Page 3 of Protected By the Single Dad Sheriff

"Sheriff Reynolds, come in." Doris's voice has that particular tone that means something unusual is happening.

I pick up the radio. "Reynolds here. What's up, Doris?"

"We've got a... situation on Main Street. Near the town square."

"What kind of situation?" I glance at Emma, who's pretending not to listen while clearly absorbing every word.

"It's a... well, it's a bride, sir."

"A bride," I repeat, certain I've misheard.

"Yes, sir. A woman in a wedding dress walking down the middle of Main Street. She appears to be... distressed. Mrs. Finch from the bakery called it in. Says the woman looks lost."

"I'll be right there." I hook the radio back on my belt and look apologetically at Emma. "Sorry, kiddo. Quick detour before we get Sophie."

Emma sighs with the weight of a child who's used to her father's job interrupting plans. "Is it a real emergency?"

"Probably not." I guide her toward the cruiser. "Just someone who needs help. Ten minutes, tops."

"You always say that," she mumbles but climbs into the back seat without further protest.

Five minutes later, I'm crawling down Main Street, scanning the sidewalks for a woman in white. Emma's face is pressed against the window, clearly intrigued by this bizarre call.

"There!" She points excitedly. "By the bookstore!"

I follow her finger and spot a flash of white among the pedestrians. As we get closer, the crowd seems to part, revealing a woman who looks like she's stepped out of a bridal magazine, if that magazine had a feature on "Brides in Crisis."

Her elaborate white gown is a stark contrast to the casual Saturday attire of everyone around her. Even from this distance, I can see that the dress is expensive—layers of delicate lace and beading catching the late afternoon light. Her auburn hair ispartially falling from what must have been an intricate updo, copper tendrils framing a face that's a complicated mix of determination and distress.

I pull the cruiser to the curb and turn to Emma. "Stay in the car, okay? I'll be quick."

She nods, already unbuckling her seatbelt to get a better view of the unfolding drama.

As I approach the woman, I notice details that weren't visible from the car: her smudged makeup, the tear in the hem of her dress, the painful-looking designer heels she's wobbling on. She's clutching a small purse against her chest like a shield, and her eyes—a striking green—are darting around with the wary vigilance of someone who expects pursuit.

"Ma'am?" I call, keeping my voice gentle. "I'm Sheriff Jake Reynolds. Is everything all right?"

She whirls toward me, those green eyes widening as they take in my uniform, my badge, and finally my face. For a moment, she seems frozen in place, like a deer caught in headlights. Then she draws herself up, chin lifting in a gesture of defiance that's somewhat undermined by the visible trembling of her lower lip.

"That depends," she says, her voice surprisingly steady despite her disheveled appearance, "on whether running away from your own wedding is considered 'all right' in Cedar Falls."

Chapter 2 - Isabella

I can't believe I just said that out loud. To a sheriff, of all people.

His eyebrows shoot up, and I watch his expression shift from professional concern to startled curiosity. He's tall, much taller than me even in these ridiculous three-inch heels that are currently murdering my feet. The late afternoon sun catches on his badge and the hints of silver at his temples, and there's something steadying about his presence that makes me want to keep talking, to explain myself to this stranger with kind eyes and an authoritative stance.

But I don't. I've said enough impulsive things today. Running away from Sebastian at the altar, stealing my maid of honor's car, driving two hours without a destination in mind until I found this picturesque little town. All of it feels simultaneously like the most reckless and the most honest thing I've ever done.

"I'm sorry," I say, trying to sound more composed than I feel. "That was inappropriate. I'm just a bit... lost."

"Geographically or metaphorically?" the sheriff asks, and there's a hint of something warm in his voice. Not quite humor, but understanding.

Both, I think, but don’t tell him.

"I just needed to stop somewhere. My feet are killing me." I gesture down at my satin heels, now stained with dirt and what appears to be gum.

My mother would be horrified. Thirty thousand dollars for this dress, and I've been dragging it through the streets like a rented Halloween costume.

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