Page 9 of Protector of Talon Mountain

That’s a good question, and I don’t have a good answer.

When I finally get a breath alone in the back hallway, I press my palms to the wall and close my eyes. I shouldn’t be thinking about him. Not this much. Not when all he did was look at me and order coffee and a muffin like it was part of some covert op.

But something in me stirs. Something I thought I’d buried so deep it hasn’t seen daylight in four years.

The new sheriff isn’t the kind of man to flinch. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t let others get hurt. He’s the kind of man, whether I like it or not, who just walked into my world and rocked it hard, as if he had every right to.

* * *

I close up and head out the back door of the café and into the alley. I make my way around to Main Street’s sidewalks and walk to the end of town. The cottage I bought two years ago is no longer a rundown, ramshackle shack. I’ve spent a lot of time, effort and money bringing it back. It and the two cottages on either side serve as the leading houses to gentrify the small neighborhood that juts out onto a small peninsula.

The cottage faces the bay, so I don’t see the note taped to the door until I walk up onto my front porch. There it is bold as brass in red ink and all caps:

KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT.

No signature. No explanation. Just that.

My heart doesn’t just drop—it slams against my ribs and goes cold. My fingers hover over the paper, but I don’t touch it right away. I scan the surrounding area—instinct, not logic. Of course, there’s no one there. The neighborhood is always quiet at this time of day.

But still. I feel it. That skin-prickling sense that someone’s been close. Too close. I don’t call the sheriff—not yet. I’d called MacAllister’s predecessor, and it had done no good. Basically, he’d patted me on the head and told me not to worry. Instead, I unlock my door, reach up to take down the note, step inside, and shut it behind me like I’m bracing for a storm. The walls feel too thin now. The shadows are longer than they should be. I pull down the blinds and press my back to the door.

The note is still in my hand. I should burn it. Or seal it in an evidentiary baggie, but I don’t. Instead, I slide it into the back of my top dresser drawer and cover it with a rolled-up pair of socks.

It’s not the handwriting that does it. It’s the slant. Aggressive. Familiar in the worst kind of way. I’ve seen that kind of rage scrawled across bills, sticky notes, grocery lists. The kind of writing that doesn’t just say what it wants—it dares you to ignore it. For a second, I swear I can smell his cologne again. Musky. Cheap. Suffocating.

But this isn’t him. Different handwriting. Same message. Same sick feeling in my stomach.

The sheriff was probably right. It was nothing… is nothing. Merely a prank or a message meant for someone else. Only it isn’t… and I know that. Because this is what he used to do—Brent.

Small, sharp warnings when I started getting too brave. A cracked glass. A slammed door. A ‘joke’ that wasn’t funny at all. This feels the same, but it’s different handwriting. The problem is that I’m not that girl anymore.

I go inside, fix dinner and sit curled up in one of my chairs by the fire—a shotgun laid across my lap. The next morning, I rise, lock myself in the bath and shower. Then I fix my hair in the mirror, touch up my makeup, and head back down to the café like everything is fine. Because if I stop now—if I show it’s working—then whoever it is will know they have won.

By six-thirty, the café is humming as usual. Ada, from the library, comes in wearing one of her knitted owl sweaters and orders her usual: breakfast quesadilla with eggs, chorizo sausage, cheese, peppers and onions and a can of Diet Coke. She gives me a look like she wants to say more, but then just squeezes my hand and heads to her table.

“Storm’s coming,” she says over her shoulder.

Weather or otherwise? I don’t ask.

Joe from the gas station rolls in next, shoulders hunched from too many years spent underneath SUVs, trucks and the occasional car. I don’t care what time it is, he always smells like rubber and gasoline, but he tips well and eats slow, like he needs time to stretch the quiet and ease into his day.

“I heard we got ourselves a new sheriff,” he says as I pour his coffee. “I’ve seen him around town.”

“We do.”

He raises an eyebrow. “He real, or another rent-a-badge like that last guy the mayor brought in?”

“He didn’t strike me as the rent-a-badge type.”

Joe huffs a dry chuckle. “No, I bet he didn’t. That man looked like he’s got sniper eyes. Like he sees through people.”

I think about the way Zeke looked at me. Not in a way that made my skin crawl. In a way that made me feelexposed, but not unsafe.

“I think he sees a lot,” I say, handing him his plate with a breakfast sandwich with scrambled eggs, ham, onions and cheese on slabs of sourdough.

“Yeah,” Joe mutters. “That’s what scares me.”

I go back to wiping down the counter, pretending my hands aren’t still trembling from last night’s encounter with someone’s sick idea of a joke—the note. The difference between the new sheriff and my ex is a contrast that hits hard.

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