Page 31

chapter

twenty-one

Two days since Jax’s arrest, and Nessie couldn’t shake the image of him being hauled away in handcuffs, that resigned look in his eyes like he’d known all along this was how it would end.

She’d called the sheriff’s office twice daily, only to be told by a bored-sounding receptionist that Mr. Thorne wasn’t allowed visitors.

“Mom?” Oliver tugged at her apron, dark eyes solemn beneath his mop of hair. “Is Jax coming back soon?”

Her heart cracked a little more. “I don’t know, baby.”

Marv and Earl were pretending not to listen from their usual table, but their coffee cups hadn’t moved in five minutes.

“But he didn’t do anything bad! That policeman was being mean to you, and Jax was just?—”

“I know.” She crouched down to his level, keeping her voice low as she stroked his cheek with her fingertips. “Sometimes things are complicated. Why don’t you go color for a bit? I’ll bring you a snack in a few minutes.”

The bell above the door jingled, and Nessie’s stomach dropped as Sheriff Goodwin strode in, his badge catching the morning light. His pale eyes swept the room before landing on her, his mouth curving into what others might mistake for a friendly smile.

“Morning, Vanessa. Got a minute to chat?”

“I’m working, Sheriff.” She straightened, squeezing Oliver’s shoulder. “Go on, honey.”

Her son hesitated, his small face pinched with worry as he glanced between her and the sheriff. Finally, he retreated to the back room, dragging his feet the whole way.

Hank approached the counter, removing his hat with exaggerated politeness. “Just thought you’d want an update on your... friend.”

She noticed how he paused, letting the implication hang in the air.

“Is he okay?” She kept her tone steady, professional, though her pulse hammered in her throat.

“Oh, he’s just fine.” Hank’s voice rose, carrying to the farthest corners of the room. “Men like Thorne are used to lockup. He’s right at home.”

From his table near the window, Dewey Stafford pretended he wasn’t eavesdropping, but he was leaning forward in his seat to catch every juicy drop of gossip.

Margery Pendry and Ruthie Campbell weren’t even trying to pretend. They watched with avid interest, Ruthie wide-eyed and Margery with her eyes narrowed. She looked annoyed, but whether that was from the interruption of her calm morning routine or with the sheriff in general was anyone’s guess.

In the corner booth, Pastor Glenn O’Brien folded his hands over his Bible, the picture of concerned piety.

And two tables over, Trevor Pace watched with too much interest, his dark eyes following her every movement. But who could blame him? He worked for the land developer Craig Foster and had probably known Bailee Cooper, at least in passing, since she was Foster’s secretary.

Really, Nessie couldn’t blame any of them for their interest. This murder was the most exciting thing to happen in town since Creed Calder ripped up the Rusty Spur and got kicked out of Valor Ridge.

And it didn’t help that Foster had offered a significant reward for any information leading to Bailee’s killer.

“You know, I pulled Jax’s complete file,” Hank continued, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Quite the violent history there. Attacked a woman. Damn near killed her. Then confessed to all sorts of terrible things.”

Nessie ground her teeth together to keep from snapping at him. “Your point?”

Goodwin frowned, and she wondered if his pretend concern read as fake to everyone else as it did her. “Just thought you should know, seeing as how he’s been spending time around you and your boy. Wouldn’t want another young woman ending up like poor Bailee.”

“Amen to that,” Pastor Glenn called from his corner. He rose with the fluid grace of a man accustomed to commanding attention. “We’re all worried about you, Vanessa. A single mother, all alone, taking in men with... troubled pasts.”

Her throat tightened. “Jax didn’t kill Bailee.”

“I don’t recall accusing him of murder just now,” Hank said in a deceptively mild tone. “Interesting where your mind went, though.”

She scoffed. “Oh, don’t even pretend you haven’t been implying it since the day they found her body. Everyone knows you’re looking for any excuse to shut down Valor Ridge.”

Pastor Glenn moved closer, close enough that she could smell the mint on his breath.

“We should pray for her, Sheriff. For protection against those who might lead her astray.” He bowed his head without waiting for permission.

“Dear Lord, we ask that you guide this young woman’s heart away from darkness.

Help her see the danger before her, the wolves among the sheep?—”

“Stop it,” Nessie snapped. “Just stop.”

Pastor Glenn’s eyes opened, his expression a masterpiece of wounded concern.

“Does prayer make you uncomfortable, Vanessa?”

“Using faith as a weapon makes me uncomfortable.”

A murmur rippled through the bakery. She was going to pay for that later—Pastor Glenn had too much influence in this town—but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

“Sheriff.” She forced herself to meet Hank’s gaze directly. “Jax didn’t kill Bailee. Maybe instead of targeting him, you should be investigating the vehicle I told you I saw out on Ridge Road that morning.”

“You told me no such thing.”

“Yes, I did. A large light-colored vehicle. I saw it in the brush alongside the road long before I ever picked up Jax.”

“So he ditched it.”

“It wasn’t a Valor Ridge truck.” All the ranch vehicles she’d ever seen were black with the VR brand stenciled on the doors.

“Maybe he stole it.”

“When would he have had the time if he was killing Bailee?”

The bakery had grown uncomfortably quiet. At the corner table, Dewey was leaning so far forward it was a wonder his chair didn’t tip. Trevor Pace’s jaw tightened, and he reached for his wallet, peeling off a few bills to cover his untouched coffee.

Nessie returned her attention to Goodwin. “Why are you ignoring that information? Unless you really don’t want to find who killed Bailee?”

“I’m not ignoring anything.” His smile had vanished completely. “I’m conducting a thorough investigation based on evidence, not the selective memory of someone with an obvious personal interest in the suspect.”

Heat flooded her cheeks. “My relationship with Jax has no bearing on this.”

Pastor Glenn placed a hand on her shoulder, and it took everything in her not to recoil. “We only want what’s best for you, my dear. For you and your son.”

The mention of Oliver sent ice through her veins. That was a threat, however veiled. These men were dangerous in ways Jax Thorne would never be, wielding power instead of fists, hiding behind badges and Bibles.

“I think you should leave,” she said quietly. “Both of you.”

Hank’s pale eyes glittered. “You seem to make a habit of throwing law enforcement out of your establishment, Ms. Harmon. Might make folks wonder what you’re hiding.”

Oh, God. What was she doing?

“I’m not hiding anything.” She stepped back from his looming presence. “I’m just tired of watching you railroad an innocent man.”

“Innocent?” He barked out a laugh that held no humor. “You really don’t know who you’re defending, do you?”

“I know he didn’t kill Bailee. He couldn’t have. The timeline doesn’t add up, but you’re still trying to make it fit.” She met his gaze unflinchingly. “So, who are you protecting?”

Something dangerous flashed across his face, a split-second break in his easy-going facade. The sheriff wasn’t targeting Jax out of prejudice against Valor Ridge. That was just a bonus as he actively steered the investigation away from someone else.

But who?

It had to be someone with money and power. Those were the only things men like Hank Goodwin respected.

Her gaze went to Trevor Pace as he pushed back from his table, the chair legs scraping against the floor. She watched him leave, climbing into a silver truck at the curb, a hollow pit opening in her stomach.

Craig Foster.

It made so much sense.

Hank would want to protect him since he owned half of the town.

And Trevor, Foster’s right-hand man, who had rarely visited the bakery before Jax’s arrest, had been here every day since.

“Careful, Vanessa,” the sheriff said, drawing her attention back to him. “You’ve built a nice little life here. Be a shame to see it all come crashing down because you backed the wrong horse.”

The bakery door swung open with enough force to rattle the bell, and Boone Callahan’s massive frame filled the entrance.

His dark blue eyes, so eerily similar to his uncle’s, swept the room and locked onto Hank.

Behind him, River Beckett’s lanky form and Ghost’s lean shadow crowded the doorway, effectively blocking any exit the sheriff might have considered.

The air in the bakery seemed to contract, like the sudden pressure drop before lightning strikes.

Boone didn’t move from the doorway. “Sheriff.”

Just the one word, but it carried the weight of years of history between them. Uncle and nephew, locked in some private war that had spilled over to encompass the entire town.

Nessie relaxed her grip on the counter’s edge.

She hadn’t realized how alone she’d felt until that moment.

It wasn’t that she needed saving—she’d been saving herself for years—but there was something undeniably comforting about not facing Hank Goodwin’s particular brand of small-town tyranny by herself.

Ghost separated from the group and moved with liquid grace through the bakery, navigating between tables without seeming to notice the patrons who stared openly at him.

He stopped three feet from Nessie, positioning himself between her and Pastor Glenn without saying a word. His ice-gray eyes narrowed.

Pastor Glenn audibly gulped before retreating a step. “I should be going. I have a youth group meeting to prepare for.”