Page 11 of Her Dirty Defender

I chuckle, shaking my head. “Didn’t think I’d be back.”

Emmett leans against the counter, arms crossed, his grin easy but assessing. “You look like shit.”

“Good to see you, too.”

He nods toward the bar. “What’s your poison?”

“Whiskey. Neat.”

“On the house,” Emmett says to the bartender, who grabs a bottle and pours. “And here I thought you came back for the beer.”

“I did,” I admit, tipping my head toward the rich amber brew on tap—the Honey Pot’s famous secret-recipe beer.“Still won’t tell me what’s in it?”

Emmett smirks. “Not a chance.”

I take a sip of the whiskey the bartender sets in front of me, the tension in my shoulders easing.

“They your ancestors?” I ask, spotting the old black-and-white photograph hanging behind the bar.

A group of men stand in front of what looks likethe Town Hall on Main Street, though the surroundings are different—older, less developed. They’re dressed in old-fashioned clothing with stiff collars and work-worn coats, their expressions serious, like they were holding on to a secret. The Furbane family is right in the center.

The engraving on the bottom of the frame reads:Founders of Silverpaw Hollow.

Emmett follows my gaze, then gives a quiet grunt of acknowledgment. “Yeah. That’s the original crew. My great-great-granddad is right in the middle, beard like a mountain man and a scowl that could sour milk.”

I smirk. “Runs in the family.”

“Damn straight.” He chuckles. “The Furbanes came up here back when this place was all wilderness, cold and unforgiving. They carved out Silverpaw Hollow with nothing but grit and a stubborn refusal to die.”

He nods toward the photo. “They built the town hall, the first mill, the general store. Hell, they even strung the original power lines when no one else would hike the ridge in a snowstorm. The town has changed since then, but some names still mean something.”

There’s weight behind his words. Unspoken layers. Legacy, maybe. Or a warning.

“You always knew how to tell a story,” I say, sipping my drink.

Emmett shrugs. “Not a story. History.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Talking of history, it’s good to see this place still standing.”

“It’ll be standing long after I’m gone.” He pauses, eyeing me curiously. “So, what brings you back to town?”

“Business.

Emmett gives me a look. “You working for someone?”

“Not exactly. Angus Sutton needs a favor.”

Emmett’s expression tightens slightly. “Angus?”

“Yeah.”

He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “He wouldn’t be calling you if it wasn’t serious.”

I lift a shoulder in a half-shrug. “Figured I’d stop here first, see what’s been going on in town. You hear about any trouble?”

Emmett hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. And not just in Clover Canyon. Silverpaw Hollow’s had a rash of wildfires lately. They all started in places that don’t make sense, areas that don’t burn easily. It’s not lightning, and it sure as hell isn’t accidental.”

That gets my attention. “Arson?”

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