Bred by The Deputy, page 1
Bred by the Deputy by Dee Ellis
© 2024 by Dee Ellis. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.
Cover Design: Bookin’ It Designs
Interior Formatting: Dee Ellis
Publisher: Hummingbird Press
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Hi Reader!
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
Thank You for Reading!
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Chapter One
Dole
All it should take is one. Just one kiss to know if they’re the one.
I might not have done a lot of kissing in my time, but there is a reason for that. I believe in a lifetime kind of love. Watching my parents, who were high school sweethearts, love one another proved that sort of thing exists. They still moon at one another like teenagers, and I won’t settle for anything less than that for myself.
Finding love in a small town like Driftwood is a lot harder than one might expect. Growing up in the same town, with the same people, means I know just about everyone in town. We get some tourists or some new people now and again, but for the most part, the dating pool is about twenty women, all of whom I know well enough kissing them feels wrong.
Being a deputy sheriff also means people trust me. They expect me to be a good guy, to do the right thing. This means if I take a lady out even if no sparks fly, I have to be gentle about getting out of a second date. Somehow, I still end up the bad guy, though never have I paid a higher price than I am paying now.
“Mrs. Murphy called again,” Mackenzie glares at me as she passes over a post-it full of notes about the call. “Be nicer to her than you are most the ladies, Dole.”
Ouch. Dating a woman I work with was a bad idea. I don’t regret it exactly, we had a good time at first. Mackenzie is a beautiful girl, funny, and smart, any guy would be lucky to be with her. Just not this guy. When it came to that moment, the one I make all my romantic decisions on, I was let down. When I kissed her goodnight on our third date, I felt…nothing.
No sparks, no hum in my chest, nothing below the waist, just nothing at all. It felt almost the way it felt to kiss my sister Bria. I tried to let her down easy, I said I thought our dating and working together was a bad idea. That was not a good enough reason it would seem, because Mackenzie has been downright hateful towards me since our last date.
“I am nice to everyone the same,” I tell her, taking the note swiftly. “I think we all ought to be that way, don’t you?”
Tipping my hat at her, I grab my coffee and get the hell out of the station. It’s been weeks since we last went out, but her attitude has not changed. We were good friends before we tried to date so I figured that wouldn’t change. I guess I figured it wrong. I am just hoping this whole thing blows over soon because it is frigid in the station with her now.
“Dole,” Watt’s deep voice booms as I step outside. Turning to see the new sheriff heading towards me, I smile and nod my head. “Morning. How’s things going in there today?” He tilts his head towards the station, and I wince.
“Still the same. Should I take her out again?” I wonder as I glance back inside to see Mackenzie pouting back at me.
“No, you should not. You tried it, you two weren’t meant to be. The second landing is opening up on the mountain soon. There will be plenty of growly lumberjacks for her to swoon over. Where are you headed?”
“Yeah, I hope so. Can’t help it if the magic was not there. I am going over to Mrs. Murphy’s. That new coffee shop gives her something new to complain about every day it seems.”
Watt shakes his head with a laugh. His old lady is best friends with the owner of that coffee shop, so he lets me handle these complaints. The truth is the coffee shop is a great addition to Driftwood. We’ve seen several new places open up lately and I for one and glad for it. Mrs. Murphy, who I swear was here when the town was born, thinks otherwise.
“Tell Quinn and Willa you get a free latte for your troubles.”
Chuckling, I tell him I’ll do that, and I head for my cruiser. Driftwood is a small town with less than two thousand residents. The mountains that make up most of the town bring lumberjacks to town during the felling season. Those boys can be a bit of a handful if they drink too much so they keep us busy. As I pass by the one bar in town, I slow a little when I see the line of bikes out front.
Our other main source of trouble is the motorcycle club that calls Driftwood their home. Most of the guys are former military, some rough and rugged guys. They don’t cause too much ruckus, but if they tangle with the residents who grew up here or even the rowdy lumberjacks, we get called in to handle it.
Nodding my head at Hawk, one of the newer residents of Driftwood and a member of the Driftwood Disciples, I sigh. I don’t mind them being here. They give back to the town and if you ask me, they make it a little safer. Who wants to tussle with a band of former elite marines? Not me, and not most of the trouble that comes through Driftwood. They help us police the town even if we do things very differently.
Turning up the radio, I head towards Mrs. Murphy’s place just beyond Main Street. All she wants is someone to talk to. Her husband passed on five years ago, about when her regular calls to the station began. At the time, our sheriff had little patience for it, so I often took the calls. She means no harm, so I let her complain for a bit before I promise to do something to fix whatever upset her this time.
“Evening Mrs. Murphy,” I call as I close my cruiser door, seeing her rocking on her front porch, knitting as usual. “What seems to be the trouble this evening, darling?”
“Oh, Dole, they should not have sent you here. I just let Mackenzie know there’s a speed demon in town. Racing up and down the streets.”
Shaking my head, I join her, sitting in the rocking chair beside her. I will sit and talk with her as long as she needs. Her husband doted on her until he passed, so she misses the attention. Her jerkoff kids rarely come to visit and even her grandkids hardly come by to see her. I hate to think of my mother rocking on the porch, without dad, without me.
“Was it one of the Disciples on their bike again?”
“No, no, it was a fancier can than I ever seen before. Maybe one of those rich boys from Harmony Hollow.”
Chuckling with her, I nod. We talk about the weather, the landing where the lumberjacks’ fell trees, and even about her garden. It kills about an hour of my twelve-hour shift and when I climb back in my cruiser, Mrs. Murphy is a little less lonely. Waving at her, I promise to find this speeder as I pull from the curb to start my usual patrol.
The small cruiser fills with the twangs of Laney Wilson singing about heartache. I think back to earlier with Mackenzie. I wish I had felt that spark with her. We flirted for months before I asked her out. I knew if it went bad, things at the station would become tense. I consider asking her out again to see if I am being too much of a romantic about it all.
“Holy shit,” I mutter when I see the blaze of bright pink fly past me. Well, hell. Mrs. Murphy wasn’t wrong. That is one flashy ass car.
Hitting my lights and siren, I try to catch up to the pink Porsche as it speeds through the narrow streets. It slows once the driver takes notice of the wailing siren and flashing lights behind them. Part of me wants them to keep running and give me a little excitement for the day. They pull off the road at the edge of town, putting an end to the short-lived chase.
Before I get out of the cruiser, I take down all the details I can. License plate, color, make, model—a Porsche 718—where I first spotted them and the mile marker they pulled over. Climbing from my car, I shut off the sirens and lights as I head towards the car. My pulse kicks up as I place a hand on my gun, taking it off just long enough to press my palm to the back of the car, just in case.
“Good evening. Going a little fast back in town,” I start as I reach the driver's side, the darkly tinted window sliding down slowly. “Can I get your….”
Trailing off as the driver tilts their head back, black and pink hair falling off her face, I swallow hard. Bright golden eyes gaze up at me, a shimmer of mirth in their depths. Reaching out, she hands me a driver's license from Miami, insurance, and the registration before I finish asking for them.
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My heart pounds faster, the normal adrenaline I would feel at any traffic stop. Only this is not any traffic stop. This girl is not from here, is driving a car worth more than a year of my salary and looks as poised and polished as any woman I have ever seen. Back at my car, it takes me a minute to calm my breathing as my shaking hands type in her information.
“Calm down, Dole,” I curse myself, tapping at the keys anxiously. I pull up a clean driving record, but there are some hits for arrests. I pull them up, laughing when I see them. Of course, she’s one of those.
Last winter Quinn VonMuth and her best friends—and fellow rich girls—came to town to protest the logging landing. They were known philanthropists who truly used their money and power for good. Usually. They found out quickly that Felle Landing is one of the most sustainable logging companies in the world.
Quinn and her friends gave up their protests, at least at Felle Landing. That may have more to do with Quinn getting hitched to one of the lumberjacks up there. They decided they liked it here in Driftwood and Quinn and her friends set up shop, opening that fancy new coffee shop Mrs. Murphy usually complained about.
It would seem this speed demon is here to join the ranks. Many of her arrests match up to protests I know Quinn, Lennon, and Brielle were involved in. Only know that because Keller had me do checks on all the girls when they kept showing up at the landing. It seems they all like to stick it to the man, or something along those lines, this one included.
Della Crest. Daughter of Leonard Crest, billionaire newspaper mogul.
I imagine the many stories he had to print in his newspapers about his daughter’s antics have something to do with her winding up here in Driftwood. Rich girls seem to wind up here seeking some kind of redemption. It worked for her friends. I suppose it could work for her.
“Ms. Crest,” I start as I approach her again. “You know why I pulled you over, I assume?”
“Yes, I was going too fast. I forget how fast this thing goes. I was rushing for no good reason. My father always said I started life in a hurry because I was two months premature. Officer, I understand I made a huge mistake. How can I make it right?”
Glancing down at her as she beams up at me, I stop lying to myself. My heart skittering has nothing to do with the usual adrenaline. I am excited. I want to give her a ticket, I want a chance to see her at the courthouse. I want any shot at seeing her again. Her light eyes stare up at me in the twilight, a smile turning up her perfect pouty lips.
“I have to write you a ticket, Ms. Crest,” I answer gently.
“Della. Call me Della,” she pleads with a bigger smile, her eyes narrowing on my badge. “Dole…like…the pineapple and bananas?”
“No, ma’am. It means destiny, to fulfill it. Not that I mind pineapples or bananas.”
“Oh, that is much better. I do like pineapple though. Have you ever had the dole whip at Disney? It is divine. Am I going to jail, Dole?”
Chuckling, I shake my head at her. “No, Della, not tonight.”
“Well, take me to dinner then. I have no idea where to eat.”
“What? Right now, take you to dinner?”
“Yeah. Could you? I promise to pay for any ticket. I plan to be in town for a while. I am starving with no idea where to get some mashed potatoes. You have a place like that here?”
What could it hurt, taking a little rich girl for some mashed potatoes?
Chapter Two
Della
Mashed potatoes may be the best thing man ever invented.
Well, after the French fry, if we’re talking potatoes. I love a good French fry. Who doesn’t? Hand cut, fried just right, a heavy hand of salt, and a pool of warm ketchup. That is a slice of heaven if you ask me. Add some beer-battered onion rings and it doesn’t get much better.
These mashed potatoes could be the best I have ever had. And at a tiny diner on the edge of a tiny town, I am impressed. The gravy is thick, warm, and dark with a rich flavor. I ask the waitress for a bowl of it to dip my steak in and she obliges with a polite smile.
“You weren’t lying about being starved.”
Flushing as I shove a bite of creamy gravy-soaked mashed potatoes and steak, I nod. I do a lot of stupid things. Drive too fast. Drink too much. Date the wrong men—which is why I ended up here in Driftwood. But I never lie. Not even about simple things. I don’t know if I know how to lie.
“I was. I am. This is amazing. I had a bag of hot Cheetos and a Red Bull earlier. This is what I needed. A good meal at a good place, with a good person. Am I making you uncomfortable? People say I do that.”
“No. No, why would I be uncomfortable? Matter of fact,” he pauses, cocking his head as he smiles at me. I love his smile, it lights up his green eyes. “I am much more comfortable here with you than I ought to be.”
“Well, I say stuff that bothers people. My father always said I had no filter. Just his nice way of saying I never think before I speak. I mean, of course, I do, I couldn’t speak if I wasn’t thinking, right? I do make people uncomfortable. They find out who I am and what I do, and they hate me.”
Dole frowns at me, tilting his head to let his eyes slide over me. I am used to men looking at me a certain way. It is what I get paid for, after all. I started modeling when I was fourteen when I was spotted on the streets of New York, on a shopping spree with my socialite mother.
“Why would people hate you for what you do?”
“Women are taught to hate other women. To hate them because they are thin, or not thin, too blond, too brash, too quiet, too loud. I was a model for most of my life. I got paid exorbitant amounts of money because a person in the know deemed me pretty enough to get paid for it. I am one of the reasons some girls diet, and why some girls wear what they wear. They eat it up but hate me after finding out I am the face of what they devour.”
“That’s,” pausing, his eyes come to mine. I almost drop my fork when I see a softness in their jade depths. No judgment. No leering. Just soft eyes full of…not sympathy, but…I guess, empathy? “That’s an awful way to live, sweetheart. What brought you to Driftwood? Passing through?”
“Oh, no,” I push another big bite of creamy potatoes past my lips, speaking while I enjoy it. “Some of my old friends live here now. It’s wild, they came here to protest, then moved themselves to town. I figured I had to see the cute little town that took them all out.”
I leave out that I had nowhere left to go but to Quinn and Willa. That I came here out of necessity, not for a visit with some old friends. If I am being honest, his pulling me over seemed like a sign. Once he walked up to my door and our eyes met, I felt safe for the first time in months.
Doing what I do for a living has its perks and drawbacks. Wearing the finest clothes, going all over the world, hanging out with celebrities, and having a life of luxury is nice. Women hating for being born looking this way, men using me as a trophy, and even being stalked are not so nice.
“Everything good, sweetheart?”
Blinking at Dole as he watches me shred the paper napkin with the diner’s name on it, I nod. No, everything is not good but no one else needs to know. The less people who know what is going on, the better. I could not stand it if someone else got hurt because of me. Because of the stupid mistakes I made, that sent me running from my life in the city.
“Yeah, yes of course. Don’t you think it was strange of me to drag you to dinner with me? I just broke the law, but I thought I had a right to share dinner with you. What does that tell you about me?”
“Well,” he pauses again to take a good, long look at me. I find I very much like the way he looks at me. It is so different from the way most people look at me. Stare at me. Leer at me. He does none of that. “It tells me you wanted something to eat. About breaking the law…I saw your record, Della, I know this was not your first run-in with the law. Which tells me a lot more about you than us sharing a meal here tonight.”
“Does it? What does it tell you?”
“It tells me you do not like being rich. You don’t know any other way to be. It tells me you tried to do some good with who you are and what you say you do for a living. That whatever reason you think people hate you ought to be the reason they admire you. You don’t have to tell me this, and dinner here is just us eating, but something tells me you came here to get away from something. Or someone. No one will hurt you in Driftwood, Della. I can promise you that.”
