CHAPTER 1
QUINN
The Montana highway stretched ahead of me, endless and shimmering in the late afternoon heat. Five days into my transfer to Pike Creek, and I was still trying to prove I belonged here—that being Sheriff Bill Jenkins' daughter didn't mean I'd gotten special treatment.
Even if it absolutely did.
My fingers drummed against the steering wheel of the cruiser as I watched for speeders from my spot behind the billboard for Thompson's Feed Store. The same spot I'd been parking every afternoon this week, telling myself it was because of the sight lines and not because this stretch of highway led directly to the Pike Creek Riders' clubhouse seven miles out of town.
Dad's voice echoed in my head from this morning's briefing, same lecture he'd been giving since I was sixteen and started dating that boy with the motorcycle. Tommy something. Dad had run him off within a week, had the poor kid so scared he transferred schools.
"Stay clear of the Pike Creek Riders. Nothing but trouble, that MC. Criminals hiding behind brotherhood bullshit. Theymight play nice with the town and pretend to be legitimate businessmen, but I know what they really are."
He'd said it loud enough for the other two deputies to hear, marking his territory, reminding everyone that just because I was his daughter didn't mean he'd go easy on me. If anything, he went harder. Every shift started with a reminder of proper procedure, every decision scrutinized, every interaction monitored.
"You wanted this transfer," he'd said when I'd complained after my second day. "You wanted to prove yourself. This is what that looks like."
What it looked like was suffocating. In my previous post in Billings, I'd been just another deputy. Here, I was the sheriff's daughter first, deputy second, and Quinn dead last.
The roar of a motorcycle engine pulled me from my spiraling thoughts. A Harley blew past my hidden spot doing at least twenty over the limit, the rider's leather cut unmistakable even at that speed.
Pike Creek Riders MC.
My adrenaline spiked as I flipped on my lights and sirens, pulling onto the highway. The bike didn't immediately slow, and for a moment I wondered if he'd run. That would certainly make things interesting—my first high-speed chase in Pike Creek, and with an MC member no less. Dad would lose his mind.
Then the brake lights flashed, and he eased onto the shoulder with an almost lazy confidence, like getting pulled over was just a minor inconvenience in his day.
I ran the plates before approaching, hand on my weapon out of habit more than real concern. "Michael McCarthy" popped up on my screen. Multiple minor violations, nothing serious. Some bar fights, disturbing the peace, the kind of rap sheet that said trouble but not real danger. Known as "Wolf"—Vice President of Pike Creek Riders.
Great. My first real interaction with the MC, and it had to be with their VP.
I grabbed my ticket book, checked my body cam was on, and stepped out of the cruiser, adjusting my belt and trying to project more authority than I possessed. The man leaning against his bike looked like everything Dad had warned me about—and nothing like it at all.
Wolf McCarthy was six feet of lean muscle and casual danger, arms crossed over his broad chest, that leather cut worn like armor. His jaw was rough with a few days of stubble, and a smile played at the corner of his mouth like getting pulled over was the highlight of his day.
But it was his eyes that made my step falter. Bright blue and locked on mine with an intensity that sent warmth spreading through my chest, like being caught in a spotlight and liking it.
"Afternoon, Deputy." His voice was whiskey and gravel, amused and entirely too confident. "You must be new. I'd remember you."
"License and registration." I kept my voice steady, professional, even as my skin prickled with awareness. This close, leather and motor oil and sun-warmed skin filled my senses, made my mouth go dry.
He made no move to comply, just studied me with those devastating eyes, taking his time like he had all day. His gaze traveled from my face down to my boots and back up again, slow and deliberate, cataloging every detail.
"Sheriff didn't mention his daughter was so fucking beautiful."
The words landed with unexpected force, delivered with a casual confidence that said he knew exactly what effect he was having. My body responded instantly—nipples tightening against my bulletproof vest, heart rate doubling, an ache building between my thighs. I'd been hit on plenty of timesduring traffic stops, mostly by drunk assholes or nervous married men trying to flirt their way out of a ticket. But never like this. Never with this instant, magnetic pull that made me want to step closer instead of maintaining professional distance.
"That's Deputy Jenkins to you." The words came out steadier than I expected despite the fire spreading through my veins. "License. Registration. Now."
"Sure thing, sweetheart." He reached into his back pocket slowly, deliberately, making me hyperaware of the way his jeans stretched across his thighs, the flex of his forearm as he pulled out his wallet.
He held out his license, and when I reached for it, our fingers brushed. Warmth spread up my arm from that simple contact, and his smile widened. He didn't let go immediately, forcing me to either tug it away like a child or stand there with our fingers touching. I stood there, frozen, for a heartbeat too long before snatching it from his grip.
"Know why I stopped you?" I asked, writing the ticket while fighting to keep my hands steady. Each letter, each number required focus while he stood there, watching my face instead of what I was writing.
"Because you wanted to meet me?" He tilted his head, that cocky smile never wavering. "Could've just asked. Would've saved you the paperwork. I eat at Bea's every Tuesday. Drink at Buck's most nights. Very findable."
"You were doing seventy-five in a fifty-five."
