Page 1 of Daddy's Heart

One

Emery

“Mama, be careful in the mountains!”

My son’s voice crackles through the speaker, adorable like always. Legend is three years old and absolutely convinced he runs the world. Maybe he does. At least,mine.

“I will, baby,” I murmur, guiding my minivan up the final stretch of the winding dirt road. My stomach does a nervous little twist as I catch a glimpse of a log cabin through the pine branches in the distance. “You be good for Grandmama, okay?”

“Iamgood! Grandpop says I’m thegoodest ever!”

I smile, even though my palms are a little sweaty. “He’s right.”

“Emery, honey?” My grandmother’s voice cuts in. “Are you sure about this? Those mountains at night are dangerous, and who knows who that man is you’re going to see out there in the middle of nowhere.”

“I’m fine, Grandmama. Just a house call. Anyway, he’s the Sheriff, I’m pretty sure I’ll be safe. Gotta go. Love you all,” I say as I end the call.

Sheriff Colt Boone.

I mean, what kind of name is that? It sounds like a brand of whiskey or bar of soap that smells like leather and flannel.

The man Logan described as grumpy as hell and built like a brick wall that half of the female Wildfire population would like to climb. And a respectable portion of the male population as well. The kind of man you don’t want to meet in a dark alley unless you’re trying to get ruined.

Which, apparently, I’m doing. Professionally, of course.

I park beside a massive black truck that looks like it could eat my van for breakfast. My fingers tremble a little as I check my reflection. My hair is barely hanging on in its messy bun, and my lips are dry. I swipe on Cherry Chapstick like it’s armor and take a breath.

Just a trained medial assistant. Doing her job. No big deal.

Oh, did I mention? I’m here to check his wound. A bullet hole in his ass.

As I make the final approach to the sheriff’s house, I’m comforted by the fact the cabin is honestly incredible. Not like the Dutton’s Yellowstone behemoth, but somehow better. Small and neat with ferns filling the beds, and what looks like one of those tree trunks that’s been carved with a chainsaw into a magnificent, artful grizzly bear.

Once I’m parked, engine off, I click open my door. Outside, it’s one of those Wildfire nights that belong in a song or a book.

There’s a coolness to the mountain breeze that blends magically with the waning heat of the late summer day.

The path leading to the front door is made of flagstone and gravel. I walk carefully, balancing my bag on my shoulder, mynew pair of knock-off Tori Burch flats providing zero grip on the slightly uneven terrain.

When I look up to take in the front door of my destination, I note a sign nailed to a carved piece of wood above the porch.

“Beware of the Owner”

My jaw unhinges, wondering if I should turn tail and make haste back to civilization in my minivan when, I roll the ball of my foot on a loose rock. My arms fly outward but it’s no use. I’m tumbling, knees crashing down onto hard stone with an ‘oof’.

My palms scrape raw, and the bag on my shoulder lands with a thud three feet ahead of me.

“Shit,” I hiss, trying to catch my breath as a hot explosion of pain expands from my left kneecap.

With clenched teeth and squinted eyes, I push up on my hands, trying to right myself when I hear it.

The distinctive sound of heavy, cast-iron hinges squealing.

Followed by the thud, thud, thud of heavy footsteps on wooden steps.

Then, a low voice, rough as the gravel digging into my knees. “Jesus Christ.”

I barely lift my head before thick, grabby hands are around my waist.

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