Page 2 of The Rogue

And I’m not taking chances with the one person on this green earth I care more about than my next breath.

“Dad, do you think Sheriff Woody will let me see the jail cells?” Jackson asks, his eyes wide with curiosity.

I chuckle the way only this kid knows how to make me. “You know his name isn’t Woody, right, bud?”

“But he looks like Woody from Toy Story. And he’s a sheriff.”

“I wear a cowboy hat sometimes. Does that make me look like Woody?”

“No. You’re daddy. You look like my dad.”

For some reason, that makes me smile. I want to be that safe space for him. But it quickly fades when I need to break the news to him.

“Actually, bud, I gotta take you to Grandpa’s. Sheriff and I are just having a quick bite at the station to talk about security in town.”

“Why?”

My chest tightens.

Good question.

Hideaway Springs was never perfect and quiet. We’ve had our fair share of newsworthy crimes. But over the last few months, surrounding towns have had an uptick in graffiti, vandalism, and auto theft—not just petty theft, like stolen bikes. We’re talking residences and businesses that have been victims of late-night break-ins and shootings.

And I’m not sitting back and waiting for it to start happeninghere.

We drive out of the fields and onto the streets of our small town. I turn onto Main Street, lined with familiar shops. Their once colorful awnings now worn and distressed, showing their age.

Most of these small-town shop owners refuse to raise prices to keep up with inflation. Appearances are usually the first to go where a budget is concerned. Never the quality service.

It’s noble but not very sustainable.

It's become one of the main topics of conversation at Sunday dinners at Dad’s. My brothers and I trade updates on shops we check in on from time to time to make sure people are staying afloat.

I’m the oldest of four. Second to me is Noah, the town lawyer. He’s not theonlytown lawyer, but sure as hell acts like he is, taking nearly every case brought to him. If you’re a broke town resident in a jam, you’re almost guaranteed a pro bono attorney to take you on.

Chase is the hockey player. A sport he’d spend hours on Hideaway Springs Lake perfecting in the winters. Never would have imagined he’d go pro, but here he is, playing center for the Denver Kings hockey team.

Then there’s Elliot, the youngest. He’s still in college, but at least he’s close enough for us to keep an eye on him. He’s the only one out of all of us who doesn’t remember Mom during her good days before she got sick. He’s quiet, guarded, and to be honest, I never really know what’sgoing on in his head. Chase seems to be the only one who connects with him on a deeper level.

“Tell ya what,” I start with the good news as usual. “Let me see if I can sweet talk SheriffBradshawinto letting me bring you along next week. He can show you around then. But for now—”

“Grandpa’s?” he grumbles.

“Aww, come on. You two always have fun together,” I remind him, glancing between the road and my son. Seeing he’s not convinced, I sweeten the deal. “And when I pick you up, Iwon’task if you had an ice cream sundae two days in a row.”

He considers for a hot second, then nods curtly in agreement—not giving away that he’s getting the better end. Just like I’ve taught him. “Deal.”

I pull onto the gravel lot of Hideaway Springs Inn. Elliot’s outside, releasing smoke from his mouth before flicking his cigarette down and crushing it with his heel. His grin is wide as I pull to a stop and roll down my window.

“He-ey,” he calls cheerily, crossing to my truck and searching for Jackson. “Where’s my favorite little man?”

Jackson struggles with his seatbelt before jumping out. “I’m here. And I’m not little.”

Elliot rolls his eyes. “Yeah, good luck with that, kid. I was the little one for thirteen years, so you've got a long way to go.”

Dad steps out and gives me a quick nod before wrapping my kid in a giant bear hug. “’Bout time you got here.” Then whispers something I’m not intended to hear before taking him inside, making my kid giggle with excitement.

I’m still in the driver’s seat, a hard scowl as my eyes flick to the cigarette on the floor. “What’s that shit about?”

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