CHAPTER 1

Savvy

The moment my foot crosses the threshold the scent hits me; roasted coffee and warm sugar with a hint of cinnamon.

“Am I too late?”

Bess, who owns Strange Brew, looks up from her perch behind the counter and raises one perfectly arched eyebrow.

“Hello to you too.”

“Hi. Sorry,” I quickly correct with what I hope is an appropriate amount of contrition as I approach her. Trying to peek around her into the kitchen, I can’t resist repeating my question. “So, am I? Too late? Is there any left?”

With an exaggerated roll of her eyes, Bess ducks into the kitchen and reappears a second later with a plate. With my mouth already watering, I study this week’s culinary creation. It looks like a standard square but, knowing my friend, it’ll be much more than that.

Every Friday, Bess tests out new recipes for her coffee shop menu, and for as long as she’s done that, I’ve been first in line to test her efforts. I’m usually here by around eleven, when I’m about ready for a decent cup of coffee after forcing down the clichéd pot of law enforcement tar back at the station. When I took over as sheriff several years ago, I suggested perhaps investing in a new coffee machine, but that did not go over well with Brenda, who had served as my father’s office manager for twenty years before I took over, although the title does not do her justice. The woman runs the office and, since things would fall apart without her, I wisely retracted my suggestion and have been chugging down the sludge she makes on a daily basis without complaint, ducking out to Strange Brew, which is just down the block from the station, for a proper cup of java.

“I had to fight off a crowd to save you the last one,” Bess guilts me.

“Well, I’m sorry if I was held up. Mrs. Dixon’s alarm went off; she fell again,” I retaliate with my own guilt card.

Mrs. Dixon is an octogenarian insistent on living independently in her little bungalow, when she would probably be better off moving into some assisted living facility. She is still sharp as a tack, but her balance and eyesight leave much to be desired. She has a son, but he lives in Alaska, and only visits a few times a year. Last time she ended up in the hospital after a nasty fall that left her with a fractured wrist, he and I tag-teamed her in to conceding to a health alert necklace which—when deployed—not only sends an alert to the emergency dispatcher, but to my cell phone as well.

“Oh no. Is she hurt?”

“She’s gonna have a lovely bruise on her hip, but EMTs checked her out and she should be okay,” I fill her in, bringing the first forkful of square to my mouth.

Blueberries, and I smell a hint of something floral, recognizing it as lavender when the flavors hit my taste buds.

“Blueberry lavender coconut squares,” Bess confirms when I groan my approval. “I wasn’t sure about the flavor combination, worried the lavender might get buried by the coconut, but Phil said it was perfectly balanced.”

“Phil dropped by?” I ask with my mouth full.

Phil is Phyllis Woods, aka Phyllis Dubois, singer of former rock band Listen Phyllis and also my father’s new wife. She rolled into town in a rattling motorhome two years ago and rocked my father’s world, blowing new life into him. It’s impossible not to love Phil and the breath of fresh air she brought to our little town of Silence.

I’m the one who introduced her to Bess’s Friday tastings and I don’t think she’s missed one since.

“Stopped in with the sheriff earlier. They were on their way to Spokane for an appointment.”

After serving this town for well over thirty years, everyone still calls my father sheriff, despite being retired for several years now as a result of health issues. It doesn’t bother me; I love seeing how my father’s chest still puffs up at hearing the honorary title. He lived for that job until it just about sucked the life out of him. It had been a hard transition, but since Phil’s arrival in town, he seems to be enjoying his retirement a hell of a lot more.

I bet you that’s why they’re heading into Spokane; to see Dad’s cardiologist.

“Latte?” Bess asks, moving to the complicated espresso machine.

I nod and quickly swallow my bite before mumbling, “Please.”

While she busies herself with my coffee, I hop on to one of the barstools at the counter and let my gaze drift around the coffee shop. It’s after two, the lunch crowd has already come and gone, but a few tables are still occupied. I smile and nod a greeting at Dana Kerrigan, our local nurse practitioner and a good friend. Her parents own the town’s British-style pub where my father hangs out for his weekly poker game. If Dana wasn’t sharing a table with a man I don’t recognize—a handsome one at that—I’d pull up a chair, but she seems engaged in deep conversation. Curiosity around who the guy might be is killing me, but maybe Bess knows more.

Then my eyes catch on a familiar person in a booth near the washrooms.

Carson, teenage son of Hugo Alexander, my chief deputy. Hugo mentioned a while ago his boy had been getting into some trouble since his mom died early last year after a valiant battle with cancer. I had a sneaking suspicion he might be involved in a few incidents of vandalism, most recently a dumpster fire behind the Safeway in town. I’ve been keeping my eye on a small group of troublemakers I’ve seen Carson hanging out with. My gut tells me they are the culprits, but I don’t have anything tangible, so my hands are tied.

However, I know for damn sure the kid should be in school right now and not hiding out in a coffee shop, and I can definitely do something about that.

Carson sees me coming and his eyes dart around, looking for an escape. It’s not until I’m almost at the table I notice the young girl sitting in the shadows across from him. Both of them look like deer caught in the headlights, guilt written all over their young faces.

“Really, Carson?”

He winces at my firm tone and stern look, but only momentarily, before he visibly straightens his shoulders and shores up his bravado. My guess is, for the benefit of the girl across from him. She’s pretty, in a wholesome kind of way; long dark hair tucked behind her ears, and a sprinkling of freckles covering her pert, upturned nose. Her big brown eyes look panicked at my approach. She is young, younger even than Carson’s sixteen years.

“Skipping school?”

“We’re working on an assignment,” Carson bluffs.

There’s nothing but two carryout cups and an empty paper bag I’m sure held some of Bess’s baked goods on the table in front of them.

I fold my arms and cock a hip, staring him down. I don’t have to wait long before he lowers his gaze.

“We’re not doing anything wrong.”

“Except skipping school,” I remind him, my eyes drifting to the young girl. “Who’s your friend?”

When Carson ignores my question and stubbornly keeps his eyes averted, I address the girl directly.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” I start when suddenly the door bangs open behind me and the girl’s eyes dart over my shoulder, widening even more.

An angry man’s voice carries, “What the hell, Tate?”

I freeze, every cell in my body recognizing the timbre long before my brain clues in.

“Oops, I meant to tell you,” Bess whispers behind me. “Guess who’s back in town?”

*****

Nate

Jesus Christ.

I grind my teeth. It’s all I can do to keep from throwing her over my shoulder and marching her out of here.

Fourteen-freaking-years old, just started her new school last week and already skipping classes. That bodes well. My blood runs cold thinking perhaps she’s a chip off the old block after all, because then her path going forward will spell nothing but trouble and pain. I don’t want that for her.

After getting a call from the school office asking if Tatum was home sick today, a churning mix of worry, frustration, and anger propelled me to start driving around town to try and find my daughter. By the time I noticed the sheriff’s cruiser parked in front of the coffee shop on Main Street, I’d been aimlessly driving around for damn near an hour and was fit to be tied.

I rarely ask for help, and would never voluntarily approach law enforcement of any kind, but worry and anger had started morphing into fear for my girl. Heck, one of the reasons I swallowed my pride, and packed her up to move back to a place I vowed I’d never return to, was because nothing ever fucking happens in Silence.

At least it didn’t use to. A small, safe, quiet, boring town that held too many ghosts and regrets for me. But then the daughter I’d barely known most of her life landed on my doorstep three months ago. The social worker who dropped her off informed me Tate’s mother had been found dead of an overdose.

Fatherhood had been something I barely dabbled in and suddenly I was a primary parent. Don’t get me wrong, I love my daughter with a fierceness that still surprises me, but raising her is a whole different ball game. Although, if I’d known Charlene was back on the hard stuff, I’d have stepped up earlier. Maybe I could’ve done something, saved my girl from the worst kind of heartbreak.

Heartbreak I recognize, even behind the defiance she is showing me now, with her little pointed chin lifted high and her mouth set tightly. A boy in the booth across from her, who is definitely older than my daughter, looks like he just shit his pants.

“Oh, hell no,” I growl, reaching into the booth to grab my daughter’s hand and pull her to her feet.

“Let go of her.”

I’ve barely noticed anyone else in the coffee shop, but turn to look at the owner of that understated but forceful voice that has the hair on my arms stand up.

It takes me a minute to see beyond the uniform to the woman who fills it out nicely. Damn. Savannah Colter, I shouldn’t be surprised she would follow in her father’s footsteps.

What shocks me though is the visceral reaction I still feel at seeing her. It’s been what? Fifteen years? A long time of pretending she never existed.

Hard to do when those familiar pretty dark eyes that could melt steel are looking right at me.

“Dad, please don’t make a scene.”

I drop my head at my daughter’s soft plea and let go of the breath I’ve been hanging on to with a sigh.

“This is your daughter?”

Forcing any and all emotion down, I lift my gaze to meet Savvy’s impenetrable one. I don’t even attempt to try and read what she’s hiding behind that stony expression.

“Yes. Tatum Colter,” I volunteer. “Fourteen, and skipping what I believe is Social Studies.”

A barely-there flare of her nostrils is her only reaction when she turns to the boy who was sitting with my daughter.

“Carson, I suggest you stay right where you are while I walk Tatum and her father out. But you better start coming up with a very good explanation for your father, because I’ll be speaking to him next.”

Keeping hold of my daughter’s hand, I walk her out of the coffee shop, several pairs of eyes following us. I’d hoped to lay low, have a chance at showing myself a responsible adult and parent—at least to those who might remember me differently—before any of my past could reflect on my daughter, but I guess it’s already too late for that. I’m sure that little scene back there will make the rounds before dinnertime.

Tate is quiet until I pull open the truck’s passenger door for her.

“We were just talking,” she whispers.

“He’s a teenage boy; trust me, talking is not what he’s after,” I grind out, closing the door on her.

A voice sounds behind me. “If that were the case, I’m sure he’d have found a better place than the local coffee shop.”

Right, I’d almost forgotten Savvy indicated she’d follow us out.

I brace myself before I turn to look at her. It appears she’s had a moment to get over the shock of seeing me and some warmth has returned to her expression.

“He’s too old for her,” I argue.

“By only a couple of years,” Savvy returns with a pointed look. “They’re both in high school.”

Message received. I’d been a high school dropout and was apprenticing with my uncle, who was a carpenter, when I first met Savvy. Even though we’d been older, she’d been only seventeen to my twenty-four, but I didn’t care. Neither did she, at the time.

Her father sure did though.

Fuck me. I rub a hand over my stubble at the unexpected sense of kinship with her dad.

“Look,” she urges, “Carson is a good kid. He’s been struggling a bit since his mother died and may not always make the best decisions, but he wouldn’t hurt her.”

I grunt in response. There are more ways than one to put the hurt on my girl, but learning the kid lost his mom, it’s clear he has at least something in common with my daughter.

“So…” Savvy drawls, her thumbs hooked in her belt and her feet spread. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you back in Silence.”

I shrug. “I didn’t either, but you know what they say; life is what happens when you make other plans.”