I'm running late again.
The cedar trees lining Main Street blur past my cruiser window as I push the speedometer just a few miles above what I'd ticket someone else for. Emma's softball practice started ten minutes ago, and I promised, actually promised this time, that I wouldn't miss it.
I don't wait for Doris's acknowledgment before hanging up the radio. She knows where I'm headed. The whole department knows my daughter's practice schedule by now.
The afternoon sun glints off my badge as I park haphazardly at Cedar Falls Community Park.
I grab Emma's forgotten glove from the passenger seat—the reason for this mad dash across town in the first place—and sprint toward the diamond where eight-year-old girls in matching green jerseys are already running bases.
Coach Miller spots me first, his weathered face breaking into a knowing smile beneath his baseball cap. "Sheriff! A bit late, no?"
"Sorry, Ted," I mutter, scanning the field for my daughter. "I had to pick up Emma’s glove at home and then an emergency call about Mrs. Laura missing cat."
"Found in her own pantry again?"
"Sleeping in an empty cereal box." I shake my head. "Third time this month."
Emma stands near second base, her dark ponytail swinging as she turns and catches sight of me. For one heartbreaking second, I see her face light up, then immediately fall when she notices the glove in my hand. I forgot again. I'm the reason she's the only kid playing without proper equipment.
"Daddy!" she calls, jogging over with that half-excited, half-exasperated expression that makes her look exactly like her mother. The thought catches in my chest like it always does. Four years later, grief still ambushes me in these small, ordinary moments.
"Hey, slugger." I hold up her glove. "Special delivery."
She snatches it with an eye roll that seems far too teenage for her eight years. "Coach said I could borrow one of the extras."
"I know, but you play better with your own." I ruffle her hair, and she ducks away, mortified.
"Dad! Not at practice!"
I hold up my hands in surrender. "Sorry, sorry. Professional distance maintained, Deputy Emma."
That earns me a reluctant smile. "Are you staying?"
"Whole practice. Front row seat. I even turned my radio off."
"Really?" Her brown eyes, same shade as mine, go wide.
"Really."
"Okay, but you have to actually watch. No checking your phone for work stuff every five seconds."
"Deal." I cross my heart solemnly, and she seems satisfied, racing back to her position with renewed energy.
I settle onto the aluminum bleachers, forcing my shoulders to relax. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I squeeze my eyes shut, counting to five before checking it. It's Sophie's after-school program, not the station. Small mercies.
The text reads: *Sheriff, Sophie says she has a tummy ache. Not an emergency but thought you should know.*
I text back: *Thanks, Jen. I'll be there in an hour to pick her up.*
Guilt gnaws at me as I watch Emma swing at a pitch and miss. I should be at both places at once. I should be better at this. Claire would have known exactly what to do, would have somehow been in three places simultaneously without breaking a sweat.
But Claire's gone, and I'm here, stretched too thin between a town that needs protecting and two little girls who need a father.
I force myself to focus on Emma's next swing—a solid hit that sends her tearing toward first base. I leap to my feet, cheering loudly enough that she shoots me a mortified glance even as she slides safely onto the base.
"That's my girl," I whisper, not caring who hears the pride cracking my voice.
My radio crackles despite being turned down, and I instinctively reach for it before stopping myself.
Cedar Falls will survive without its sheriff for one hour.
The town hasn't had a major crime in months, mostly just neighborly disputes, teenagers being teenagers, and the occasional tourist getting lost on the hiking trails.
By the time practice ends, I've kept my promise. I watched every pitch, every hit, every base run. Emma trots over, sweaty and grinning.
"Did you see when I caught that pop fly?"
"With one hand," I confirm, high-fiving her. "Major league material right there."
She preens a little, then asks, "Where's Sophie?"
"Still at after-school. She has a tummy ache." I guide her toward the cruiser. "We'll pick her up now."
Emma's face falls. "But you said we could get ice cream after practice."
The promise I'd made yesterday crashes back into my consciousness. "Right. Ice cream." I glance at my watch. "Tell you what—quick scoop at Hank's, then we get Sophie?"
"Yes!" She pumps her fist victoriously, all disappointment forgotten.
Ten minutes later, we're seated at Hank's Creamery, Emma with a mountain of mint chocolate chip and me nursing a black coffee. I've managed to check in with Doris without Emma noticing, confirming there's nothing requiring my immediate attention.
"Dad?" Emma licks her spoon thoughtfully. "Is it okay that I still miss Mom sometimes?"
The question blindsides me. I set my coffee down, buying time. "Of course it is, Em. I miss her every day."
"But it's been four years." She stares into her ice cream. "Sophie doesn't even remember her."
"That doesn't mean you have to stop missing her." I reach across the table, covering her small hand with mine. "Grief doesn't have an expiration date."
"Mrs. Miller says maybe you should start dating again."
I choke on my coffee. "She said what?"
"At the class potluck. She told Mrs. Jenkins that you're too young to be alone forever and that me and Sophie need a mom."
Great. The elementary school teachers are discussing my love life.
"Emma, you and Sophie have me. We're doing okay, right?"
Her shrug devastates me. "I guess. But sometimes I forget stuff for school because you're busy, and Sophie cried last week because you missed bedtime stories three nights in a row."
Each word is a direct hit. I struggle to keep my expression neutral when I want to wince. "I'm trying my best, kiddo."
"I know." She pats my hand in a gesture so adult it makes my throat tight. "But maybe Mrs. Miller is right. Maybe we need help."
I want to argue, to tell her that no one could replace Claire, that our little family of three is complete just as it is. But the truth hammers in my chest: I'm drowning. Every day is a desperate juggling act that ends with me dropping at least one critical ball.
"Maybe," I concede, the word almost painful to voice. "But it would have to be someone pretty special."
Emma nods sagely. "Someone who likes softball and doesn't mind that Sophie still sleeps with her baby blanket."
"And someone who understands that sometimes the sheriff has to work at weird hours."
"And who makes good pancakes," Emma adds, completely serious.
I laugh despite myself. "That's a pretty specific list."
"I have standards, Dad."
We finish our ice cream, and I'm reaching for my wallet when my radio crackles to life.
"Sheriff Reynolds, come in." Doris's voice has that particular tone that means something unusual is happening.
I pick up the radio. "Reynolds here. What's up, Doris?"
"We've got a... situation on Main Street. Near the town square."
"What kind of situation?" I glance at Emma, who's pretending not to listen while clearly absorbing every word.
"It's a... well, it's a bride, sir."
"A bride," I repeat, certain I've misheard.
"Yes, sir. A woman in a wedding dress walking down the middle of Main Street. She appears to be... distressed. Mrs. Finch from the bakery called it in. Says the woman looks lost."
"I'll be right there." I hook the radio back on my belt and look apologetically at Emma. "Sorry, kiddo. Quick detour before we get Sophie."
Emma sighs with the weight of a child who's used to her father's job interrupting plans. "Is it a real emergency?"
"Probably not." I guide her toward the cruiser. "Just someone who needs help. Ten minutes, tops."
"You always say that," she mumbles but climbs into the back seat without further protest.
Five minutes later, I'm crawling down Main Street, scanning the sidewalks for a woman in white. Emma's face is pressed against the window, clearly intrigued by this bizarre call.
"There!" She points excitedly. "By the bookstore!"
I follow her finger and spot a flash of white among the pedestrians. As we get closer, the crowd seems to part, revealing a woman who looks like she's stepped out of a bridal magazine, if that magazine had a feature on "Brides in Crisis."
Her elaborate white gown is a stark contrast to the casual Saturday attire of everyone around her.
Even from this distance, I can see that the dress is expensive—layers of delicate lace and beading catching the late afternoon light.
Her auburn hair is partially falling from what must have been an intricate updo, copper tendrils framing a face that's a complicated mix of determination and distress.
I pull the cruiser to the curb and turn to Emma. "Stay in the car, okay? I'll be quick."
She nods, already unbuckling her seatbelt to get a better view of the unfolding drama.
As I approach the woman, I notice details that weren't visible from the car: her smudged makeup, the tear in the hem of her dress, the painful-looking designer heels she's wobbling on.
She's clutching a small purse against her chest like a shield, and her eyes—a striking green—are darting around with the wary vigilance of someone who expects pursuit.
"Ma'am?" I call, keeping my voice gentle. "I'm Sheriff Jake Reynolds. Is everything all right?"
She whirls toward me, those green eyes widening as they take in my uniform, my badge, and finally my face.
For a moment, she seems frozen in place, like a deer caught in headlights.
Then she draws herself up, chin lifting in a gesture of defiance that's somewhat undermined by the visible trembling of her lower lip.
"That depends," she says, her voice surprisingly steady despite her disheveled appearance, "on whether running away from your own wedding is considered 'all right' in Cedar Falls."