of tattoos …

or maybe he’s just upset that I’m taller than him.

He pauses for a while, for effect, I suppose, but by the time he starts talking again, my attention has drifted. Far past him and Emmette, over the wreckage left behind from a midday squabble, and toward the fair-haired beauty who just wandered in.

It wouldn’t take a genius to figure there’s something wrong with her. Standing in the doorway, scanning the faces to make sure she doesn’t recognize anyone, shaking like a leaf in a baby blue sweater. A sweater too tight, squeezing her breasts . . . suffocating them.

As much as I want to stare longer, I lift my eyes. Can’t preach about beating folks up for taking advantage of someone just to do it myself. I’m not that kind of a hypocrite.

Larry speaks again. Muted words that penetrate my ears but don’t resonate as human sounds. Threats, probably. Cautiously veiled behind a thin mask of we just want the full story .

She looks so scared. Vulnerable. Like at the tender age of under twenty-five, the world has chewed her up and spat her out. Even the chaos spread across my barroom can’t penetrate the layers of terror holding her in place. Here. With me.

They’re nothing compared to what she’s been through.

“Do you understand?” The question snaps me back to Larry.

“Nope.”

I look him dead in the eye, seeing her move in my periphery. Taking one step after another toward me.

“Didn’t hear a thing you said.”

“You’re fucking with me, right?” Larry raises his voice. She jumps, lifts her hands to her chest. Clutches onto an invisible nothing for any form of support. Probably walked in here because she saw the police cars. Needs an urgent word with the men in charge.

Instead, she sits. Far away from the cops. From Frasier. From me.

Smart girl. She chose her place carefully. Wants easy access to the exit if something happens.

“Better watch your tone, sheriff.”

Not like me. Regrettable. But seeing this precious little thing frightened, then made worse by Larry Kimble, upset me. Don’t know why, won’t bother trying to figure it out, but it did.

“I took a blow to the head. Things are a bit fuzzy. Wouldn’t want to think Sugarcreek’s finest are trying to shake me down.”

Emmette shuffles, clears his throat, “Is that all, sheriff?” once again tapping his clipboard, realizing they’re not getting anything more out of me.

“For now,” Larry says, still looking at me. The shit-eating grin back on his face.

They leave, walking side by side, whispering to each other.

“You sure get in a lot of trouble with the law for a man called Judge, y’know that?” Frasier’s scanning his newspaper and nursing a cup of coffee that’s been in front of him since we opened at nine.

It’s twelve now. Lunchtime rush will be kicking off any second, and I’ve still got the mess to clean.

“Didn’t see you jumping to help,” I speak to him, but my eyes are on her. “An old boxer like you? Would’ve made quick work of those rats.”

He wheezes a laugh. I smile.

My oldest, and if I’m honest, my only friend in this world. Followed me from one shit show to the next for as long as I can remember. And now he followed me here.

More than a guy like me can ask for. More than I deserve.

“Answered your own thought there, son. I’m old as dirt.”

I look over at the old timer, and he looks at me. The gleeful expression fades off his face as our eyes meet. I make a subtle gesture with mine in the newcomer’s direction, accompanied by a flick of my eyebrows to say keep an eye on her . He nods, understands. Always understands.

These silent conversations are just one of the perks of spending a lifetime together.

Then it’s her turn. Soft, timid, scared. Eyes pinned front and center. Dry, nervous swallows choking in the back of her mouth. Arms wrapped around her body for comfort, only a man like me can provide.

“Can I get you something to drink?” I pretend not to see the signs.

“Water.” Her voice is soft. She still doesn’t look at me. “Please.”

I get her water.

“Food?” I grab a glass, fill it with crushed ice and lemon, and set it next to the bottle.

“No.” She shakes her head. It’s almost imperceptible with the rest of her body rattling. “Thank you.”

Janet and Laura, my wait staff, step out from the kitchen. One’s carrying a mop, the other a bucket and broom. They pass me on their way to the mess, and as they do, Laura whispers a thank you from behind. I nod, hoping she noticed, but don’t respond.

My focus is on the beautiful, broken woman in front of me.

And then it happens.

Her head lazily shifts to me, and I get my first glimpse of her face, full-on and direct.

One look almost floors me. Freckled cheeks, a cute button nose, golden strands hanging over deep blue eyes.

Christ, if this poor thing weren’t shaking and terrified, I’d have fallen in love right here.

But that look, the shuddering like a constant chill is rushing up her spine, the pure fear .

. . Means I have to hold myself back. For now. Maybe forever.

“Sure you don’t want a stronger drink?” I reach for a bottle of whiskey instinctively.

“Not yet,” she sighs.

“D’ya have a place to stay?” I ask.

Her eyes sink, and my heart shatters in my chest. Could’ve looked in them for eternity, and it wouldn’t have been long enough.

“No.” She shakes her head. “I just got here.”

“Then it’s your lucky day.” That’s a lie. It’s mine. “Got a room upstairs with your name on it.”

“I don’t have money to pay you for lodging.”

“Good. Because between you and me, I’m not supposed to be letting them out.

Health inspector would have a fit if he found out.

” It’s mostly true. When I found this place, I had grand visions of a bar below and accommodation above.

Rules and red tape kept me from opening the rooms to guests.

So, they sit empty until some prick at City Hall deems my place worthy.

But no one said anything about letting folks stay for free.

“Have bags outside? I’ll bring ‘em in.” At this point, I’m offering any service I can to turn her frown upside down.

“No,” she says. “Just me.”

“Then how about I show you upstairs and you get some rest?”

She looks up at me with puppy dog eyes and a pout.

“Thank you,” she says.

And my world comes crumbling down around me when she forces a smile onto her face.