Page 18

Chapter eighteen

Sawyer

Clayton pulled his motorcycle into the parking lot, and they stepped off, letting their gazes linger on the Timberline Pub. It was charming in a way he hadn’t expected—a snug little building tucked beneath towering pines. The warm, honey-colored wood of the exterior glowed in the street lights, and the hanging sign swayed gently in the breeze. It read “Timberline Pub” in carved letters, bordered by a painted scene of mountains and trees. Sawyer could easily imagine the place buzzing with life—laughter spilling out the doors, the clink of glasses, the hum of friendly conversation.

But this afternoon, it was anything but cozy.

The glass of one window was shattered, its jagged remnants glittering in the dirt below. The front door hung slightly ajar, splintered around the hinges as though it had been forced open. From where Sawyer stood, he could see overturned chairs inside, and the faint glint of broken bottles scattered across the floor. He clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

James and Brody pulled up beside them. Clayton’s eyes narrowed at the scene almost immediately. He didn’t say anything, but Sawyer could see the tension in his shoulders.

Two officers stood on the porch, their uniforms crisp and professional against the chaos. One had a clipboard in hand; the other scanned the area with sharp eyes, as if piecing together what had gone down.

Clayton strode up to the officers, his boots crunching against the gravel. James and Brody walked beside him, their expressions grim, and Sawyer followed. His chest felt tight—partly anger, partly guilt. He knew why Owen had done this, and he hated that he’d been part of the cause.

“Evening, Clayton,” one officer said, tipping his head slightly toward Clayton. “Sorry this happened, buddy. Since you’re the owner of the Timberline, I need to have a statement from you.”

“That’s okay,” Clayton replied, his voice steady but tinged with frustration. “I was away at Pride Camp. What happened here?”

The officer glanced at his notepad. “Your employee, Charlie, reported an incident earlier today. Said a man by the name of Owen Bricks came in, caused a scene, and…well, I think you can see the rest.” He gestured toward the mess inside. “What we’re trying to figure out is why. Charlie mentioned something about tension at the camp—something that may have set him off?”

Clayton opened his mouth to respond, but Sawyer stepped forward before he could. He couldn’t let Clayton shoulder this alone.

“My name’s Sawyer Gallager,” he said, his voice firm but careful. “I was at the camp yesterday, and Owen attacked me. Clayton stepped in—he stopped him before things got bad.”

The officer’s eyes narrowed slightly as he regarded Sawyer. “Attacked you? Can you elaborate?”

Sawyer nodded, his pulse quickening as he recalled the scene. “It was…heated. I was minding my own business, walking to my tent in the woods. I was alone. Owen got in my face, trying to get me to go to his tent, something I didn’t want to do. Then he began shouting, and he shoved me against a tree. I tried to back away before he shoved me. I don’t even know him. That’s when Clayton showed up and pulled him off. He told Owen to leave and banned him from camp and here, but I guess—” Sawyer glanced around at the destruction. “I guess this was Owen’s way of lashing out.”

The officers exchanged a look before the one with the notepad spoke again. “We’ll need a formal statement from both of you. If you could step inside, sit down, and write out what happened, we’ll take it from there.”

Clayton nodded curtly, his jaw tight. “Fine.”

They filed into the pub, weaving through the mess. Sawyer couldn’t help but notice how much the place had been damaged—tables overturned, shelves splintered, glass crunching underfoot. Yet even in its state of disarray, the Timberline’s charm shone through. The exposed beams above, the stone hearth nestled in the corner, the collection of mismatched chairs that somehow worked together—it all spoke of a place built with care. A place that deserved better than what had been done to it.

The group sat at a long table, one of the few still standing. The officers handed out forms and pens, and Sawyer focused on the task at hand. He described the attack in as much detail as he could recall, his pen scratching against the paper with determined strokes. Clayton worked quietly beside him, his expression unreadable. James and Brody kept watch as they talked to Charlie, their presence steady and reassuring. One officer took pictures of all the interior damage and the windows.

When they finished, the officers collected the statements and reviewed them. After a few minutes, one officer tucked the papers into his clipboard and straightened. “All right. That’ll do for now. We’ll follow up if we need anything else.” He glanced around at the mess again. “And…sorry about your pub.”

Clayton gave a curt nod, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Thanks.”

With that, the officers left, their cruiser pulling away from the lot and disappearing down the road. The pub fell silent, save for the faint rustle of wind outside. Sawyer felt the weight of the afternoon settle heavily on his shoulders.

“Well,” James said, breaking the quiet. “Guess we’ve got some cleaning to do.”

Brody sighed, his hands on his hips as he surveyed the mess. “Looks like Owen left us a real masterpiece.”

Clayton shook his head, his frustration finally bubbling to the surface. “This place…this damn place.” He exhaled sharply, then looked at the group. “Let’s get started.”

They began working together, picking up broken glass, righting overturned furniture, sweeping the floors. Sawyer found himself drawn to the hearth, where shattered picture frames lay scattered. He carefully gathered them up, piecing together what he could. One photo caught his eye—a candid shot of Clayton and Charlie behind the bar, both laughing, glasses raised in a toast. It made him ache for what the pub represented—the warmth, the friendships, and the sense of belonging.

James worked on the shelves, rearranging bottles that had survived the chaos. Brody tackled the tables, wiping them down and checking for structural damage. Clayton busied himself with the front door, inspecting the hinges and muttering under his breath.

They worked until the pub felt like itself again, its charm slowly returning with each repaired chair, each cleaned surface. By the time they finished, through the remaining window, the sun lowered.

Sawyer leaned against the bar, his muscles aching but his heart lighter. Clayton joined him, wiping his hands on a rag, his expression softer than it had been all afternoon.

“Thanks for stepping up earlier,” Clayton said quietly. “That couldn’t have been easy.”

Sawyer shrugged, his eyes on the fireplace. “You’ve done enough for me. It was the least I could do.”

Clayton nodded, his gaze thoughtful. “This place means a lot to me. To all of us. I don’t know what Owen’s problem is, but…” He trailed off, his frustration clear.

“It’s not your fault,” Sawyer said. “You stood up for me. For Charlie. You’re doing all you can.”

Clayton smiled faintly, the weight in his eyes lifting just a little. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Hey, you guys ready to return to camp for dinner?” Clayton asked.

“Sure, we want our prize,” Brody said.

They said their goodbyes to Charlie, then left for camp.

“Hey, are we still going to dance tonight?”

“Yes, we will, but you didn’t get to work on your moves with Rowan.”

“That’s okay, I’ll follow you.”

Clayton leaned in and kissed Sawyer before he put on his helmet. He needed that after the day they’d had.