Page 57 of Apple of My Eye

“Yeah, but Daisy and Knox, er...” Ivy stopped when I shook my head, not admitting a thing. “Well, I really think he’s more suited for you, Sage,” she attempted to be the matchmaker, and the dance hadn’t even gotten started.

“I hate being set up. You know that,” she retorted. “Besides, I’ve sworn off cowboys as of this minute. Unlesshe’s charming to look at and different from most around here, don’t bother.”

“Hm. I’ll be right back.” Ivy hurried away.

I peered at how Sage’s contacts turned her eyes even brighter green, and with the hair down and the lipstick? It’d be a great night for her to catch someone’s eye.

“Look at you. You’re gorgeous, smart, and have a good head on your shoulders. You have so much to offer the right guy. Tonight is a good night to be young and have fun.” I continued to layer on anything that Mom might have said to bolster her spirits.

Before she could respond, Ivy returned, pulling a man along with her. “Carter, meet my sisters, Daisy and Sage.”

Uh. Wow. If Sage was tired of rugged cowboys, what would she think of this gorgeous man? He turned out to be tall, fit, and handsome with a chiseled jawline, wearing a cowboy hat in a way that if he’d take off his fitted shirt and danced around, gyrating his hips, flexing his abs, the women might all swoon. Clean-shaven, more college preppy than Montana-grown, if I had to guess, the only thing separating him from being called a male model were the glasses he pushed up his nose.

“Very nice to meet you both.” He had manners. His deep voice resonated, with no cowboy twang at all. In fact, I detected almost a British accent but couldn’t be certain. A Northerner, if I had to guess? What the heck was he doing here posing as a cowboy?

Ivy left him with us and scooted away. Sage licked her lips and eyed him with the peculiar expression of a scientist observing a fascinating result.

“Well, hello Carter. Do you ride horses?” I started the conversation when she hadn’t spoken yet.

“Of course. I spent some time at camps—uh, camp, camping. Very familiar. Do I catch the scent of lavender and thyme?” He asked.

Sage perked up. “Maybe. I like to work with herbs and spices. I make this lavender oil for the bath for my sisters and me, straight from what I grow in our garden.”

“Ah. Botany… plants lately?” He wiggled his brows.

Sage cracked up. “Of course. Don’t kale my vibe.”

He chuckled with her, rich and dark, his eyes lighting on her fast, flicking down to her chest and back up.

I blinked and stared, speechless, uncertain what I was watching here.

Five minutes later, bored to tears by their sudden deep mutual admiration for all things botanical, complete with another joke he told involving latin names for our apple trees when he learned we had an orchard, I stepped back and left them to it.

Apple trees I could handle, but other flora and fauna I left to Sage, the one with the green thumb in the family.

Well, it appeared she got her wish for someone… different. I glanced at them both one last time, Sage and the GQ-level yet awkward cowboy, and silently wished them well.

I lost sight of Knox as I waded through the crowd, saying hello to so many people. My high school band instructor and his wife. Our family doctor. And so many others, until finally Chris Magnus took the small stage, which quieted the Pavilion for the first time all night.

He crossed to the podium with a way about him that commanded the room. A former navy doctor turned rancher,provider of two havens for horses at the ranch here and his first ranch out east, who, despite his money, people seemed to respect the hell out of whenever he was in town. Broad-shouldered, and smart, and charming, he had the particular credibility of a man who’d put his money into something meaningful.

“Thank you for attending tonight. Can’t tell you how much it means to me and my family to see so many faces here. This county took a chance on us when we set up the Off-Duty Rescue Ranch,” he started. “Sheriff Patrick was one of the first people to shake my hand when we got here. He’s proven to us repeatedly that he is capable of seeking justice and keeping the law in this county. I’m pleased to report that the latest poll figures in the county newspaper shows the Sheriff way ahead by a wide margin in favor of winning. That’s why I give my full support to the sheriff, and I hope you’ll help us re-elect him in November. And now, the man of the hour—please welcome Sheriff Gavin Patrick.”

The applause was immediate and genuine; the crowd whistled and hollered for their favorite candidate.

Sheriff Patrick took the stage. He was not a man who made speeches for the pleasure of it. He stood at the microphone with his hat in his hands, working the felt in a circle around the brim.

“I’ll keep this short,” he said. “Most of you know why we’re here. You know what kind of sheriff I’ve tried to be for this county and what kind I intend to keep being. I won’t stand up here and make promises. My record does that for me.”

A sound of agreement and “here-here” waved through the crowd.

“What I am going to do is tell you something that some of you have been hoping for a long time to hear.”

People hung on his every word.

“My father served this county as sheriff for years. Many of you respected the hell out of him. I sure did. But we all know there has been a cold case surrounding his murder. That case has sat with me every single day I have worn this badge. New information has come to light that connects my father’s case to other incidents in this county that were never properly resolved. I am officially reopening the investigation. Silver County will have justice. I intend to see to it personally. If you re-elect me in November, I’ll finish what my father started and keep the county safe.”

His speech landed differently for me than it probably did for most of the people in the room, given what I knew and experienced. Sage found me again through the crowd. She took my hand and held it, which she didn’t do often. We stood there together while the crowd settled.