Page 7 of The SEAL and the Sheriff

Hudson walked into the cold with his collar up, hands in his pockets, and let his lungs remind him what they were. Three counts in, four out.

The hotel was six blocks behind him, the station seven blocks ahead. And in between, Aurora Cove was mostly still asleep.

Snow had been packed down hard on the road, tires cutting grooves that had frozen overnight. His boots found the edges of them without thinking.

A woman crossed the road with a dog straining at the end of its lead. She looked at him a beat too long, then kept walking.

Hudson checked the street automatically. Habit. Nobody followed her.

He kept walking.

The smell of Benji’s hit him before the sign did. Coffee and caramelized apples, pushed out into the cold air as he strolled past. Years ago he’d come here at six in the morning after a night that had started at Wyatt’s and ended up here, and he’d eaten pie because it was the only thing ready.

He didn’t slow.

The sheriff’s station sat at the corner of Main and Second, low and square. He’d come up from the south end, which meant he’d walked the long way around to get here. He pushed through the door at seven forty-five.

The deputy behind the front desk was Black, maybe thirty, and looked up with the expectant attention of someone who’d already been told he was coming. Her name tape said R. Statton. “Deputy Marshal Kane?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“She’s ready for you.”

Nothing he hadn’t expected.

Statton walked him down a short hallway past another deputy, W. Godrevy on his name tag. His gaze moved over Hudson once, head to boots. Statton tapped once on an open door. “Sheriff.”

“Thanks, Rochelle.”

Hudson stepped in.

Sarah was behind the desk with a mug in her hand and a file open in front of her. She didn’t stand or smile.

Her office was small and functional—maps pinned to one wall, a whiteboard half-filled with notes that had been wiped and rewritten too many times, a second chair stacked with paperwork she hadn’t had time to deal with yet.

She looked at him like she had across the bar last night—like a problem that hadn't finished happening yet.

"Deputy Marshal. Sit." She pointed to the beaten chair on his side of the desk.

He took the seat.

He'd known she'd grow up but he hadn't expected Sheriff Meyer. The badge suited her. The office did too.

Damn.

He hadn't anticipated spending this meeting reminding himself to pay attention to the case instead of the woman sitting behind the desk.

The office smelled of coffee. Her coffee, not his. There was no second mug on the desk.

She added sugar from a small bowl on the corner of the desk. One. Two. Three. Stirring without looking. Three sugars. Same as always. Fifteen years vanished in a single turn of the spoon.

Fuck.

He watched her hand move, then looked away. He did not need to be noticing that. Her hair was a darker blonde than he remembered. It suited her.

“We’ll do this on the record,” she said. “Walter will type it up—start with last night. State your purpose at the Rusty Anchor.”

“I was making inquiries.”