Note: I know that in many places in the USA, the county sheriff is an elected position, but for the purposes of this story, it’s a job one can apply for, because “Sheriff” sounds more like a small town, and Culver Creek isn’t big enough to boast its own police department, so it makes sense to have a county sheriff. It’s also a fictional place I made up so I can do whatever I want. Nyah.

The story will switch back and forth between Emma and Marcus’s POVs. POV switches will be notated.

TRIGGER WARNING: My usual trigger warnings apply (sex, alcohol use, foul language, etc) but this story is a little different. In addition to the usual fluffy Marcus Pike smut, it also explores some REALLY dark themes, such as murder, Domestic Violence, Racially motivated crimes, rape, abuse of minors, and more.

As this story talks about the exploitation of a marginalized group, I wanted to share resources for those who would like to get involved, help, or just be more informed:
https://www.nativehope.org
https://www.niwrc.org
https://www.nativewomenswilderness.org/mmiw
https://rainn.org/
https://www.thehotline.org/
https://www.lacasa.org/
https://communitycare.sistaafya.com/

If I have misrepresented any minorities with what I’ve written, I apologize, and I am open to education on the matter.

Emma

The morning is cold and bleak, and already a flurry of snowflakes dances on a bitter breeze as I drive through town.  The sun is rising, but little light or warmth penetrates from the heavy white-gray clouds that cover the sky.

I pull my old truck into the parking lot of the small bakery and cafe I own.  Five years ago, when I came back to Culver Creek, I decided I was done living for other people, and to do what I love instead.  So I opened my bakery.

People told me that I must be crazy to open a cafe in such a small town. Maybe I am, but time proved me right, and I’ve turned a steady profit. I will never be rich, and “Emma’s” will never be a household name, but I live comfortably.

I flip on the lights and hang my coat and scarf on the rack by the door, tucking my gloves into the pocket of my coat.  

Culver Creek is situated along the Highland Scenic highway in West Virginia, and a good amount of traffic flows through her at various times of the year, and my little cafe sees a fair share of it. I doubt that I will see any on this particular morning, though, as the weather report is calling for snow squalls starting in the afternoon.  Snow squalls aren’t uncommon in this part of the world, but familiarity with them doesn’t make them any less dangerous. I don’t want to be caught in it. Most folks who’ve spent any time in this part of the world would agree; some chances you just don’t take.

By the time I’ve finished the morning prep work and flip the sign on my door to “Open”, a thick dusting of snow coats my truck and the parking lot. I debate flipping the sign to “closed”, locking up and heading back home, but headlights pulling into the parking lot catch my eye.  The sheriff’s black jeep parks next to my truck, and I feel a small flutter in the pit of my stomach. I go over to the coffee pot and pour a large mug for him.

A few minutes later, the jingling bells at the door chime and I hear a familiar deep voice call out:

“Mornin’ Emma.”

“Mornin’ Sheriff,” I say, setting the mug down on the counter for him.

“How many times do I have to ask you to call me Marcus?”  He asks, stamping the snow off his boots before stepping off the old gray mat in front of the door and coming to sit at the counter. His goatee has a few snowflakes melting in it.  He gives me a smile, his dimples making him look younger, almost boyish, though I know he must be about forty-five or so.

“At least one more time,”  I say, returning his smile with interest.

“Please call me Marcus,” he says, blowing into his hands, trying to warm them.

“Don’t you have a pair of gloves?” I ask him. “Marcus,” I add with a teasing emphasis.

“No,” he admits sheepishly.  “I mean, I do, I just can’t find them, and I just keep forgetting to get new ones.”

“You better get a move on,” I say. “This is your first winter here, isn’t it?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“If you want me to call you Marcus, you’d better stop calling me ma’am,” I threaten playfully.

“All right, all right,” he says, holding his hands up in mock surrender.  He takes a sip of coffee.  “Yes, Emma, it’s my first winter here.  I just missed it last year.”

“December isn’t too bad, but in January and February, you’ll want to find your gloves,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning back against the prep counter behind me.  I love the layout of my little cafe:  Three cozy booths, a half dozen bistro tables, four stools at the counter.  The back kitchen is where I do the baking and prep work, hidden behind a bright pink door, but I have a griddle and prep area behind the counter too. I usually woman the cafe by myself in the mornings, but I have help from one of the girls in town after school.  May Anne Collins does most of the washing up and such from three to five.  Recently, she’s graduated to making the jams I serve at breakfast. She’s a bright, chipper girl, and she’s set to go to UMD in the fall.

“If January is colder than this, I might have to rethink my life choices,” he grumbles, but there is a twinkle in his deep brown eyes that makes my stomach do that stupid fluttering thing again. He looks over at the little chalkboard next to the griddle.

“No menu today?”

“Nope, I doubt I’ll see more than two or three people this morning. I’ll probably shut up shop at noon,” I say, making a mental note to call May Anne and tell her not to come that afternoon. I would still pay her for the day though.  That girl is going places, and I want her to have every penny for college.  “So whatever you want, within reason.”

“So no “Benedict with smoked salmon and caviar”?”

“Decidedly not,” I say with a smile. “I might have some smoked salmon, but if you want caviar, you’ll have to go back to DC.”

“Well I won’t be doing that, because then it wouldn’t be breakfast with you,” he says, and I feel my cheeks warming slightly.  I bite my lip.

“So, do you want your usual?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even.

Just then, the bells on the door jingle again, and I look up to see old Mr. Mason toddling into the cafe.  He is ninety if he is a day.  He and my grandfather were best friends all their lives, and probably their fathers and grandfathers, too.  Mr. Mason and his wife Ms. Alma had one daughter, who never married or had kids of her own.  She passed away two years ago, and I more or less consider myself the only family he has left. He’s almost all the family I have left, him and May Anne.

“Mr. Mason,” I chide him. “What are you doing out in this cold?”

“Now you know,” he says, wiping his feet on the mat.  He is wearing huge boots, at least three pairs of pants judging the number of cuffs I see bunched up around the top of the boots.  His massive down overcoat makes it so he couldn’t quite lay his arms flush against his sides. “I had to come check on you. You didn’t answer your home phone.” I idly wonder what the old fool thinks he could possibly do to help me if I were in some sort of trouble.  He doesn’t have a cell phone.

“I told you Mr Mason, you have to call my cell phone.  I left the number taped to your refrigerator in big print.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be working today in this weather, you know you won’t be able to get up your driveway by this afternoon.”

“I’m shutting the doors at noon,” I say to Mr. Mason. “And don’t worry, that old truck can still get me up the driveway just fine.”  At least I hope she will.  I am well overdue for an oil change.

“Well as long as I’m here, why don’t you let me have one of them eclairs for my breakfast?”

“Because Doc Amron said you can’t have sweets any more! You’ve got high sugar.” I swat his hand away from the glass domed cake stand.  I hear a light huff of amusement from Marcus.

 “Doc Amron would have me eat like a rabbit.  I’m ninety years old.  What am I staying healthy for?”

“Someone’s gotta walk me down the aisle,” I say. “Should I ever be foolish enough to do it again.”

“Well get a move on,” Mr. Mason grumbles. “I miss cookies.”

“I know you do, you old goat,” I say affectionately. “How about some oatmeal, and I’ll put some strawberries and cocoa powder in it?”

“How about one of them muffins?”

“Or you could have plain oatmeal,” I warn.

“Strawberries, please,” he says dejectedly.  I chuckle and then turn back to Marcus, and as our eyes lock, I feel that little flutter in my stomach again. 

“And how about you, Sher-Marcus?” I ask, correcting myself as my cheeks heat up again.

“If you’re up for it, chocolate chip pancakes?”  He leans back on the stool slightly, crossing his arms over his chest.  I try not to stare at the way the fabric of his uniform shirt pulls against his broad shoulders.

“I’m up for it,” I say grinning. “All right, I’ll be right back.”  I swat Mr. Mason’s hand away from the cake stand again.  I move it to  the far side of the counter and I give both men a reproachful look. “If there are any eclairs missing when I come back, you’re both on notice.” I threaten.  Marcus chuckles, holding his hands up again.  I feel my knees falter slightly as I turn, and I catch my elbow against the door frame. 

“Shit,” I hiss, and I rush through the door so that my scarlet red cheeks aren’t on display for Marcus to see.

I lean against the prep sink and I try to control my breathing.  Marcus is not what I describe as classically handsome; but he’s still quite good looking. He has a large, sharp nose that adds a certain amount of character to his face.  His smile, though… It’s a thousand megawatts, and his dimples are frequently on display.  His deep brown eyes are large and kind, though they are often a little sad.  He keeps in good shape, and I’m embarrassed to admit how often my gaze lingers on his well developed arms, his broad shoulders, his trim waist.

“Pull yourself together,” I mutter as I get the strawberries out of the reach-in refrigerator.  I turn the water in the prep sink on and run it over the berries, right in the plastic container, and then I gather the rest of the things I need, taking them back out to the griddle.

Marcus looks a bit awkward as I step back into front of the cafe, and Mr. Mason makes a show of looking around, avoiding my gaze.

“What are you two up to?”  I ask, narrowing my eyes suspiciously. I cast a look over at the eclairs, but none are missing.  I look back at the two of them.

“Nothing,” Marcus says evasively. “Just chatting about the weather.”

“Sure,” I say, but I don’t believe them.  While the griddle heats up, I start preparing Mr. Mason’s oatmeal, cutting the strawberries and adding a dash of cocoa powder to it.

“There you go,” I say, placing it in front of him.  He gives me a small smile.

“I know you’re just trying to take good care of me, Emma,” he says as he takes a bite of the oatmeal.

“I am, so you’d better listen to me,” I threaten in a teasing tone.  I turn to the griddle and start mixing the batter for the pancakes.

For a moment, the cafe is quiet, the only sound is Mr. Mason’s spoon against the ceramic edge of his bowl. I cast a look outside, and I see that the snow is coming down heavily.

“Mr. Mason,” I say as I clear his empty bowl away.  “Don’t think me unkind, but you need to get home before the snow gets any worse.  I don’t want to have to call Jimmy to come pull you out of a ditch.”

“All right, all right, I can tell when my welcome’s worn out,” he says, and he pays for his breakfast before toddling out the door.  I flip the pancakes over on the griddle and I hear Marcus chuckling again.

“What?” I ask him, feeling a smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

“It’s just sweet, how you two carry on,” he says.  

“Thanks… Our families were always pretty tight, going back generations.  But… We’re all that’s left now,” I say, trying not to think about how our two once proud family trees have whittled down to splinters.

“You don’t have any other family?”

“Well, I’ve got cousins and such, but no siblings, and both my parents have passed on.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee.  I slide three fat pancakes onto a plate for him before I fetch the syrup and butter.

“This smells amazing,” he says, leaning forward slightly and inhaling deeply.  “Is that vanilla?”

“Yeah, I always mix a little paste into the batter.”  I lean against the prep counter again. “What about you?  Siblings?”

“Yeah, a brother and a sister.  My parents live out in El Paso, but my sister’s in New York, and my brother’s in Florida.  When I was living in DC, they used to all come see me for Christmas, because I was sort of but not really in the middle,” he explains fondly. “I guess I still kind of am, though I don’t really see my sister in a place like this.”

“Are you the youngest or oldest or middle?”

“Oldest,” he says, cutting his pancakes carefully before liberally pouring syrup over them.  “My sister is two years younger than I am, and my brother is 5 years younger.”

“That’s nice, I bet you were a good big brother,” I say softly. We don’t often get the chance to chat like this,  just the two of us.

“I tried,” he says, flashing me that dimpled grin again.  “Were you lonely growing up?

“In a way, but we always had animals.  Goats, chickens, ducks, all that stuff.”

“Cows? Pigs?”

“No, strictly small farm animals… We had a couple miniature donkeys, but nothing bigger than that.”

He chews thoughtfully for a moment.

“So you’re closing up shop at noon?”

“Yeah,” I said, looking at the clock.  It was nearing nine, almost late enough to call May Anne.

“Good, I don’t want to have to call Jimmy to come pull you out of a ditch,” he teases, repeating my threat to Mr. Mason.

“You won’t,” I say with a grin.

“Good,” he says again, softly, and he holds my gaze for a moment. “Listen,” he says huskily, but before he can go on, the bells on the door jingle once again.  I look up, smiling instinctively, but the smile dies on my face.

Deacon Crocker, my ex husband, all six-foot-six inches of him, stands in the doorway.  He’s wearing a dirty carhartt jacket and oil spotted jeans.

“What are you doing here?” I say darkly.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. You have something to say to me, you can say to Ann Larian, of Larian, Diemel and Olson.”  I cross my arms over my chest.  

“Em, don’t be like that,” he says, his eyes wide.  He self consciously runs a hand through his messy hair.

Deacon was a good looking man once upon a time, tall, blond and blue eyed.  He played minor league baseball for the first eight years of our marriage, but drank himself stupid during the last two.  From the looks of things, that has not changed. I can see he’s getting a belly, despite the fact that he’s only thirty five, the same age as I am.  His skin is red and blotchy, maybe from the cold, maybe from the whisky he loves so much.

Marcus shifts in his seat slightly, turning just enough that the Sheriff patch on his shirt is showing.  He doesn’t speak, but I see him look Deacon up and down before crossing those arms over his chest again.  Deacon pays him no mind.

“I don’t have anything to say to you,” I repeat.  “Please leave, there’s no loitering.”

“I’m a paying customer,” he says, pulling out his wallet.

“I have the right to refuse service to anyone for any reason,” I say, pointing to the door.  “Please leave.”

“Em, come on,” he pleads once more. “Just hear me out.”

“No, Deacon, I will not.”

“Em-”

“You heard her,” Marcus says, his voice quiet, almost deadly.  I’ve never heard him sound like that before.  It sends a shiver down my spine.  “Get out.”

“And who are you?  Some deputy of Roy’s?”

“Roy retired last spring, I’m the new Sheriff,” he says, turning more fully in his chair and standing up.  Deacon has a good six inches and close to a hundred pounds on him, but Marcus didn’t seem bothered by that. “I’ll say it again.  Emma asked you to leave, so go on, before I arrest you for trespassing.”

Deacon sizes Marcus up to see if he’s bluffing, but I know Deacon doesn’t want any more trouble with the law.  He’s still on  probation for a DUI a few years back.  He puts his hands up in surrender, similar to the way Marus did earlier, and backs out of the cafe.

“See you around, Em,” he says.

“No if I see you first,” I mutter as the door shuts behind him.  Marcus turns back to me.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine,” I manage to say, but I realize that my breath is coming out in quick gasps.  I make a concentrated effort to control my breathing.

“Does he do this often?”  Marcus asks, sitting back down. “Show up out of the blue, I mean?”

“He used to do this all the time just after our divorce was finalized, but I haven’t seen him for about a year, maybe eighteen months,” I say. “He never wants anything good. He’ll whine and moan about wanting me to take him back, but then I’ll hear down at the IGA it’s because some floozy he took up with kicked him out.”

Marcus lets out a huff of laughter.

“I’m sorry, it’s not funny, not really, I just… This is a small town.  I forget that sometimes…But I thought he didn’t live around here anymore?”

“He doesn’t, but his sister Evangeline does, up to Wisteria Acres Trailer Park,” I say. “She’s good friends with Patty Pritchett, and if you tell Patty anything, you might as well paint it on a billboard along the highway.”

“Noted,” Marcus says dryly. “Deacon and Evangeline?”

“Yeah, there are a whole mess of Crocker Siblings with names like that.  Deacon, Evangeline, Rook, Pally, Fina-”

“Fina?”

“Like Tina, but with an F,” I say.  “Fina was my friend growing up, that’s how I got to know Deacon.”  Fina left Culver Creek around the same time I did, but she never moved back, even after her own marriage fell apart. 

Marcus eats slowly, chatting with me while I lean back against the prep counter, watching cars and trucks driving slowly down the highway, splashing slush and ice as they go.  

The morning ticks by as we laugh and joke and talk, and I feel those damn flutters in my stomach again. He’s so charming and sweet, and all I want, more than anything, is him to ask if he can come by some night to go to dinner or to take me to a movie.

A while later, my cell phone rings and I look at the display. May Anne’s home phone number.  

“Sorry, I think May Anne is calling to see if I’m open today,” I tell Marcus apologetically. “Hello?” I answer, stepping back into the kitchen.

“Emma?” The voice doesn’t belong to May Anne, but her mother.  There’s an undercurrent of desperation to it.

“Hi Ms Opal,” I say. “Is everything okay?”

“Is May Anne there by chance?”

“No, I was gonna call her in a bit and tell her not to come in today.”

“Oh,” Ms Opal says, and I can hear her let out a shaky breath.  “If you see her, will you tell her to call me?”

“Sure Ms. Opal.  Wasn’t she home this morning?”

“She was supposed to stay over at Jess McNally’s house last night, but she promised to come home this morning before the storm got too bad.  I called over there just now to see if she wanted her daddy to come pick her up, but they said she left almost an hour ago.  It shouldn’t have taken her that long to get home.”

“Sheriff Pike is here having his breakfast,” I say.  “Do you want me to tell him to get one of his deputies to go look for her?”

“I hate to bother him. I’m sure I’m just being a worrywort,” Ms. Opal replies.  “I just can’t shake this feeling that something’s wrong.  It’s a five minute drive.  Her daddy went out to see if she slid off the road.”  

“He won’t think it’s a bother. I’ll talk to the Sheriff, I know you don’t want to take any chances with this weather,” I promise. 

“Thanks Emma,” Ms. Opal says, and I can hear the worry in her voice. “Thank the Sheriff for me too, please.”

I hang up, and feeling worry in the pit of my own stomach, I step back out into the kitchen.  Marcus looks up at me, smiling, but the smile changes to concern when he sees the look on my face.

“What’s wrong?” He asks.

“That was May Anne’s mother,” I say, my mouth dry.  “She was supposed to be home an hour ago, but there’s no sign of her.”

“Is she answering her phone?”

“She doesn’t have a cell phone,” I say. “Her family is pretty poor, and she wants to go to college in the fall, so she’s been getting by without one.  Service out here is so spotty most people still have home phones anyway,” I rambled nervously. “I was going to ask if you could ask your deputies to keep a look out for her.

“Sure,” he says. “Was she on foot?”

“No, she drives my mom’s old buick skylark.  It’s light blue.” Marcus seems surprised by that.  

“You two are close, huh?”

“I think of her like a little sister, I guess,” I say. “She reminds me a little of myself when I was her age, but she’s so much brighter than I ever was.  She has a full ride to UMD in the fall and I wasn’t using the car anyway.”

Marcus nods gently and asks me for more information about May Anne before he calls the Sheriff’s station and asks dispatch to radio his on duty deputies to have them on the lookout for May Anne.

“I’m sure she’ll turn up,” he says.  “Does she have a boyfriend?”

“Not really.  She has a crush on Billy Johnson, but he doesn’t like her back, according to her.  And May Anne isn’t the type to run off without telling anyone where she’s going.”  

“We’ll find her,” he assures me.  “I’m sorry Emma, I wish I could stay here where it’s cozy and warm, and smells like vanilla pancakes all day but duty calls.”  He pays his tab and pulls his coat back on.  “She’ll turn up,” he tells me again.

I nod bleakly, but I can’t help but worry.  Culver Creek isn’t a big place, but it’s still plenty dangerous. Wild animals like Bear and Elk are plentiful, and the roads are narrow and winding.  She could have hit an animal or swerved to try to avoid hitting one and wrecked.  I shiver, hoping she turns up.

I am no more good the rest of the morning.  I spend the hours pacing the length of the diner, looking out the window at the falling snow, and checking my phone obsessively for texts or calls about May Anne.

I only see one more person that morning, the driver of an 18 wheeler that pulls up in the parking lot just after 10.  The driver gets out of the truck and makes his way up to the cafe.  I’ve never seen him before, but that’s not an uncommon thing.  Lots of Truckers stop through here, traveling through the scenic byways to avoid weigh stations.

Something about this man unsettles me a little bit, though. He’s older, mid fifties at least, with a little bit of a belly, but he looks like he’s pretty strong.  He’s got a ruddy, weatherbeaten face, and white-blue eyes.  His fingernails have muddy grime stuck beneath them, and a heavy odor clings to him; a mix of unwashed flesh, mustiness, cigarette smoke and something else I can’t place, but the smell is so strong, I can feel my eyes watering even across the counter.  He stares at me as I get his order together, black coffee and the rest of the eclairs.

“You here all by yourself?” he asks in a rough, low voice.

“No, my husband’s back in the kitchen doing inventory,” I say breezily.  Maybe he’s harmless, but something tells me that I don’t want this man thinking I’m here alone.  He gets up, taking his coffee and eclairs with him.  He gets in his truck and drives off, but I see him pull into Jimmy’s Texaco just up the road and turn off his lights.  He might just need fuel, I tell myself, trying not to let his unpleasant smell color my perception of him. Some time later, I look out again and he’s gone.

Finally, a little before noon, I lock up and turn the lights off. I head out to my truck, trudging through the deepening snow… But as I walk up to it, I notice the tires are flat.  All four of them.

“Shit,” I hiss.  I pull my cell phone out and call Jimmy.

“Baker’s Towing,” he answers crisply. 

“Jimmy, I need a tow.”

“I can’t help you for a couple of hours Em, I’m on a call for the state,” he said.  “Big accident up in Dour County.”

“All right, well give me a call when you’re freed up,” I say.

“Sure will Em.” 

I am about to go back inside to wait for Jimmy, wondering how long he’ll be, worrying about May Anne, and worrying about my animals back at my little farm, when I see headlights pulling into the parking lot.  

Marcus. My stomach flutters again. He pulls alongside me and rolls his window down.

“I wanted to swing back by to tell you to get on home, the roads are getting bad, but also to tell you that we haven’t found any sign of May Anne.  Ronald is talking to her parents now.”

“I’m headed home,” I tell him, but I see his eyes look past me, at my tires.

“Doesn’t look like you’re headed anywhere,” he says, putting his jeep in Park and climbing out of the driver’s side.  He walks over to my truck and then he realizes it’s all four tires. “Son of a bitch,” he says.  “Come on, hop in.”

“Jimmy’s gonna come give me a tow.”

“Jimmy’s gonna be tied up with the state all day. I heard it on the radio. He’s not gonna turn down state money.  Come on Emma,” Marcus says, holding the passenger door open for me. “I’ll drop you off at home and we’ll figure out what to do with your truck once the worst of the storm passes.”

“You really don’t have to-”

“I know.  Get in.”

I hesitate, but as another icy blast of wind cuts through my coat, my sweater and my clothes, I shiver and climb inside his jeep.

“I suppose you know how rare it is for four tires to spontaneously go flat,” he says as he turns the heat up slightly.

“I do,” I say.  “Deacon isn’t exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

“You wanna file a police report?”

“Yes, and no.  I should, because it’s the right thing to do… but I don’t wanna fuck up his parole.  I mean-” I blush a little. “Sorry, I shouldn’t swear.”

“Be a lady,” my father would admonish me.

“I don’t mind,” Marucs says softly.  He carefully navigates the jeep back on to the highway. “Anyway uh… Maybe you should fuck it up.”

“What makes you say that?”

He keeps his eyes fixed on the white road ahead of him. 

“Sometimes guys like him need to go to jail for it to sink in.”

I don’t reply to that.  We travel along in silence for a while.

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember where the turn is.”

“Oh, it’s about five miles up, on the left,”  I say as we pass Jimmy’s Texaco station.  The main highway is plowed, I know from years of living here that the backroads probably won’t see a plow til the morning, maybe not for a few days, depending on how bad things get.  Marcus pulls off the highway and makes the first turn.

“So you really lived here all your life?”

“Yeah… I mean, I left for a few years after I turned eighteen.”

“College?”

“No, with Deacon,” I say. “I didn’t go to college.”

“How come?”

“No money, and I was young and dumb and though I was in love.”

“Now you don’t?”

“My idea of what love is has changed,” I say.  “The next turn is coming up. It’s just up around the bend, on the left,” I tell him.

“If Deacon’s back in town…” he says, but he pauses.  “Just… You can call me if you need anything.  Even if you’re just scared.”

“That’s sweet of you, but I’m fine,” I assure him.  “That’s my driveway.  You can drop me-”

“I’m not dropping you off in the middle of the street.”

“No, I just meant-”

“I’m dropping you at the door and waiting til you get inside,” he says firmly.  He pulls the jeep up the steep drive and turns into the little parking turn out by the front porch.

“Thank you for the ride,” I tell him. 

“You’re welcome,” he says softly. 

I reach for the door and step out of the jeep, but suddenly, the world is flipped upside down and I feel my legs sliding in two opposite directions.  There’s a popping noise and pain radiates through my ankle.  I let out a small cry, and get a mouth full of snow for my trouble.

“Emma!” Marcus says, and in a flash he’s out of the Jeep, kneeling beside me in the snow. He carefully brushes snow off my face and out of my hair. “Are you okay?”

“My ankle,” I say, and I feel tears stinging my eyes.  “Fuck,” I swear.

“Come on, put your arms around my neck,” he says.

“Don’t, I’m too heavy.”

“You are not.  Come on.” I put my arms around his neck and he pulls me to my feet. “Can you put any weight on it?” He asks, carefully holding me.  I try, but I immediately fall against him.  

“I’ve got you,” he says, getting a good grip on me, pulling me close to him.  Despite the pain in my ankle, the cold, and my own embarrassment, my brain can’t help but clock how good he smells. “Easy does it.”  

In one fluid motion, he lifts me up in his arms, carrying me up the porch steps.  He holds me steady as I unlock my front door, and then he carries me inside, setting me down gently on my couch.

“Let me take a look,” he says.

“It’s fine.”

“Emma, I heard a crack.  It might be broken.”  He looks up at me, those big brown eyes of his so full of concern.  “Please, let me help you.”

I swallow hard, and I nod.

“All right,” I almost whisper.  He gently unlaces my boots, and I hope that my feet don’t stink. He pulls off my sock and rolls up the hem of my pant leg slightly.  His hands are cool against my skin as he gently feels my ankle.

Then he sees the long ugly scar that runs from the top of my foot just past my ankle bone.

“You broke your ankle before?”  He says, his brows knitting together.

“…Yeah,”  I say, but he catches the moment of hesitation. I bite my lip.

“Deacon,” he says darkly.  I nod. “He beat you up?”

“I figured you knew, no one in this town can keep their mouths shut.  It was the first time he put me in the hospital.  I’m embarrassed to say it wasn’t the last.”

“You don’t need to be embarrassed about that, Emma.”  He continues to examine my ankle. “I think it’s just a bad sprain, but you’ll need to stay off it until Doc Amron can take a look at it.”

He glances out the window at the snow, which is still falling heavily.

“I have animals to tend to,” I say before I can stop myself.

“I’ll do it,” he says.

“No I-”

“Emma,” Marcus says gently. “You’re hurt, and I ca- I’m your friend. Let me help you,” he repeats, his voice that same, low husky tone from earlier.

“You don’t know what needs to be done or where anything is.”

“I’m sure you can guide me.”

I start to protest again, but his deep brown eyes catch me off guard.

“Thank you,” I finally say softly.  I give him the rundown of where to find things, and he heads back out into the cold.  The wind is howling something fierce and a distant rumble of thunder causes me to shiver.

A half hour later, Marcus comes back into the house, and to my surprise, he takes his boots off by the front door and hangs his coat on the coat rack.

“The animals are all fine,” he says.  “I fed your ducks and goats. You didn’t mention your cat though, so I wasn’t sure where to find her food.”

“I don’t have a cat,” I said, and I felt my eyebrows knit together.

“Well, you have a visitor then.  She was quite friendly, so I thought she must be a pet.”

“Poor thing, she must have wanted to get out of the cold.”

“Yeah, she’s curled up in the barn with your goats.”

“She’s welcome to ride out the storm with them,” I say softly.  Marcus looks around, a smile playing around his full lips.

“What?”

“Your house doesn’t seem very… You.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Well the Cafe seems like you, with all the pink and stuff… This… not so much.”  He gestures to the dark wood paneling and the blue and green plaid furniture.

“No, this is my dad… I’ve been so busy getting the cafe up and running that I haven’t done much in the way of fixing up the house since I moved back here.”  I say.

“Can I get you anything or do anything for you?  Ibuprofen?  Blanket?” He asks.

“yes thank you. There’s some ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, it’s just down the hall over there,” I point. “Please.”

“Coming right up,” he says, and he disappears.  He comes back a few minutes later with a small cup and the bottle of ibuprofen.  I take three and swallow the water in one gulp.

“I don’t like the idea of leaving you here with your ankle like that,” he says. “Why don’t you come back with me to town?  I have a spare room that’s comfortable.”

“What about my animals?” I ask.

“I’ll come back in the morning to take care of them.”

“I doubt the roads will be plowed.  It’s supposed to snow all night,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”

“Are you always this stubborn?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that…You seem to have a hard time asking for help, and a hard time accepting the offer.”

“I’m just used to doing things on my own.”

“You don’t have to, though.”  He sits on the couch, not quite next to me, and looks at me for a long moment. I feel the fluttering in my stomach again.  He opens his mouth to speak again, but before he can, a terrible gust of wind rips through the afternoon, and the house shudders.  The lights flicker for a second, and a loud clap of thunder booms almost directly overhead.  I look out the front window, but all I see is white.

“Wow,” Marcus whispers. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Snow Squalls are pretty common out here,” I say.  “They’re dangerous.”  I cast a look over at him.  “You can’t drive in that.”  The words are out of my mouth before I can stop myself. “You can stay here,” I go on, again before I can seem to stop myself, my heart pounding a little faster.  

“I’ll be fine, I’ve got snow tires on the jeep-”

“It’s more than that,” I blurt out. “You won’t be able to see anything.  It’s white out conditions. You don’t know the roads this far out real well yet, and-”

“Emma-”

“Please,” I say.  “Don’t try to head back to town.  You might think you know, but Marcus… If anything happened to you…”  My voice trails off.  “Please stay.”

“I don’t want to impose on you Emma.”

“You just told me I could stay at your place because of my ankle,”  I argue. “Now who’s being stubborn?”

“Touche.”

“You can’t drive in that,” I say again, and to illustrate my point, another gust of wind causes the house to rattle again.

“No, I don’t think I can,” he agrees, getting up and going over to the window. “I can’t even see my jeep.”

He looks over at me, a small smile on his face. 

“I can sleep with the goats.  If it’s good enough for a cat, it’s good enough for me.”

I feel myself smiling despite the pain in my ankle.

“I have a spare room, too, you know.”

“I didn’t want to assume.”

“I wouldn’t make you sleep with the goats,” I say, still smiling.

“I could do worse,” he says.  He sits back on the couch. “I’d love to stay, thank you for the offer.”

“Thank you for everything,” I return.

“What are friends for?”

Friends, I think, and I can’t help a little pang of disappointment at the word. My cell phone rings.  I give him an apologetic look as I answer it.

“Hi Ms. Opal,” I answer

“Emma,” she says tearfully. “She still isn’t home.”

I feel terrible.  With Deacon showing up, my ankle, and now Marcus spending the night, May Anne had slipped my mind.  

“I’m with Sheriff Pike right now,”  I look over at him.  “One sec,” I tell Ms. Opal.  I mute the phone and look at him. He shakes his head, and I understand his meaning.   No updates, no news.  But then to my surprise, he holds out his hand for my phone.

“Ms. Opal, hold on, he wants to speak to you.”  I hand him the phone.

“Hi Mrs. Collins,” he says.  “I have my deputies on the lookout for her, but with the storm, there’s not much we can do.  Hopefully she’s just holed up with a girlfriend-”

I hear Ms Opal’s desperate voice interrupt him.

“I understand how you must be feeling, and I’m so sorry, but you need to stay indoors until the storm passes. It’s too dangerous to be out in it.  We’ll have a better chance of finding her once the snow stops and the roads are plowed.”  His tone is low, patient and kind.

More crying, and I feel sick to my stomach with worry.

He talks to her for a while longer, never losing his patience, repeating his words of comfort over and over.  Eventually Ms Opal hangs up, and he looks at me sadly.

“I’m so sorry,” he says to me. “I’m sure she’ll turn up after the storm passes,” he tries to reassure me.

“It’s not like May Anne not to at least call,” I say.

“I know, but Emma, she’s a teenage girl.”

“May Anne isn’t a normal teenage girl.  She’s not the kind of person to let her parents worry.”

“Even if she was seeing someone they didn’t approve of?”

“She wouldn’t keep that secret from me,” I say. May Anne confessed many a crush to me over the years.

“Even if she thought you wouldn’t approve?”

I don’t know how to make him understand, so I just shrug.

“May Anne is the most responsible person I know,” I say after a minute. “But I hope you’re right.”

A long silence passes between us.

“You were going to say something earlier,” I say after a moment.  “Before Deacon showed up.”

“I was?  Huh, I don’t remember now,” he says, but he avoids my gaze as he says it.

“You’re a lousy liar,” I say.

“I am,” he replies.  He looks back over at me. “I dunno if now’s the right time.”

“Why not?”

“You’re worried about May Anne, your ankle… Deacon…”

“Trust me, Deacon is the last thing on my mind.”  I shift slightly on the couch, wincing as I do. 

“Are you in pain?”

“It’s not bad,” I say.  “Anyway, I could use something to take my mind off of it… And off of May Anne, since I can’t do anything until the storm passes anyway.”

Marcus sighs.

“There’s about a million ways I’d rather do this… Smoother, more charming ways.”

“Do what?”

“I was going to ask you if you’d like to go to dinner with me sometime,” he says.

I blink, surprised.

“I…”