Page 3 of Beauty and the Bounty Hunter

A bounty hunter.

I never should have come back home, but there was no time to berate myself.

I turned on my heel and bolted.

CHAPTER 3

Harbor

I debated driving the fifteen hours from Philadelphia to Wisconsin for approximately eight minutes before sucking it up and using old travel points I’d accumulated. I would collect once I returned Katrina Dobbs to the Milwaukee authorities and deposited the bounty into my starving bank account. John was right. It wasn’t a terrible idea to make a little cash on the side, and hunting down a gorgeous woman was far more appealing than busting up bar fights with frat boys.

To be clear, I was not doing it because she was gorgeous. Definitely not.

At the airport in Milwaukee, I rented a nondescript sedan, then reconsidered the moment I stepped outside and saw the mountains of snow piled all over the parking lot. One SUV upgrade later, and I was on my way to a little peninsula in the middle of Lake Michigan. St. Olaf, Wisconsin. One thousand year-round inhabitants with a big influx during the summer and fall tourist seasons, and the hometown of Katrina Valdez Dobbs.

It was a long shot, of course. There was a high likelihood she was smart enough not to return to her hometown after jumping bail, but it was a small town and everyone made mistakes. People were supposed to talk in small towns, weren’t they? Maybe someone had talked to her parents or her ex-husband, and they might have a clue where she was.

She hadn’t used any of her credit cards, and the ones she’d shared with her ex had all been canceled once he tanked their joint credit score and cheated on her.

Not to play devil’s advocate, but I could see why she wanted to run him over with her car. I had a similar urge after looking into Pete Dobbs.

The closer I drove toward St. Olaf, the more the picture of Katrina solidified in my head. She was an artist, according to her social media accounts. She’d posted entire galleries of sculptures she had crafted out of found materials: wood, leaves, stones. No big name shows—not that I would know one if it slapped me upside the head—but even I saw she had talent.

Out here, in the country? This must have been an inspiration for her.

Following the signs, I pulled off the road and into the town of St. Olaf.

Talk about a blast from the past.

Main Street was two neat rows of brick buildings with big, glass storefronts and parking spots outside. Fairy lights clung to the bare trees lining the street. The people walking around wore bulky winter parkas and hats, and almost everyone had a to-go coffee cup in their hands.

Coffee. My weakness. My mouth watered, and without fully realizing what I was doing, I parked in one of the angled spots and got out.

The whole town smelled heavenly, like sugar and crackling fire and warm cinnamon tea. No, that was the bakery I stood in front of. Sweet and Salty. The window display was framed with gingham curtains, and the inside bustled.

As I pushed open the door, a tiny bell dinged, announcing my arrival.

A blond non-binary person stood behind the counter, their cheeks pink from the heat inside the bakery. “Welcome. What can we get for you, stranger? We don’t see many tourists this time of year.”

“Hello, Sasha,” I said, reading their name tag. “Your coffee smells great. What kind do you have?”

Sasha laughed, their voice clear and bright. It warmed me in an odd way, since I hadn’t realized I was even cold. “We have everything. Are you a connoisseur?”

“No. I just like it.” I stuck my hands in my pockets. I was meant to be finding out information on my bounty, and instead I was chatting coffee with a local. Maybe this was why I hadn’t heard from the Marshal Service.

MIore likely it was because they had looked at my Army service record. Even if some of the missions were clandestine, anyone could have read between the lines. I had an honorable discharge, but that didn’t mean I’d done things I was proud of.

My fists clenched but they loosened as the scent of freshly-made snickerdoodle wafted toward me from the kitchen.

Sasha winked and made it look completely natural, for which I admired them. Every time I winked, I looked like I was about to spit nails. “Give me two minutes. I know just the thing.”

They disappeared into the back room. I presumed the kitchen was there, as typical kitchen sounds like clanking bowls and whirring mixers could be heard. A second later, a very pretty, full-figured brunette with her hair up in a rainbow bandana walked out, holding a plate of cookies. My mouth watered. I could almost see the cinnamon-scented steam rising from them.

“Hi,” the woman said. She plucked one cookie from the tray and placed it on a small, flamingo-shaped plate. Who knew they made plates like that? “I’m Laura Marshall. I own Sweet and Salty. You look like you could use a snickerdoodle.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Ugh.” Laura rolled her eyes. “Don’t ma’am me, please. I’m not that old. Am I that old, Sasha?” she called into the back.

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