Page 70 of Finding His Redemption

A few nervous chuckles rippled through the bakery. Jax remained silent, watching as the sheriff sauntered over to their table.

“Pastor,” Goodwin nodded respectfully. “Dewey.” His eyes narrowed as they landed on Oliver. “Why don’t you take your little friend back to play, son? Grown-up business here.”

Oliver looked to his mother, who nodded tightly. “Go on, honey. Show Tate that new fire truck book we got from the library.”

The boys reluctantly retreated, Oliver casting concerned glances over his shoulder.

“Thought Walker had you on lockdown out at the Ridge,” Goodwin said once the children were out of earshot.

“Last I checked, getting coffee wasn’t a parole violation.”

“No, but murder is.”

The bakery went deadly silent. Jax felt every eye on him, felt judgment settling over him like a shroud.

“You’re not seriously accusing him again,” Nessie said in disbelief. “We’ve been through this. He didn’t do it.”

“Just making conversation,” Goodwin replied, echoing Dewey’s earlier words. “Bailee Cooper’s family deserves answers, don’t you think?”

“They deserve better than a sheriff who’s more interested in scoring political points than finding the truth,” Jax said quietly.

Goodwin’s face darkened. “You questioning how I do my job, convict?”

“Hank,” Pastor O’Brien interjected smoothly, “perhaps this isn’t the venue?—”

“No, I think it’s the perfect venue,” Goodwin cut him off. “Let the good people of Solace see exactly what kind of men Walker Nash is harboring up at that ranch of his.”

One of the deputies moved closer, hand resting on his belt near his weapon. Jax knew his type—stocky, puffed up, exudingthe kind of false authority that came from years of bullying the defenseless. The other deputy—barely out of puberty, by the look of him—hovered awkwardly near the door, visibly sweating.

“Sir,” he started, but Goodwin cut him off with a slashing motion of his hand.

“Shut it, Frye.”

“I think you should leave now,” Nessie said, stepping between Jax and the sheriff. “You’re disrupting my business.”

“Am I?” Goodwin’s smile was cold. “Or is he?” He jerked his chin toward Jax. “Man with his record shouldn’t be anywhere near decent folks. Or children.”

Jax’s hands clenched into fists against his thigh, but he kept his face impassive. He’d survived five years in prison by mastering his reactions, by not giving the guards or other inmates what they wanted. This was no different.

“Sheriff.”

Everyone looked at Nessie. If that was her “mom” voice, it was effective.

And kind of hot.

Which, Jesus Christ, was not an appropriate thought to be having right now.

Or ever.

“I decide who’s welcome in my bakery,” she continued. “Jax is welcome. And, right now, you and your deputies are not.”

“That right?” Goodwin’s gaze slid to her, something ugly flickering in his eyes. “Careful, sweetheart. People might start wondering why you’re so quick to defend a violent felon.”

“Because I know what a real monster looks like,” she shot back, then immediately looked like she regretted the words.

The burly deputy took a step forward and reached for her arm. “Ma’am, I’m gonna have to ask you to back?—”

Nessie went pale. Her breath hitched. Her entire body stiffened in a way that hit Jax in the gut like a sucker punch.

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