“Hey there, Reva,” June said softly.
Her voice was warm, like a hand on the back of Reva’s heart. But there was something behind it, too—something quieter. A kind of bracing. As if they both knew this day had a shape to it neither wanted to outline.
Reva’s throat thickened, but she managed a small nod.
June didn’t waste time with pretense. She reached for Reva’s hand and held it. “Fleet’s out back.”
The older woman led Reva inside and to a kitchen table where she offered her a seat and a cup of coffee.
The kitchen smelled faintly of cinnamon and apples. June moved with practiced ease, retrieving two mugs from the open shelf above the sink and pouring coffee from a thermal carafe. The mugs didn’t match—one was plain white, the other had a faded rooster on the side—but they felt right somehow.
Reva wrapped her hands around the warm ceramic, grateful for something to hold. She took a sip, letting the heat anchor her as June sat across from her.
Then came the sound of boots on the back steps. Slow. Measured.
The screen door creaked open, and a moment later, Fleet Southcott appeared in the doorway, backlit by the morning light. “Reva, what are you doing here?” He glanced at his wife. “Did I know she was coming?”
June shook her head.
Reva stood slowly, unsure if she should smile or brace herself. “Hi, Fleet.”
For a beat, neither moved. Then his expression softened, lines easing at the corners of his eyes. “You didn’t have to come all the way out here.”
“I did,” she said quietly.
And in that moment, they both knew this wasn’t just a visit.
It was something more.
Reva pushed open the door to her office and stepped inside. She didn’t bother flipping on the lights. The morning sun slanted through the tall windows, casting stripes across the carpeted floor and highlighting the fine dust on her desk that always settled no matter how often Verna insisted on wiping down the surface.
She let her purse slide off her shoulder into the side chair near the window and stood there a beat longer than she meant to, one hand resting against her chest. Finally, she turned and crossed to the credenza, eyes locked on the familiar silver carafe.
The first cup she’d had at the Southcotts’ hadn’t been enough. Not by half.
She poured herself a second and didn’t bother with cream this time. Just the dark, bitter brew. She took a sip, felt it settle, and closed her eyes.
The soft patter of footsteps preceded the inevitable.
Verna Billingsley appeared in the doorway, holding a file folder and wearing the same burgundy pantsuit she’d worn to the town council meeting two nights ago. Her expression was tight with curiosity, though she did her best to soften it with a half-smile.
“How’d it go?”
Reva swallowed. She took another sip and then nodded, more to herself than anyone else.
“He took it graciously,” she said, her voice low. “Like maybe he sensed it was coming. Maybe he’s known for a while.” She moved to her desk and sank into the chair, cradling the mug between her palms. “I explained the town council voted unanimously. He’ll receive full retirement benefits, and I made sure he knows he’ll always carry the title of Honorary Sheriff for life.”
Verna stepped inside, the file forgotten in her arms. “And?”
“I told him Thunder Mountain would never forget what he’s given us. That for more than two decades, he’s been the backbone of this place—showing up in snowstorms, answering calls in the middle of the night, standing watch at every parade, every holiday gathering, every tragedy. I reminded him that kids feel safe because they know Fleet Southcott is out there. That families sleep easier because of him.”
Her voice broke slightly, but she pushed through.
“He just nodded and said, ‘I reckon a man can’t catch all the bad guys when he can’t remember where he put his keys.’”
Verna smiled sadly. “That sounds like Fleet.”
Reva nodded. “Then June squeezed his hand and said, ‘Keys can be found. Kindness can’t easily be taught.’”
