Page 26 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
He shrugs. “Depends if the coffee machine lives.”
“Morning, Sheriff,” calls Carla from dispatch, rolling by on her chair, headset askew. “If you hear a strange beeping later, it’s just the new scanner learning our accent.”
“Does the scanner know goats?” Gary asks.
“It knows you,” she fires back.
The bulletin board behind the front desk is its own small-town newsletter: a flyer for the fall chili cook-off, a photo of last year’s county fair pie-eating champion (Hank, mid-bite, eyes wild), three lost dog notices, two found chicken notices, and a printout with BE AWARE OF SCAMS crossed out and replaced in red pen with BE AWARE OFSCAMMERS; SCAMS ARE ABSTRACT. Gary claims Ruiz did it. Ruiz claims God did it.
“Sheriff?” Carla calls again, more gently. “How’s the boy?”
I half-turn. The bullpen buzz dims just enough to be noticeable.
“On the mend,” I say, and the room releases a breath like we were all holding it.
“Good,” Gary says, then ruins it. “Now you can get back to hunting feral goats.”
“We prefer the term ‘unhoused caprines,’” David says solemnly, and gets smacked in the shoulder with a rolled-up incident report for his trouble.
The humor lets me unclench a notch I didn’t realize I’d locked. This place—these people—were part of the reason I took this job. Small town, big heart, just enough chaos to keep you honest.
“Sheriff?” calls the County Commissioner from his office down the hall. “Got a minute?”
The bullpen makes a quietooohsound like we’re all twelve years old.
I straighten my tie that doesn’t exist and step in.
Howard Edwards—county commissioner, veteran, and former sheriff—is the kind of man who could stare a raccoon out of a dumpster. He waves me toward a chair that’s probably molded to every deputy who’s sat in it over the last twenty years. His office is painted with that universal bureaucratic beige. A framed photo of him and his mother, Melissa, laughing at a town picnic hangs on the wall. On a shelf sits a mug that saysBEST BOSSin a child’s handwriting—Melissa probably bought it and signed it herself.
“How’s Brick?” he asks, and it’s not a formality. Howard has a way of asking that makes you feel both seen and measured.
“Better. Home, cranky, hungry. He’ll be okay.”
“And you?”
I shrug. “Working on okay.”
He nods, his gaze drifting to the single window over the back lot. Light catches the creases in his face, deepening them for a heartbeat before softening again. “You fitting in all right here, Asher?”
It takes me half a second to realize he means Golden Heights, not the chair. “Yeah,” I say. Then, because he’s earned more: “Miami… had too many ghosts. Too much noise. Here, I can hear myself think.”
He grunts. “Thinking’s dangerous. I try to avoid it before lunch.” Papers shuffle under his hands until he finds what he was looking for. “Heard you’re planning to take some patrol shifts again.”
News travels at the speed of light around here.“I am. Keeps me close to the town. Shows the guys I’m not just a desk badge.”
“Good,” he says simply. “That’s your call, not mine. Gratefully, I don’t hand out routes anymore.” His eyes sharpen with quiet amusement. “Brime Street’s quiet this time of year, if you’re after a low drama start.”
I huff a laugh. “Noted.”
“Quiet isn’t punishment,” he says mildly. “It’s a chance to pay attention. You had a week where the world got small and scary. Don’t need to throw yourself straight into a domestic with knives. Drive the heart of town. Remember who you work for, who we all work for.”
When he puts it like that, it’s hard to argue. “Copy.”
He leans back, fingers steepled. “Also, heads up: you’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest with that Hartley mess. Moneyed folks with opinions are circling. Keep your eyes open for out-of-towners who smell like plans.”
I think of the motorcycle—black on black, like a blank square in a crossword. “Already saw a couple I didn’t like.”
“Trust your gut.” He points toward the door. “Now go be the friendly kind of sheriff.”
