Page 3 of The SEAL and the Sheriff

Sarah Meyer killed the engine and sat for a second with her hands on the wheel.

Home.

Outside, the night had settled in properly. The world had surrendered to November, and it wasn’t giving it back soon. Frost edged the windshield where the heater hadn’t quite reached. Her breath ghosted faintly in the cab.

Sarah closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the seat.

The hard part of Tuesday was over. Ten hours on shift. One domestic that had gone nowhere good. A call about a snowmachine that hadn’t come back when it should have—a kid who’d run out of fuel and pride. Paperwork still waiting on her desk that she’d deal with in the morning.

Right now she wanted five hours of sleep and maybe, if the weather held, to take Captain out this weekend. Just her, the horse, and enough open space to remember what quiet actually felt like.

Her radio erupted before she could reach for the door handle. “Sheriff.”

She picked it up without looking. “Go ahead.”

Dispatch came through. “Got a call from Marty Larsen at the Rusty Anchor. Says there’s a guy in there asking questions, and a regular took exception.”

Sarah pushed upright, pinching the bridge of her nose between two fingers. “And?”

“He says the guy put Dale Kincaid on the floor.” A pause. “Said he did it without breaking a sweat.”

Dale Kincaid was six-four, built like he’d been poured into his skin, and mean when he’d had enough whiskey.

“Anyone hurt?” she asked, reaching for the ignition.

“Negative. Says it’s under control now, but—” Dispatch hesitated. “Marty didn’t like the feel of it.”

“On my way.” She set the radio back in its cradle and started the engine.

Home would keep. It always did.

She threw the truck into gear and pulled out onto the road, tires crunching over packed snow. The town lay a few minutes out, lights scattered against the dark.

“Without breaking a sweat,” she muttered under her breath.

She should have known better than to think Tuesday was done with her.

She pulled in outside the bar and parked at an angle that gave her a clear line to the door. “Dispatch, unit one on scene.”

“Copy that.”

Walter’s cruiser rolled in behind her as she stepped out, gravel crunching under his tires. He got out of his vehicle, pulling his hat down against the cold. “Rusty Anchor,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Figured.” He slammed the car door behind him and followed her inside.

Marty was behind the bar with a dish towel in his hand, not quite drying the glass he was holding. The chalkboard behind him still listed halibut chowder as a special from three days ago. Coffee burned somewhere in the back, bitter and old. Nobody ever admitted it was bad. It was hot, and in November, that was enough.

Kincaid had retreated to the back corner, rubbing his shoulder and pretending he wasn’t. A couple at the pool table had gone still mid-shot, one hand braced on the felt, the other still holding the cue. Two more at the window, hunched over longnecks, watching without looking like they were watching.

A room holding its breath in the aftermath.

“Marty?”

He jerked his head toward the stranger at the far end of the bar. The man sat angled away from the entrance, one hand resting on a folder. The other was wrapped around a cup of coffee. Working, not drinking.

City jacket. Boots that cost more than her monthly mortgage. The line of his shoulders said military. Or something close to it.