Page 1 of Mountain Man Officer

1

JASON

Singer’s Ridge, a town so small it had one grocery store and a single shopping district. This town was the peace and quiet I needed following the disaster with my soon-to-be ex-wife. I didn’t want to think about it. I needed something new, a fresh perspective on life. And this sleepy little town was just what the doctor ordered.

I had pulled in about an hour ago after a straight drive from Nashville and dropped the U-Haul off at a storage locker outside of town. The owner was a plump woman in her mid-forties who talked my ear off about nothing in particular.

“Bradley said he would touch up the paint job here.” She rubbed two fingers along the edge of a storage shed. “You know Bradley?”

“No, ma’am,” I said.

I stopped to gas up my truck and struck up a conversation with the old man on duty.

“You’re not from around here,” he said.

“I’m here for a job interview,” I told him.

“What job?” The old man looked puzzled. I guessed there weren’t that many employment opportunities in a town this small.

“Police officer.” I grinned.

“Well.” The old man wiped an oil-stained hand on his jeans and stuck it out. “Welcome to Singer’s Ridge.”

I found the police station just off the main commercial artery, near the post office and across the street from a diner. I pulled in, put the truck into park, and reached for the rearview mirror. With far too serious, blue-grey eyes, a haunted man stared back at me. Stubble was beginning to appear on my chin, even though I had shaved early that morning. My hair was short but growing longer, and I might be in need of a trim soon. I made a mental note to see if there was a barber or a hair salon in this one-horse town.

I approached the station with caution, no detail of the building escaping my notice. It looked more like a house than the barracks-like structure back in Nashville. A set of wooden stairs led to a door that was badly in need of repair. It didn’t bode well for the municipal budget or my potential paycheck. Inside, a single dispatch officer sat at a desk behind a microphone and a computer. She looked up at the sound of the opening door.

“Good morning,” she said. “Can I help you?”

“Jason White,” I introduced myself. “I’m here for the officer’s position.”

“Have a seat.” She smiled, pushing out from behind her desk.

I looked around and found a line of metal chairs against the far wall. Before I had a chance to pick one, the dispatch officer crossed the room and knocked against a far door. She leaned inside and said something to the room’s occupant. A moment later, a ruddy, middle-aged man emerged from the office.

“Dawson Lane, Chief of Police.” He held out a hand.

“Jason White.” I clasped the offered hand.

“Thanks for comin’ all this way,” Dawson said, motioning toward his office.

“No problem,” I said, maneuvering into the tiny office and choosing a seat across from the desk.

Dawson shut the door and sat down in his chair. “What makes you interested in our little town?”

“I’ve been working in Nashville for almost ten years,” I said. “My buddy moved out here a few years back, and when I got tired of city life, I looked him up.”

“Who’s your buddy?”

“Dillon Ford,” I answered.

“Sure,” Dawson nodded, “I know Dillon. Good man. Shame what happened to him.”

I wasn’t sure which of Dillon’s tragedies the police chief was talking about. Dillon had quit the force after his partner was killed on the job and had become a recluse in the mountains outside of town. After that, I was vaguely aware of some drama involving a woman and her abusive ex-fiancé, but I never asked for any specifics. I just nodded as if I were sympathizing.

“So, tell me a little about what you did in Nashville,” Dawson said.

“A little bit of everything,” I answered. “When I first came out of the academy, I did traffic stops and walked a beat for about a year. Then I did some work in narcotics.”

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