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I give her twenty. I press my mouth against her shoulder and breathe her in and hold still while she falls back asleep, and I don't let myself think about Monday.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand at seven.

Griffin:

Diner. 8. I'm buying.

Me:

What for?

Griffin:

Gotta talk to you about something.

* * *

Mabel sets a plate of biscuits and gravy in front of me before I've got my hat off.

"You look happy," she says. "Stop it. It's unsettling."

"Yes, ma'am."

She swats my shoulder with a menu and moves on down the counter. Griffin sits across from me in the back booth, stirring sugar into his coffee. He waits until Mabel's out of earshot.

"County approved funding for an undersheriff," he says.

I chew. Swallow. "Good for you."

"Bear Creek's growing. Articles, magazines, tourists. "I had more calls this summer than my first three years back here combined." He sets the spoon down. "I need somebody I trust. Somebody who doesn't panic."

"Griffin."

"I'm asking you."

The biscuit sits heavy in my stomach. I look out the window at Main Street, at the hardware store and the library and the church steeple where Mona hung the last festival banner Wednesday while I held the ladder and pretended not to watch her ass.

"I've got a town," I say.

"You've got a deputy who can handle a town of three hundred people."

"Lyle called me about goats."

"And he handled the goats." Griffin leans back. "Think about it. That's all."

I tell him I'll think about it. We both know I won't.

Fifteen years ago I chose Iron Creek. I chose a life small enough to hold in my two hands, and I held it, and it held me back. Shayla wanted more and I couldn't follow her, so I let her go. That's what a decent man does. He knows what size his life is and he doesn't ask anybody to shrink down to fit it.

Mona's been running from something since before she got here. She's too bright for three hundred people and a bull in the post office. She'd figure that out by spring.

I pay for breakfast before Griffin can.

* * *

When I get back to the cabin that evening, she's dancing in the kitchen.

She's barefoot in my flannel with her phone in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other, shaking her hips to some song on the radio while a pot of green chile steams on the stove. Sergeant sits beside her, tail sweeping the floor. When I come through the door she spins around and throws her arms around my neck, spoon and all.