Support Your Local Sheriff. Melinda Curtis
“I won’t give up on you.”
“I can respect that.” Julie fought off the sudden need to yawn.
She couldn’t see Nate inside. She couldn’t see a waitress with a carafe of coffee. She was out of her element here and in her own skin. Her head felt heavy enough from lack of sleep to fall off her shoulders and there was a knot tightening beneath her right shoulder blade, about the place where Nate had stabbed her in the back years ago.
When they were rookies on the Sacramento police force, Julie had had to prove she was tough enough to fit in. Nate fit in just by putting on the uniform. They’d been working the same shift when they’d received a domestic abuse call. Julie pulled up to the house just after Nate did. It was the first time they’d responded to a call together. The first time Julie had been on a domestic abuse call.
The call looked bad from the get-go. Rundown neighborhood. Dingy white house. Dirt where a lawn should be. The crack by the front door handle indicated it’d been kicked in at least once before. It wasn’t the kind of place you sent a patrol officer alone.
“I’ll take point.” Nate’s hand was on his holster as he knocked on the front door. “Police! Open up!”
Inside the house, a gun went off. A woman screamed.
Nate drew his gun and kicked down the door before Julie could report shots fired and request backup. And then she drew her weapon and followed.
“Landry!” Julie tried to control the slight shake to her hands.
There were sounds of a scuffle deep inside the house. At the end of the hall, a woman appeared.
Julie flinched, nearly shooting her.
The woman was unarmed, her face bruised and bloodied. She carried a toddler with a red welt on his cheek. They were both crying.
Crap. Julie’s legs had felt as if she’d run the police academy obstacle course one too many times. She’d trained for worst-case scenarios, but Julie had never been in a situation like this before. “Get out,” Julie ordered the woman, keeping her weapon and her eyes trained on the end of the hallway as the woman escaped past her. “Landry! Answer me.”
Something hit a wall, shaking the entire house. And then there was a thud.
Julie turned the corner of the hall and looked into the master bedroom.
Nate sat on top of a panting shirtless man, cuffing his hands behind his back. He stared up at Julie, breathing heavily, one eye swelling and his lip bloody. Two handguns were on the carpet near the door. “Read him his rights.”
Later, as they’d worked on the report at the station, Julie put a hand on Nate’s arm. “That was stupid, running in there like that. He had a gun. He could’ve—”
“His wife didn’t think it was stupid since he was pistol-whipping her.” There was a dangerous edge to Nate’s voice that Julie had never heard before.
“Do you know them?” He hadn’t put that in the report. “Is this personal?”
“I’ve seen abuse before.” Nate’s jaw ticked. “It’s worth taking a bullet to save someone. He hit that woman and—” his voice roughened “—that little boy.” Nate stared at her, but he didn’t seem to see Julie.
She’d wanted him to. She wanted him to confide in her.
“Do you know what it’s like to feel helpless and trapped?” He did see her then. And behind his gaze was something so bleak, Julie almost couldn’t bear it. “Your options are taken away. Your spontaneity... Your personality... You can’t show anything. And your freedom...” His gaze turned distant again. “It’s like a storm comes in with dark, heavy clouds, and you have no shelter, no choice but to weather the storm.”
“Nate... I’m so sorry.” Was this why he never talked about his family? Because he’d been abused?
“Sorry?” Nate had sat back in his chair, suddenly completely in the present and completely angry. “I was talking about the victims.” He stood and went to get a cup of coffee.
She hadn’t believed him. But what she did believe was that Nate took his work to heart. And she’d respected him for that. Heck, she’d practically worshipped the ground he walked on.
Inside El Rosal, a waiter entered the main dining room through the swinging kitchen door. He held the door for Nate, who carried Duke and a large mug of steaming coffee. Duke clutched a piece of bacon in each hand.
The waiter opened the main restaurant door for Nate, and then followed him to the table. He had a swarthy complexion, thick black hair and a killer smile that probably netted him lots of tips. If he’d brought a coffeepot, Julie might have tipped him well, too.
Instead, she sighed and held up the sippy cup. First things first.
Nate set the steaming mug in front of Julie and sat down across from her, lifting a happy Duke in his lap. Julie’s lap felt empty. It was small consolation that Nate suddenly looked as if he’d been taken over by aliens and was just now realizing he had a small boy with him.
“Truck.” Duke grinned, pointing at Nate’s Ford.
“Truck,” Nate echoed.
The waiter leaned both hands on the edge of the table and beamed at Julie. He’d pinned his name tag—Arturo—upside down. “Sheriff Nate wanted to order you the empanada, which he mistakenly calls an apple fritter. He also wants to order pancakes and eggs for his little sidekick.” Arturo’s gently rolling consonants fell out of his smiling mouth like the cheery notes of a pop song’s chorus. “But my mama won’t accept the order until you confirm it. She says we don’t know you, but we know how bossy Sheriff Nate is.” He plucked the sippy cup from her hand. “Milk or juice?”
“Milk. And just this once we’ll go with the sheriff’s order.” She gave Nate a stern look and then mainlined the coffee.
“I know the difference between an apple fritter and an empanada,” Nate grumbled.
“The key to happiness is to establish expectations.” Arturo moved to a stack of wooden high chairs. “Both in dining and in relationships.” He carried one to the table, and then left them.
“Pay no attention to the talking fortune cookie.” Nate deposited Duke in the high chair like a pro. At Julie’s questioning glance, he gave her the tight half smile. “My sister has a twenty-month-old little girl and I’m one of the few people trusted to babysit Camille.”
Deep down, something inside Julie gave a plaintive cry of foul. She wanted Nate to be all thumbs with Duke, to generate disinterest and temper tantrums. Nothing was going right in Harmony Valley.
Arturo returned with the sippy cup, placing it in front of Duke. “Milk.”
“Milk.” Duke dropped bacon bits on the table and reached for the cup, only to stop midgrab and stare at his hands, flexing his fingers. “I dirty.”
Before Julie could set her coffee down, Nate was wiping her nephew’s hands with a napkin.
“Okay, I get it,” Julie groused. “You have experience with little kids.” Drat and darn. “Why didn’t you tell me last night?”
Nate met her gaze squarely. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d been shot?”
She sat back, resisting the urge to touch her shoulder. He must have called someone from the force. “Why would I? We don’t work together. We’re not partners, friends or in-laws.”
He ignored her boundary setting. In fact, he steamrolled over her defenses. “You look like hell. I thought you were dying of cancer.”
Julie clung to her coffee cup and held her tongue.
“You’re not taking time off to grieve. You’re taking time off to heal and awaiting an internal investigation into the shooting.” Something passed over Nate’s face, a