sheriff nodded. “I know everyone, but I’ve never seen you. Are you a relative?”
“No. Mrs. Ames is my girlfriend’s grandma,” he improvised. “I came to watch over her while she’s here. Seems there was a break-in last night. You were there, right?” Hadn’t Violet said it was a Sheriff Masterson whose cruiser had forced his truck into the grass on the narrow gravel road? “Got any idea who would’ve done something like that?”
A pinch of guilt tugged in his mind for announcing Violet as his girlfriend, but Wyatt wasn’t about to tell the sheriff who he really was or why he’d come to River Gorge. Not considering the inquisition he was getting just for speaking to locals. For all Wyatt knew, the sheriff could be the reason Mrs. Ames needed his help in the first place. She certainly could have chosen to talk to the sheriff instead. And if he was being honest, the idea of being Violet’s boyfriend wasn’t a bad one. Which was confusing all by itself, because Wyatt didn’t do relationships.
Sheriff Masterson cocked his hip. “Funny. Violet didn’t say anything about a boyfriend when I spoke to her last night. She surely didn’t mention anything about a man coming here to stay with her.”
“Can you blame me? She was attacked inside her grandma’s home. I couldn’t stay away after that. Turns out I’m the overprotective sort.” He straightened to his full height and locked his jaw, an intentional reminder that Sheriff Masterson might have the star, but Wyatt was there to protect Violet and Maggie. Anyone with different plans would have to go through him, and no one ever had. “Any leads on the break-in? Seems strange, doesn’t it? Someone busts into an old lady’s house, tears it up but takes nothing. She lives on a widow’s pension. What was there to take? And the crime occurred on the same day she allegedly fell from a ladder.” Wyatt furrowed his brow. “As the sheriff, that must send up some red flags.”
“Crime happens everywhere. I’m looking into the break-in, but old ladies fall all the time.” He gave Wyatt a more thorough look then, trailing him head to toe, lingering on his jacket, sides and ankles. Looking for signs of a weapon? If he had anything to say about the gun nestled against his back, or knife in his boot, Wyatt had a permit to carry concealed firearms and more training than the good sheriff could fathom for the knife. “Military?” he asked.
“Ranger.”
The sheriff nodded; a rueful smile budded on his lips. “Violet know about that?” He snorted, clearly laughing at Wyatt. For his service? For his doomed pretend relationship?
Wyatt bristled.
A pair of women in fitted running gear came into view behind the sheriff, having rounded the corner from the direction of the local park. The taller, blonder one locked eyes with Wyatt. A coy smile curled the corner of her mouth. The petite redhead followed suit a moment later.
Wyatt smiled back.
Sheriff Masterson turned on his shiny shoes to follow Wyatt’s gaze. He tapped the brim of his hat and smiled at the women. “Afternoon, Maisey, Jenna.”
The ladies slowed to a stop, still smiling at Wyatt. The blonde outright ogled him. Her hand bobbed up for a shake. “Jenna Jones,” she said. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Nice to meet you,” Wyatt answered, taking her thin hand in his. “I was just asking the sheriff if he’d heard anything new about Mrs. Ames. She fell yesterday, then her house was broken into.”
“No,” the ladies gasped.
The blonde, Jenna, stepped closer, still holding his hand. “Mrs. Ames is the sweetest woman. I’ve known her all my life. Is she okay? I didn’t hear about the fall.”
The redhead looked at the sheriff. “Did he say someone broke into her house? Why would anyone do that? Do you have a suspect?”
Wyatt rocked back on his heels. Apparently his usual stops were all wrong in River Gorge. Normally, men spoke easily to him. Wyatt would break the ice on topics like sports, cars and military, then ask the things he really wanted to know. Around here that hadn’t been the case. Maybe he should’ve simply gone jogging.
Jenna joined her friend then, turning to stare at the sheriff. “Are you going to answer her?” The tone was harsh and familiar. Wyatt doubted Jenna was related to the man; more likely they’d been former lovers or shared another form of history. Either way, she looked like she’d like to punch his face, and he looked like it wouldn’t surprise him if she tried.
The sheriff sniffed. “I’m looking into it.”
“Well, when you’re done with that,” she said, “maybe you could spend some time patrolling our streets. We just watched a demolition derby car run a hatchback right off the road by Devil’s Curve. When are you going to do something about the morons using the county route as some kind of playground for their stupidity?”
Wyatt’s heart seemed to stop. “What kind of hatchback?”
“Small,” the redhead said. “Yellow, I think.”
Wyatt’s feet were in motion, pulling him away from the trio and toward his truck parked down the street. He turned to jog backward, needing to know but also needing to go. “Was anyone hurt?” He freed his phone and dialed Violet while he waited for the answer.
“I don’t think so,” Jenna said. “The car spun into the church parking lot, but it didn’t roll and it wasn’t hit. The beat-up old junker went sailing around the curve. A woman got out. She looked fine. We were on the towpath. It wasn’t easy to see from there, but all the honking and engine roaring had gotten our attention. We caught the tail end of it all.”
Wyatt’s limbs ached to run. “When?”
“Maybe an hour ago.”
“Thank you,” he called, turning and diving into a sprint. The call connected and rang against his ear. Pick up. Pick up. Pick up. He willed Violet to answer his call. Prayed she and her infant daughter were okay. Kicked himself internally for letting her go off on her own when everything in him had said it wasn’t safe. That whatever Mrs. Ames had gotten herself into wasn’t over. He should have followed Violet, stuck by her, protected her.
It wouldn’t happen again.
He yanked the driver’s-side door open and swung himself behind the wheel. Pick up. He nearly screamed the words as he shifted into Drive and eased away from the curb.
His call went to voicemail.
VIOLET FORCED HER still-rubbery legs forward as she eased off the hospital elevator and down the long white corridor toward the nurse’s station on her grandma’s floor. Maggie was asleep in her arms, exhausted from crying after their run-in with a lunatic and his demolition derby car. The nurses were all busy when she finally arrived at the desk. Talking to visitors. Speaking on the telephone. Making rounds. None of the ladies in pastel scrubs made eye contact. When Violet had arrived yesterday, her cousin Tanya was one of the nurses. She was a distant cousin, ambiguously related, but neither she nor Tanya had ever questioned the connection. They’d been friends all their lives. Violet waited a long moment, scanning the area for an available nurse, before moving on, too eager to continue waiting. She wanted to see her grandma’s face and take a seat someplace where she couldn’t be run off the road. She’d try the desk again in a few minutes when the rush died down.
Violet hurried down the hallway to her grandmother’s room. The sound of movement inside set Violet’s heart alight. “Grandma?” She rushed through the open door and slid the curtain back with bated breath.
“Hello,” her grandma’s friend Ruth answered, “come on in.” Ruth tidied her stack of playing cards, then cut and folded them together with a scissoring zip. She’d pulled a chair over to face Grandma’s bed and appeared to be playing solitaire on her blankets. “No change,” Ruth reported. Her tanned cheeks were spotted from too many decades in the sun, and her lips