Page 23 of Brewbies
There were limits to protect and serve…in that you often couldn’t protect people from their own stupidity until it was too late.
Feeling at a loss for what to do next, Ethan left his eyes glued to the glutes powering Ms. Dunwell up the curved slope beyond Water Street toward the shipyard. A gust leapt from the water and hit her sideways, causing her to overcorrect. Had a car been speeding down the hill, it would have hit her.
Spitting on the pavement, he let his string of curses follow him like a kite as he stalked back to his vehicle and wrenched the door open. She wouldn’t get in the car? Fine. Didn’t mean he still couldn’t escort her home.
It took him no time to catch up to her, then pull to the shoulder to inch along two car lengths back from her banana seat.
A quick glance behind her sent her legs chugging even harder up the hill.
Ethan met her speed exactly, his headlights illuminating the path ahead as she stubbornly refused to acknowledge him.
He followed her past the little hospital on the second hill. Past the famous Dungeness Diner, where people ate butter-drenched crab with mallets and no dignity. Past three different bed-and-breakfasts, all of which had been featured at some time or other inTravelmagazine. Past the organic pet store and one of four packed antique shops. Past a couple fuel stations, and the handful of competing nurseries perched at the edges of the animal rescue and lavender farms that made for the brilliant violet welcome party to the tourists.
When Darby crested the second hill, she looked over her shoulder again, her expression furious and fatigued. She yelled something at him, but the wind snagged it away before it could reach him.
He just waved.
She flipped him off.
Ethan couldn’t help but grin. Kept her safe and pissed her off. That was what they call atwofer.
When she reached the hollow of trees that tunneled a mile out to the highway, she braked and put her foot on the road to steady herself.
He pulled up beside her as she fished in her basket. “Had enough of the wind?” he asked.
She didn’t look up. “Nope. Fuck off, please.”
Counting in for five and out for six, Ethan breathed through his aggravation as she secured a little headband around her forehead and clicked on a headlamp. “Come on, Ms. Dunwell, just get in the car.”
“You do understand whatnomeans, correct, sheriff?”
And she was off again. Launching her bike down the deep slope, which bottomed out by the marshy riverbed before lifting out of the tree tunnel to meet the highway.
Being here tore a few of Ethan’s synapses from Darby’s ass and repaved the well-worn pathways back to the task at hand.
Raven Creek.
The very estuary toward which they currently sped.
Ethan used to own this tree tunnel and everything for one hundred and fifty-five forested, fertile, and spring-fed acres of property along the internationally famous Pacific Coast Highway 101.
Or his family did.
To hear his grandfather, Ethan Townsend II, and father, Ethan Townsend III, speak of it, Townsend Harbor was their birthright, and Raven Creek their investment in the future of the legacy.
Until his scheming, appearance-obsessed mother sold it out from under him without so much as a whisper of care for his future…
To Darby Leighton Dunwell.
Just as Ethan eased his foot off the brake, he slammed it on again as a black-tailed stag bounded out of the trees and, in two leaping sprints, connected with the bicycle. The power of the impact knocked both Darby and her bike off the road and out of reach of his headlights.
Before Ethan put a coherent thought together, his instincts kicked in. Jamming his lights on, he grabbed his gun, radio, and flashlight before diving out of his vehicle.
“Ms. Dunwell?” he bellowed, scanning the tree line with his flashlight and wrestling with his runaway heartrate. “Darby?”
When she didn’t immediately answer, he lifted his radio to call for medical backup.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.If she wasn’t okay, he would—
