Page 1 of Her Dirty Defender

Chapter1

George

The early morning air bites at my skin, crisp and sharp, as I roll up the garage door to my shop. The scent of grease, metal, and last night’s rain welcomes me like an old friend.

Clover Canyon Auto sits on the outskirts of town, off the main road that stretches toward the ranchlands. It’s nothing fancy—a wide metal building with an open bay, a gravel lot out front, and a row of rusted-out trucks and busted tractors waiting for their second chance at life.

Across the road, the land stretches wide and open, fields rolling out toward the distant tree line where the mountains rise in the background. In the other direction, the town isn’t far, a five-minute drive, ten if you get stuck behind a slow-moving hay truck.

It’s not much, but it’s mine.

Machines make sense. They don’t expect anything from you. They don’t push or judge. If something’s broken, you figure out the problem, replace the part, and it works again. Simple. Predictable.

I grab my wrench and slide under the old Chevy farm truck taking up half my garage. One of the local ranchers brought it in yesterday, grumbling about how he’s convinced someone tampered with the transmission.

And as I work, it turns out he could be right. An untrained eye might miss it, but the underside and engine compartment show subtle signs of damage. And the oil? Thinner than it should be.

I work in silence, letting the familiar scrape of metal on metal ground me. The wrench slips, scraping the back of my knuckles as I tighten the bolt. I hiss through my teeth, twisting harder until it finally gives with a satisfying click.

I slide out from under the truck, back aching, coveralls streaked with oil. Sweat clings to my neck despite the cool air.

Before I can wipe my hands, my phone buzzes from the workbench.

Dad.

Of course.

I hesitate, staring at the screen. I already know what this is. A reminder. A directive. A gentle nudge dressed up as concern that somehow ends with me agreeing to something I don’t want.

Still, I answer. Because I always do.

“Hey, Dad.”

“You sound winded.”

“Just climbed out from under a transmission. Not exactly a day at the spa.”

“Right.” He’s quiet for a beat, long enough that I imagine him adjusting his hat, doing that stare thing he does when he’s about to issue an order disguised as a request. “I need you to swing by the office later today to discuss the Veterans Fundraiser. I need you on deck this year.”

Of course. Havenridge Ranch hosts it every year, and the Suttons go all out. It’s not simply a town fundraiser—it’s the backbone of the veterans’ program Dad helped launch with Ben Sutton when they left the military. And yeah, it matters.

To him. To the Suttons. To a lot of people.

Because a veteran’s fight doesn’t end because the war is over.

“Okay,” I say, brushing sweat off my brow with the back of my hand. “I’ll come by after work.”

“Make it five sharp, George. Don’t make me track you down.”

“You say that like you haven’t done it before.”

That gets a short grunt that might’ve been a laugh if Dad ever really laughed anymore.

I’m about to hang up when he adds, “And George… dress decent, will you?”

I pause, frowning. “It’s the sheriff’s office, not the Ritz.”

“I know. Just make an effort.”

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