I've lost my mind.
That's the only explanation for why I'm pulling up to Libby's Boutique with a runaway bride and my daughters in tow. This goes well beyond professional courtesy and straight into what-the-hell-are-you-thinking territory.
"Wait here a sec," I tell Isabella, putting the cruiser in park.
I step out and walk around to open her door, aware of how the afternoon shoppers on Main Street have all stopped to stare.
Cedar Falls hasn't had gossip this good since Mayor Peterson's toupee blew off during last year's Fourth of July speech.
"Sheriff?" Libby appears in the doorway of her boutique, curiosity written all over her face as she takes in the scene. "Everything okay?"
"Fine, Libby. Just helping out a visitor." I offer Isabella my hand as she struggles to maneuver her massive dress out of the backseat. Her fingers are cool and delicate against my palm, but her grip is surprisingly strong as she leverages herself upright.
"Thanks," she murmurs, a flush spreading across her cheeks as she becomes aware of our audience.
Emma and Sophie tumble out after her, instantly flanking her like tiny bodyguards.
The sight makes something twist in my chest. They've attached themselves to her with that immediate, uncomplicated acceptance that children sometimes offer strangers, and that I've long since lost the ability to give.
"Miss Isabella needs clothes," Sophie announces to Libby, who's still standing frozen in her doorway. "Her wedding dress is pretty but not good for mac and cheese."
Libby's eyebrows shoot upward, and I feel compelled to provide some semblance of a normal explanation. "Miss Rosewood is passing through town and needs some, uh, more practical attire."
"I see," Libby says, though she clearly doesn't. Her eyes rake over Isabella's expensive gown, the torn hem, the mud-stained satin heels.
To her credit, she switches instantly into professional mode.
"Well, you've come to the right place. We carry everything from casual to business casual, sizes 0 to 18. "
"Thank you," Isabella says. "I just need something simple. Jeans, t-shirts, sensible shoes. And maybe a change for tomorrow."
Tomorrow. The word hangs in the air, reminding me that I have no idea what her plans are beyond the next few hours. Not that it's any of my business. My job is to ensure she's safe, not to insert myself into her personal crisis.
"Let me know if you need anything else," I tell her, suddenly feeling awkward in my uniform. "We can wait in the car."
"Actually," Libby interjects, "I just got in a new shipment of those comic books Emma likes. They're on the display by the register if you all want to look while I help Miss Rosewood."
Emma's eyes light up. "Dad, can we?"
I hesitate, looking at Isabella. "If that's okay with you?"
"Of course," she says quickly. "I won't be long."
I nod, grateful for the distraction for the girls. As we follow everyone inside, I send a quick text to Doris at the station: *Still with the bride. Taking her to get clothes, then will assess next steps. Call if any emergencies.*
The response comes immediately: *Roger that. Town's quiet. Mrs. Laura called again about her cat. Told her to check the pantry.*
I smile despite myself, pocketing my phone as Sophie tugs me toward a display of stuffed animals while Emma makes a beeline for the comics. Libby leads Isabella to the back of the store, already pulling items from various racks.
"Dad, look!" Sophie holds up a plush wolf. "He looks like the ones in the woods behind our house."
"Very realistic," I agree, checking the price tag and wincing. Twenty-five dollars for something she'll likely forget about in a week. "Maybe for your birthday, Soph."
Her lower lip juts out in a practiced pout. "But that's forever away."
"Three months," I correct her. "Not forever."
"Feels like forever," she sighs dramatically, reluctantly returning the wolf to its shelf.
I ruffle her hair, glancing toward the back of the store where Isabella has disappeared into a changing room with an armful of clothes. My daughters aren't the only ones who've been immediately drawn to her.
There's something magnetic about her presence—the combination of vulnerability and fierce determination in those green eyes. The way she speaks directly and honestly, even about her own complicated situation.
Or maybe I'm just out of practice at interacting with women who aren't grieving widows, concerned teachers, or my female deputies.
"Sheriff?" Libby approaches, lowering her voice. "Your, um, friend mentioned she doesn't have a place to stay tonight."
"She's not my—" I stop myself, realizing how defensive I sound. "We just met. She needed assistance."
Libby gives me a look that says she doesn't quite believe me. "Well, in any case, I suggested the Cedar Inn, but they're booked solid this weekend with that fishing tournament. The closest vacancy is in Millfield, about forty minutes from here."
Great. Another complication. "Thanks for letting me know."
"She seems... nice," Libby adds.
"I wouldn't know," I reply, more curtly than intended. "Like I said, we just met."
Libby holds up her hands in surrender. "Just making conversation. It's not every day we get a runaway bride in designer couture shopping for jeans and sensible shoes."
Before I can respond, there's a commotion from the changing area.
Isabella emerges in dark jeans, a simple green t-shirt that exactly matches her eyes, and flat sandals.
The transformation is startling—from fairytale princess to casual beauty in an instant.
She's pulled her hair into a messy ponytail, and without the elaborate gown, I can better appreciate the natural grace in her movements.
My daughters notice immediately.
"You look like a normal person now!" Sophie exclaims with characteristic bluntness.
"Sophie," I warn, but Isabella just laughs.
"Thank you, I think," she replies, smoothing her hands over the jeans. "It feels good to be in normal clothes again."
"What about your wedding dress?" Emma asks, practical as always.
Isabella glances back at the changing room where the white gown is presumably heaped on the floor. "I'm not sure. I don't need it anymore."
"Libby sells clothes too," Emma informs her. "Maybe she could sell it for you."
Libby looks startled at being volunteered, but quickly recovers. "I don't typically handle formal wear that... high-end, but I could make some calls if you're interested."
Isabella considers this. "Would it sell here? It's a Marchesa. Retails for—" She cuts herself off, looking embarrassed. "It was very expensive."
Libby whistles low. "Honey, no one in Cedar Falls is buying Marchesa, but I have a contact at a bridal consignment shop in Portland who might be interested."
"That would be wonderful," Isabella says, relief evident in her voice. "I'd like to be rid of it, honestly."
There's a story there—more than just a last-minute case of cold feet, I suspect. The way she looks at that dress, like it represents something that was suffocating her.
"I'll need your contact information," Libby says, moving toward the register. "For when it sells."
Isabella hesitates. "Actually, could you donate the proceeds to a local charity? Maybe something for children?"
The request surprises me. Most people don't casually donate what must be thousands of dollars.
"Our school's art program could use funding," I find myself saying. "Budget cuts hit them hard last year."
Isabella's face brightens. "Perfect. I love art."
"You're an artist?" Emma asks, suddenly more interested.
"I used to be," Isabella replies, something wistful entering her expression. "I studied art history in college and worked at a gallery for a while."
"What happened?" The question slips out before I can stop myself.
She meets my eyes, and there's a quiet resignation there that makes me regret asking. "Life happened. Family expectations. Practical considerations."
I know that tone. It's the same one I use when someone asks why I haven't moved to a bigger department with better pay and advancement opportunities. Sometimes our choices aren't really choices at all.
"Well," Libby interjects, breaking the moment, "let's get you rung up. I've put together a few outfits that should get you through several days."
As Isabella pays for her new clothes, I notice she uses cash—a thick envelope of it pulled from her small purse. No credit cards. Another clue that she's trying to avoid being tracked.
"Do you have luggage?" I ask when she finishes the transaction.
She shakes her head. "Just the dress I came in and whatever I'm buying now."
Libby produces a sturdy canvas tote bag with "Cedar Falls" printed on the side. "On the house," she says with a wink. "Consider it a welcome gift."
"Thank you," Isabella says, genuine gratitude in her voice as she folds her new clothes into the bag. "For everything."
We exit the shop, Isabella now looking like any other tourist who might be passing through our town, except for the slightly shell-shocked look in her eyes that suggests she's still processing her own actions.
"Libby mentioned the motel is full," I tell her as we approach the cruiser. "She said there's another one in Millfield, about forty minutes from here."
She bites her lower lip, uncertainty crossing her features. "Is there a bus station in town? Or a car rental place?"
"Bus comes through once a day, at 6 AM. Nearest car rental is in Portland, about two hours away.
" I hesitate, then add, "Look, it's getting late.
The girls need dinner, and you look like you could use a hot meal yourself.
Why don't you come to our place? We can figure out your next steps after everyone's fed. "
The words surprise me as much as they seem to surprise her. I've never invited a stranger to my home—especially not a woman, and definitely not with the girls. Claire would be shocked. I'm a little shocked myself.
"I couldn't impose," she says right away.
"Mac and cheese!" Sophie reminds her, bouncing on her toes. "And Dad makes the good kind, with the crunchy stuff on top."
Isabella looks from Sophie's hopeful face to mine, clearly torn between politeness and practical need. "Are you sure? I don't want to disrupt your evening more than I already have."
No, I'm not sure. This crosses every professional and personal boundary I've established since becoming both sheriff and a single father. But there's something about her lost expression that makes it impossible to just drop her off at a bus stop or make her wait forty minutes for a motel room.
"It's just dinner," I say, trying to sound casual. "And maybe a plan for getting you wherever you need to go tomorrow."
Whatever she sees in my face must reassure her, because she finally nods.
"Okay. Thank you. But I insist on helping with dinner."
"Deal," I agree, opening the cruiser door for her. As she slides into the passenger seat this time—I can't keep putting a civilian in the back like a perp—I catch a hint of her perfume. Something expensive and floral, but subtle.
"Can we have ice cream too?" Emma asks as she and Sophie climb into the back.
"One sugar bomb at a time," I tell her, starting the engine. "Let's see how dinner goes first."
As we pull away from the curb, I catch Isabella's reflection in the side mirror. She's gazing out at Cedar Falls' main street with an expression I can't quite decipher—part wonder, part fear, part something that might be hope.
What am I doing? This woman is clearly running from something or someone. The last thing my daughters need is to get attached to a stranger who will disappear from their lives as quickly as she entered.
The last thing I need is the complication of feeling drawn to someone so obviously in transition, so clearly unavailable in every way that matters.
Yet here we are, driving toward my home with a runaway bride in designer jeans riding shotgun and my daughters chattering excitedly in the back seat.
"Home is about five minutes up this road." I tell her as we approach the residential area west of town.
"It's pretty," she says, taking in the tall pines and glimpses of the river through the trees.
"Wait till you see our house," Sophie pipes up. "It has a treehouse that Dad built!"
"And a tire swing," Emma adds. "Dad says it's a safety hazard, but he lets us use it anyway."
Isabella laughs softly. "Sounds like your dad is a man of many talents."
I feel a flush creeping up my neck at the casual compliment. "Jack of all trades, master of none," I mutter, embarrassed.
"I doubt that's true," she says, and when I glance over, she's looking directly at me with those clear green eyes. "Sheriff, father, carpenter... seems like you're managing a lot of roles quite well."
There's no flirtation in her tone, just a simple observation that somehow cuts right through my usual defenses.
I've gotten so used to downplaying everything I do, to feeling like I'm barely keeping my head above water with work and parenting.
Having someone, even a stranger, acknowledge my efforts is unexpectedly affecting.
"We make it work," I say gruffly, turning onto our gravel driveway.
Our house comes into view. It’s a two-story cabin-style home I've spent the last decade slowly renovating.
It's nothing fancy, but with its wide front porch and large windows, it's comfortable and welcoming.
The yard is a bit overgrown, toys scattered across the lawn despite my constant reminders to the girls to clean up after themselves.
"It's beautiful," Isabella says, and she sounds like she means it.
"It's home," I reply, parking beside my personal truck.
As we all climb out, I notice Isabella taking in every detail—the wind chimes Claire hung years ago, the mismatched flower pots the girls painted last summer, the half-finished birdhouse on the porch railing.
This is my sanctuary, my private world with my daughters, the place I've kept separated from my professional life and the complications of the outside world. And I've just invited a beautiful, mysterious, clearly troubled woman right into the heart of it.
"Come on," I say, fishing my keys from my pocket. "Let's get that mac and cheese started."