Page 1 of Wandering in Love

Chapter One

IAN

Climbing from the Sheriff’s office rig, I sigh at the fight in front of me. Rick and Johnny are rolling around on the ground, throwing punches like a couple of toddlers, with dirt creating a cloud at the commotion.

Shaking my head, I hurry toward them. “Hey! Break it up!”

I grab the closest shirt and pull, catching an elbow to the ribs for my trouble.

“Next one to swing is going down to the station to cool down!” I holler.

My younger brother, Will, grabs Rick and helps me keep the two boneheads separated.

“What happened this time?” I look at Johnny, standing between the two best friends that fight more than anything else. I swear, once a week, I’m breaking up a bar fight starring these two.

“He stole my horse!” Johnny yells, anger flushing his face, his breathing ragged from the tussle.

With raised eyebrows, I turn to Rick. “You stealing from your best friend now?”

Rick huffs. His breathing and red face match his so-called best friend.

“I didn’t steal no horse!” he yells back before a smirk turns his lips. “I just moved him is all.”

Will tries not to laugh, but fails, doubling over and leaning on his knees.

“You ain’t helpin’.” I shove him out of the way. “Where’s the horse, Rick?”

He shrugs.

“Listen. You have an hour to find that horse before I arrest your ass for theft.”

“Yes, sir.” He takes off for his truck and peels out of the parking lot toward his ranch.

I’m not much older than Rick and Johnny. They were in Will’s graduating class, and Johnny works for my parents. I’m the youngest sheriff this town has had in a hundred years, and the people are struggling to adjust to me. The last sheriff retired last year and recommended me for the job. We had a town meeting, and it was a unanimous vote for me to step in to fill the role. I’ve been fighting for the respect of everyone older than me ever since. The guys I grew up with are fighting it too. It’s damn exhausting.

I was made for this job. I’ve been working in the sheriff’s office since I was fifteen. I started out just answering the phone and filing paperwork, but Burt caught me reading reports and case files. I was picking things apart, putting pieces together, so he started mentoring me. At thirty, I have fifteen years of experience policing this damn town. You would think the people around here would respect that, but to them, I’m still little Ian Rojas. Half the old ladies are still trying to hook me up with their granddaughters.

Checking my watch, I sigh and head down to Betty’s Diner for lunch. It’s the only diner in town and makes the best food around.

The parking lot is about full when I pull in, but it’s eleven, so I’m not surprised. The bell on the door rings as I step inside; the scent of fried food and coffee hits me, and my stomach grumbles.

“Morning, Sheriff!” Betty hollers from the kitchen.

“Mornin’,” I nod to her, taking a seat at the counter.

Betty’s been cooking in this place since before I was born. I have a feeling we’ll have to carry her out of here on a stretcher when the Good Lord comes calling. Her gray hair is up in a net on top of her head; bright red lipstick and dark eye shadow give her some color.

Her granddaughter, Bianca, pours me a cup of coffee.

“Your usual, Sheriff?” the quiet girl asks.

I nod at her as I take a sip of the piping hot liquid. There’s something about the petite girl that reminds me of my own momma. She’s seventeen, barely five feet, blonde, and quiet with a sweet demeanor, but from what I hear, she doesn’t take any shit from the boys. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen her glancing Will’s way more than once. His gaze has lingered on her too, but he knows better than to touch her until she turns eighteen.

She scribbles my order on her pad and sticks it on the clip in the window for Betty.

I’m a creature of habit. I wake up every day at five a.m., shower, and dress for work. I eat the same breakfast: bacon, eggs, hash browns, and toast with a cup of coffee. At eleven, I eat lunch at Betty’s, a club sandwich with extra mayo, French fries, and whatever fruit she’s got on hand. I close up the office and forward my calls to my cell phone at six p.m., stop in at The Rack Shack—one of the local bars where most of the ranch hands hang out—then head home and have steak and potatoes for dinner. My hair and beard are trimmed every two weeks like clockwork.

I’m a simple man. I like routine and knowing what to expect. This job is always throwing curveballs at me, so the rest of my life has to be in order.

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