Page 12 of Protected By the Mountain Man

“Something I can help you with?”

I held the note out like it was evidence in a trial. “Have you seen anyone odd hanging around? Someone who might've slipped this into my PO box?”

Hank squinted at the paper before shaking his head. “No, ma'am. It's quiet here, mostly just folks coming in for their packages and leaving.”

“Right.” I tucked the note into my jean pocket, my mind racing. “Thanks.”

Quiet was one thing Silver Ridge had always been, and that quiet had always felt safe. But as I left the post office, the quiet streets seemed dangerous. It had been quiet the day Ben had been shot, too…and now he was dead, and someone was watching us.

The sheriff's office was just down the street, a beacon of supposed safety in our small town. I pushed through the door, my boots tapping an impatient rhythm on the floor.

“Sheriff Callahan?” I called out, not caring for formalities or pleasantries. The police department was tiny—one room with a few desks, the sheriff’s mixed in with the rest.

“Kat?” Callahan appeared from behind the desk cluttered with paperwork and half-empty coffee mugs. “What brings you in today?”

“This.” I slapped the note onto the desk, the words screaming up at us both. “Someone left this in my mail. It's threatening, and I want to know what you're going to do about it.”

Callahan picked up the note, reading it with a furrowed brow. He didn’t look nearly as freaked out as I felt. “Calm down, Kat. We'll look into it. Could be some kids pulling a prank.”

“Seriously?” I scoffed, the sound sharp and bitter. “Since when do kids threaten folks to sell their land? Look, Ben's death stirred up a lot of talk, but this is something else. This is personal and dangerous.”

He shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable under my glare. He should have been uncomfortable—they’d dismissed Ben’s death as an accident, despite my arguments otherwise. Now, it looked like whoever had killed Ben was back. “We'll keep an eye out, Kat. It's likely someone trying to scare you because they think you're alone now.”

“Think? No, Sheriff, they know I'm alone,” I snapped, the frustration boiling over. “And I'm telling you, dropping the ball isn't an option here. Not when it comes to my family's safety.”

Callahan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I understand you're worried. We'll do a drive-by on your property, check things out. But try to stay calm. Getting worked up won't help.”

I barked out a humorless laugh. “Easy for you to say.”

I didn’t wait for his response, I spun on my heel and stormed out.

The drive back to the ranch was a blur of grey dust and growling engine. Each mile closer to home, my thoughts raced faster. Livy. The ranch. The damn note. I slammed the truck into park so hard the gears groaned in protest, flung open the door, and jumped out before the engine had even died down.

I was still seething from my conversation with the sheriff as I approached the house, but the sight on the porch almost made me crack a smile. Owen, my ever-determined cousin, sat there with a look of sheer frustration on his face as he tried to win over Bandit with a rawhide treat. Bandit, loyal to a fault, only replied with a deep-throated growl.

“Hey, give it up, Owen. He's not going to be your friend today,” I said, trying to inject some lightness into my voice.

“Damn dog is more stubborn than you are, Kat.” Owen shook his head but smiled, tossing the treat onto the porch railing in defeat. Bandit snatched it up in a flash.

“Stubborn runs in the family. And don't take it personally; Bandit's been on edge since…you know.” I couldn't bring myself to say it out loud. The shooting that took Ben still felt like an open wound.

“Yeah, I know.” Owen stood up, dusting off his jeans. “Why don't you take a break? I made some coffee.”

“Sounds perfect,” I sighed. “Inside, Bandit.”

The dog glanced between Owen and me before reluctantly trudging inside. I followed him in, the scent of fresh coffee hitting me right away. I poured myself a cup and went back to the porch—but not before giving one more instruction to Bandit. “And no more growling at Owen, okay? He's family.”

Bandit huffed, as if he understood perfectly but had his reservations about the whole situation.

Coffee in hand, Owen and I settled into the worn wooden chairs on the front porch. The warmth of the mug was comforting, a stark contrast to the chill that seemed to have permanently settled in my bones since Ben's passing. We sat in companionable silence until Owen cleared his throat.

“How are things around the ranch?”

Jesus…I didn’t know how to answer that. Bad? Horrible? Intolerable?

I just shrugged and made a noncommittal hum. “We’re managing,” I said.

Owen didn’t seem satisfied with that, his brow furrowing.

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