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ZEKE

T he following morning I walk Sadie from her cottage to the Hollow Hearth, my hand resting at the small of her back. She doesn’t say much, just leans into me like she knows I’m scanning every shadow, every corner. When we reach the door, I give her a nod. “Be careful and call someone if you need to. I’m going to do a little exploring, and I don’t know that I’ll have reception.”

“I’ll be fine, Zeke.”

I wait until she’s safely locked inside before I turn away. Once she’s ready to open the town will be waking up and daylight will be creeping over the mountain. I get in the SUV and head towards the other end of town. If anyone is watching, I want them to think I’m going in the opposite direction of the trails that wind above the town—where the tree line thins out and secrets like to hide. But even before I’m out of sight, I feel it. The town’s too quiet. Not the calm kind of quiet that settles over a place like Glacier Hollow after a snowstorm.

This is different. Heavy. Artificial. Like someone whispered a warning into every ear and told them to stay inside, stay silent, stay small. My boots crunch over frozen ground, and the hairs on the back of my neck lift. I am reminded that almost since day one, I’ve felt something wasn’t quite right in Glacier Hollow, and I’m going to find out what. So, I go where the noise usually hides—the outskirts.

Circling back, I leave the SUV parked behind the bait shop—careful not to be seen—and sling my pack over my shoulder, heading north through the brush. No backup. No partner. Just me and my Glock, a thermos of black coffee, a flashlight and instincts that haven’t dulled even after everything I’ve left behind.

The air gets colder fast out here. Denser. Trees hang low with snowmelt, and the only sound is the occasional snap of a branch underfoot.

This is where truth lives—out past the roads, beyond the signal, in the places people think no one will look. But I’m looking.

Several hours pass as my boots crunch over frost-hardened leaves and I move off the trail—because the real traffic doesn’t happen on the trails. About three clicks out, I find it—a faint depression in the moss. A path so lightly used it wouldn’t show up to the average eye. But I’ve followed insurgents through the Hindu Kush in worse conditions. I know what a hidden route looks like. This one’s fresh.

I crouch, fingers brushing the edges of the tire track, cutting through the soft earth. Not an ATV. Not wide enough. Smaller. Motorbike. Too light for a hunting rig. Too small for logging.

The trail leads into deeper woods, winding through natural choke points and ravines like someone knows how to use the terrain to their advantage. I follow it. Whoever’s running this isn’t dumb, but they’re not invisible either. I respect that.

Forty minutes later after discovering the track, I find the shack. Burned out. Half collapsed. It appears to have been abandoned for years—until you step inside and catch the smell—not smoke, not decay, but sweat, fuel and metal . All of it recent.

I pull my phone from my chest pocket, snap photos from every angle. Interior. Exterior. Close-up on the boot prints in the ash—someone stepped in and out after the last snowfall. Which means in the last twenty-four hours.

I check for tire tracks, shoe patterns. Someone parked out here. Then hiked in. Heavy tread. Same direction as the prints. Two sets. One heavier, one smaller. I document both.

Then I find something I don’t like. A spent shell casing near the fireplace. Nine millimeter. Clean. No weather damage. Sloppy or left on purpose? Either way, someone’s using this place—and they didn’t think they’d be followed. Or worse… they don’t care .

I pull a latex glove from my pack, bag the casing, and press two fingers against the charred wall. Still flakes. Which means the fire was recent, not historic—a burn site to destroy something?

I don’t get answers. I just collect them.

Ten minutes later, I have a full set of photos and GPS coordinates logged. No immediate threats. No obvious stash. But what’s here is enough to tell me one thing: Whatever’s happening in Glacier Hollow—it’s not random. It’s planned. Organized. Hidden.

And nobody’s talking. That’s not fear of the unknown, that’s fear of someone .

In town, people duck their heads and keep their mouths shut because they’ve already made a choice—to survive, not resist. They don’t trust that I’ll be here or that I can or will protect them.

I’ve seen it before. Afghanistan. South Sudan. Even back home, small towns with old blood and dirty money. You don’t have to be running a cartel to keep people scared. You just need enough reach and the willingness to act without hesitation.

My boots crunch on the path as I head back, staying off the trail, quiet as a shadow. The wind cuts colder now. The trees creak overhead.

And for a second—just one—I think about Sadie. The way her shoulders tensed beneath that flannel shirt. The way her voice never wavered, but her hands almost did.

She’s seen this kind of silence before. Maybe not the same shape, but the same weight. She’s not the reason I’m out here. But she’s damn sure one of the reasons I’m not walking away.

I climb a ridge and scan the town through the trees. Everything looks normal from up here. But I know better than anyone—that’s when things are most dangerous.

The sun has begun to drop by the time I clear the ridge, slipping behind the jagged line of Talon Mountain. The trail back cuts through town at an angle, past the old mill road and onto Main Street from the back side.

I have a decent layer of mud on my boots, the burned-out shack still on my mind, and a mental list forming of what I need to chase down next, but all of it drops away the second I see her.

Sadie stands just outside the café, arms crossed tight, body turned at an angle. Defensive.

A man stands in front of her. Mid-thirties. Lean frame, too wiry to be a local logger. Jacket too clean, boots too polished. Something about him feels wrong—like he doesn’t belong. Like he’s trying to.

Then I see his hand snap out and wrap around her wrist.

I don’t shout. Don’t think. Just move. I cross the street like a shadow with a purpose. No noise. No warning. Just heat in my limbs, a hum in my chest that, in the past, always meant go. I slide in between them quickly, my body a wall of stone that separates her from whatever the hell this asshole thought he was going to do.

He staggers back, blinking like he hadn’t even seen me coming.

Sadie’s eyes are wide. Not scared. Alert.

“Is there a problem here?” I ask, voice low, even.

The guy looks between us, jerks his chin toward Sadie like she owes him something. “I was just talking to her. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

I take a step forward. “You touch her again,” I say, voice low and flat, “and I’ll give you something to mean.”

I’ve stepped between men and targets before. Civilians, teammates, war zones. This isn’t a combat op, but my body doesn’t know the difference. My stance shifts. Weight on the balls of my feet. My hand itches toward the Glock on instinct, not threat. I’m not here to pull a weapon. I’m here to make damn sure I don’t have to.

This isn’t about jealousy. This is about precision. Control. The same way you intercept a predator before it strikes.

He tries to puff up, throw his shoulders back. “I didn’t realize you were her boyfriend.”

“I’m not.”

That stalls him for a half second.

“But I am the sheriff,” I add, stepping closer, slower, “and I’m not in the mood to file paperwork.”

He swallows. His eyes flick to Sadie—looking for backup, maybe. She doesn’t say a word. Smart. I let the silence stretch between us, just long enough to make him start to sweat. Then I tilt my head.

“Do you want to walk away with all your teeth?” I ask.

The guy mutters something I don’t bother catching and turns on his heel. He walks off like he’s not trying to look like he’s hurrying—but he is.

I don’t chase him. I don’t need to. I already own the moment. I wait until he rounds the corner and disappears before I turn back to her. Sadie hasn’t moved. She still holds her wrist slightly away from her side, fingers curled around it—not dramatically, not weakly. Just... guarded.

“You okay?” I ask.

She nods once. “I’m fine.”

Her voice holds steady, but there’s tension behind it. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes a little too wide. Adrenaline. Or maybe it’s the way I stepped in without asking.

I glance down at her hand. “Let me see.”

“It’s not…”

“Sadie.”

That stops her.

She exhales and slowly uncurls her fingers. There are red marks where his grip had been. Nothing broken, but too firm for comfort. I reach out and run my thumb along the inside of her wrist, careful but sure. Her skin’s warm. Soft. She doesn’t pull away.

“Next time, don’t talk to guys who show up like that,” I say, eyes still on her wrist.

“I wasn’t talking. He followed me out when I came to put the sign up.”

My jaw ticks. “Then next time, call me.”

She blinks, caught off guard. “It happened fast.”

“I can be fast when I need to be.”

Her breath catches, just for a second. Not because of what I said. Because of how I said it—calm, final, as if it’s a promise I’ve already decided to keep.

She eases her hand back slowly; her gaze locked on mine. “You can’t be everywhere, Zeke… not all the time.”

“No,” I say. “But I can be here. When it counts.”

She opens her mouth like she wants to say something else, then closes it again.

I let the silence hang, then nod toward the café. “The lights are still on inside. You locking up, or am I doing it for you?”

A ghost of a smile touches her lips. “I was getting to it.”

“Not fast enough.”

She shakes her head with a soft laugh and turns, walking back toward the door. I follow her in, making sure it’s locked tight behind us, eyes still scanning the street even after he’s long gone.

Because whoever that guy was? I don’t like the way he looked at her. And I sure as hell don’t like that he thought she was alone.

Inside the café, Sadie moves behind the counter with that kind of deliberate calm that only comes from trying too damn hard not to shake. She grabs a rag, starts wiping down a surface that’s already spotless, and doesn’t look at me for a solid thirty seconds. I don’t move. Just lean back against the locked door and watch her hands. Her fingers drift to her wrist and rub over it absently, like she’s trying to erase the imprint that sonofabitch left behind.

“You sure you’re okay?” I ask again, keeping my voice low.

She nods—too quickly. “Yeah. It was nothing.”

It wasn’t nothing. I don’t call her on it. I just keep watching her hands.

Sadie’s the type who holds herself together even when she’s cracked down the middle. I can see it now—the tension in her jaw, her shoulders drawn too high, the way her eyes keep flicking around like she’s replaying it all in her head on a loop.

“Thank you, though,” she says after a beat, finally glancing at me. “For stepping in.”

I shrug like it’s no big deal, but my stare doesn’t soften. “You don’t have to thank me for doing what any decent man should’ve done.”

She gives a faint smile and looks away. “You’d be surprised how many don’t.”

That hits harder than it should. I don’t ask what she means, even though part of me wants to. Not tonight. She’s still rattled. Barely holding the line. She keeps wiping the same damn spot on the counter until she finally catches herself and straightens. Her hand drifts to her wrist again.

“Who was he?” I ask, voice steady.

She blinks, then looks away. “Just someone from out of town.”

The lie’s smooth… practiced and total bullshit.

I let the silence linger between us, clear and understood. I'm not here to corner her—especially not in the space she's accustomed to navigating. That doesn't mean I believe her. I observe her eyes, the overly nonchalant shrug, and how her fingers instinctively drift back to her wrist as if driven by reflex, not intention.

I’ve seen plenty of people lie. Most of them have better poker faces. Sadie’s not lying because she’s hiding something she did. She’s lying because she thinks it’s safer if I don’t know.

“You should report it anyway,” I say. “Let me log it.”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t recognize him. And he’s gone.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s done.”

Her lips press together. She’s not afraid of me—never has been. But she’s afraid of something. Whatever it is, it’s got her convinced silence is smarter than the truth.

I push off the door and walk around the counter, stopping close. Close enough to smell sugar and flour and the faint trace of lavender soap. She doesn’t back up, but her body tenses just for a second before she steadies herself again.

“I’m not here to crowd you,” I say quietly, eyes on her face, tracking her breath, the pulse ticking just below her jaw. “But if someone’s trying to scare you, that makes it my business. I’m the sheriff of a small town, and protecting the residents is my top priority.”

Her chin lifts, just enough to show she’s not folding. But her voice drops a little when she asks, “But why me? Why now?”

“Because I said I’d keep you safe.” I let the words land, let the promise settle between us. Then I add, “And I don’t break promises.”

She looks up at me. This time, really looks. Her eyes aren’t just wary anymore—they’re measuring, curious, maybe even wondering if I mean it. I let her study me.

Finally, she exhales and gives a small nod. “If I see him again, I’ll tell you.”

“Good, but you’ll do more than that,” I say. “You’ll call me.”

“I don’t have your number.”

I pull my phone from my pocket, tap it open, and hand it to her. She hesitates for a breath, then takes it, types fast. When she gives it back, I fire off a one-word text to the name she entered:

Sadie.

“You do now.”

Her phone buzzes on the counter behind her. She doesn’t move to check it. Just stands there, arms at her sides, like she can’t decide if she feels safer… or more exposed.

“Come on, I’ll lock up and walk you home. I’ll do a complete sweep when I get back.”

I move to the kitchen, take out the bagged trash and put it in the dumpster, then come back inside. Locking the back door, I join her by the front door and escort her out, locking that door as well. The street’s quiet, but I don’t trust it. Not yet.

Sadie walks beside me, arms tucked into her coat, boots making little sound as we head down the sidewalk. She hasn’t said much since I locked up the café, but I can feel her beside me—tight shoulders, steady pace, her body turned just slightly inward, like she’s used to shrinking without realizing it.

It makes me feel good that she doesn’t shrink from me. That says more than anything else.

“You always walk home this late?” I ask.

“Sometimes. Depends on the day.”

“Don’t anymore.”

She looks up at me, half amused. “That an order?”

“Yes.”

She huffs a breath—part laugh, part protest—but she doesn’t argue. The cottage comes into view, porch light casting a soft glow on the path. It fits her—charming, worn in all the right ways, but strong underneath. Like her. I scan the windows, the yard, and the surrounding trees. Everything’s still. I still don’t like it.

She stops at the steps, turns to me. “You gonna do a sweep inside, too?”

“If I wanted to, would you stop me?”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Would you care if I did?”

“No.”

That earns a small smile. Real. She digs for her keys, and I step up beside her, watching the shadows shift around the porch. She hands me the keys. I open the door, drawing her inside and locking it. I make a quick sweep, ensuring that no one has disturbed the place. I walk back to her and hand her the keys.

“I like your place. It reminds me of you—strong, warm, comfortable.”

“So I’m comfortable?” she says with a grin.

“You know what I mean. It’s nice.”

“Thanks, and thanks for walking me.”

I nod once. “It’s kind of what I do, but you’re welcome.”

She hesitates at the door, glances back over her shoulder. “Are you always this... intense?”

“Yes. Get some sleep tonight,” I tell her. “I’ll be at the café if anything feels off.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“I’ll still be there.”

That gets a laugh out of her—quiet, quick, but real. It settles something in my chest I didn’t realize was tight. Her lips part like she wants to ask something else. But she doesn’t.

She unlocks the door, steps aside, and smiles. “Goodnight, Sheriff.”

“Good night Sadie. Lock the door behind me.”

I step through the door; it clicks shut. A moment later, I hear the deadbolt turn.

And I walk away, knowing she’s safe.

I walk to the back of the café, let myself in and grab my coffee mug from the shelf, and start for the stairs leading to the studio above. My boots echo softly across the tile. When I hit the first step, I pause, looking back at the quiet kitchen and smile. It, too, reminds me of her.

“She might lie to protect herself,” I mutter under my breath, “but that’s not gonna keep her safe.”

Not from what’s out there. Not from what’s already started. And not from me.

Because the guy who grabbed her, who left that mark? He just made himself a problem. And solving problems is something I do well.