Page 16 of Protector of Talon Mountain

That earns a small smile. Real. She digs for her keys, and I step up beside her, watching the shadows shift around the porch. She hands me the keys. I open the door, drawing her inside and locking it. I make a quick sweep, ensuring that no one has disturbed the place. I walk back to her and hand her the keys.

“I like your place. It reminds me of you—strong, warm, comfortable.”

“So I’m comfortable?” she says with a grin.

“You know what I mean. It’s nice.”

“Thanks, and thanks for walking me.”

I nod once. “It’s kind of what I do, but you’re welcome.”

She hesitates at the door, glances back over her shoulder. “Are you always this... intense?”

“Yes. Get some sleep tonight,” I tell her. “I’ll be at the café if anything feels off.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“I’ll still be there.”

That gets a laugh out of her—quiet, quick, but real. It settles something in my chest I didn’t realize was tight. Her lips part like she wants to ask something else. But she doesn’t.

She unlocks the door, steps aside, and smiles. “Goodnight, Sheriff.”

“Good night Sadie. Lock the door behind me.”

I step through the door; it clicks shut. A moment later, I hear the deadbolt turn.

And I walk away, knowing she’s safe.

I walk to the back of the café, let myself in and grab my coffee mug from the shelf, and start for the stairs leading to the studio above. My boots echo softly across the tile. When I hit the first step, I pause, looking back at the quiet kitchen and smile. It, too, reminds me of her.

“She might lie to protect herself,” I mutter under my breath, “but that’s not gonna keep her safe.”

Not from what’s out there. Not from what’s already started. And not from me.

Because the guy who grabbed her, who left that mark? He just made himself a problem. And solving problems is something I do well.

4

SADIE

It’s five a.m. when my alarm buzzes low beside the bed. I’m already half awake, eyes on the ceiling, listening to the wind rattle the bay windows. The cold creeps through the walls like it owns the place, but I don’t mind it. Mornings like this are mine. Still. Predictable. Safe.

I dress fast—layers, flannel shirt, jeans, thick socks, boots—and walk into town. I know I could drive, but there’s something about making the walk each day that appeals to me more than the warmth and comfort of my Jeep. I head around to the back of the café. I never turn on the lights out front. I always enter the bakery from the back door. I usually leave the same way, but last night Zeke had walked me home, and we’d left through the front door. I unlock the kitchen door and breathe in the stillness like it’s medicine. Then I put on my apron, get my baking supplies, and start preheating the ovens.

Cinnamon rolls always come first—yeast, sugar, butter. Cinnamon. I know the measurements by heart. The routine grounds me. It tells my body I’m here, not there. That yesterday didn’t follow me in. That the man who grabbed me outside the café is gone. That Zeke didn’t feel like a storm I wanted to step into. That he wasn’t heat that stuck to my skin after he walked me home and checked every damn window like he’d claimed the walls as his own.

Flour dusts the counter. The scent of brown sugar blooms through the kitchen. By the time the second batch of scones is in the oven—cranberry orange—I’ve found my rhythm again. Knead. Fold. Cut. It’s not peace, exactly, but it’s close.

Then, I hear boots on the stairs. I pause, rolling pin in hand, every part of me suddenly tuned tight. I remind myself Zeke lives upstairs now. This is part of the deal. No one’s breaking in. This isn’t Brent.

Still, when I turn, Zeke’s already there.

Big. Broad. Silent as stone and just as unmoving. He fills the space with his presence alone, like the room shrinks to accommodate him. No knock. No warning. Just calm, steady eyes scanning the kitchen like he’s assessing for threats between trays of muffins.

I don’t look up right away. I pretend to focus on the scones. But I feel him. The air changes when he enters. It’s not dramatic. It’s gravitational, as if everything in the room tilts toward him. His steps are soft, but I know they’re his. Controlled. Intentional. He doesn’t move like a man killing time. He moves like a man who makes it.

I glance over and catch his eyes on my hands—not judging, just watching. Calm. Steady. And somehow more intimate than if he’d touched me.

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