Page 1 of Protected By the Single Dad Sheriff

Chapter 1 - Jake

I'm running late again.

The cedar trees lining Main Street blur past my cruiser window as I push the speedometer just a few miles above what I'd ticket someone else for. Emma's softball practice started ten minutes ago, and I promised, actually promised this time, that I wouldn't miss it.

"Dispatch, this is Sheriff Reynolds. I'm 10-7 for the next hour unless there's an emergency."

I don't wait for Doris's acknowledgment before hanging up the radio. She knows where I'm headed. The whole department knows my daughter's practice schedule by now.

The afternoon sun glints off my badge as I park haphazardly at Cedar Falls Community Park. I grab Emma's forgotten glove from the passenger seat—the reason for this mad dash across town in the first place—and sprint toward the diamond where eight-year-old girls in matching green jerseys are already running bases.

Coach Miller spots me first, his weathered face breaking into a knowing smile beneath his baseball cap. "Sheriff! A bit late, no?"

"Sorry, Ted," I mutter, scanning the field for my daughter. "I had to pick up Emma’s glove at home and then an emergency call about Mrs. Laura missing cat."

"Found in her own pantry again?"

"Sleeping in an empty cereal box." I shake my head. "Third time this month."

Emma stands near second base, her dark ponytail swinging as she turns and catches sight of me. For one heartbreaking second, I see her face light up, then immediately fall when she noticesthe glove in my hand. I forgot again. I'm the reason she's the only kid playing without proper equipment.

"Daddy!" she calls, jogging over with that half-excited, half-exasperated expression that makes her look exactly like her mother. The thought catches in my chest like it always does. Four years later, grief still ambushes me in these small, ordinary moments.

"Hey, slugger." I hold up her glove. "Special delivery."

She snatches it with an eye roll that seems far too teenage for her eight years. "Coach said I could borrow one of the extras."

"I know, but you play better with your own." I ruffle her hair, and she ducks away, mortified.

"Dad! Not at practice!"

I hold up my hands in surrender. "Sorry, sorry. Professional distance maintained, Deputy Emma."

That earns me a reluctant smile. "Are you staying?"

"Whole practice. Front row seat. I even turned my radio off."

"Really?" Her brown eyes, same shade as mine, go wide.

"Really."

"Okay, but you have to actually watch. No checking your phone for work stuff every five seconds."

"Deal." I cross my heart solemnly, and she seems satisfied, racing back to her position with renewed energy.

I settle onto the aluminum bleachers, forcing my shoulders to relax. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I squeeze my eyes shut, counting to five before checking it. It's Sophie's after-school program, not the station. Small mercies.

The text reads: *Sheriff, Sophie says she has a tummy ache. Not an emergency but thought you should know.*

I text back: *Thanks, Jen. I'll be there in an hour to pick her up.*

Guilt gnaws at me as I watch Emma swing at a pitch and miss. I should be at both places at once. I should be better at this. Claire would have known exactly what to do, would have somehow been in three places simultaneously without breaking a sweat.

But Claire's gone, and I'm here, stretched too thin between a town that needs protecting and two little girls who need a father.

I force myself to focus on Emma's next swing—a solid hit that sends her tearing toward first base. I leap to my feet, cheering loudly enough that she shoots me a mortified glance even as she slides safely onto the base.

"That's my girl," I whisper, not caring who hears the pride cracking my voice.

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