Page 4 of The SEAL and the Sheriff

He turned and stood.

The world stopped making sense, and the room tilted almost imperceptibly beneath her boots.

Fifteen years disappeared. Hay tickling her nose in a barn loft. Summer laughter. A nineteen-year-old boy who'd kissed her once beneath a sky full of stars.

The stolen kiss she'd spent half her life pretending hadn't mattered.

Hudson Kane.

He'd been lean at nineteen, all long bones and restless energy, not yet grown into himself.

This man dominated the room.

Broad through the chest and shoulders now, with a stillness that came from knowing exactly what his body could do and never needing to prove it.

For one unprofessional second, her brain short-circuited.

The boy was gone. She'd have known him anywhere.

Hudson—

Training took over. The sheriff closed over the girl she’d been, sealing her away before Sarah could stare or say his name aloud. Years of learning to be the still point in any room locked around her.

She shifted her weight forward, onto the balls of her feet, resting one hand against her belt. Walter was two steps behind her, oblivious, already sizing up Kincaid. The bar was watching. Nothing about this could look different from any other Tuesday.

“Sir.” Her voice came out level and carried clean across the room. “Stay where you are.”

Hudson’s knuckles whitened, then eased. Something tightened at the corner of his mouth, pain or recognition, gone too quickly to name. His eyes gave her nothing. Whatever seeing her had done to him, he had it locked down tighter than she had.

Fine. Two can play at that.

“ID.” She held out her hand.

He reached inside his jacket and handed it over. His fingers brushed hers for a fraction of a second, and her heart stumbled. She ignored the warmth that lingered.

She flipped the credentials open and read them as if she didn’t already know exactly whose name was going to be printed there.

Deputy United States Marshal. Hudson Kane.

Sarah closed the credentials and handed them back. “Deputy Marshal.”

Two words. All the space she was willing to give it.

“Sheriff.”

She turned her attention from him, letting the room breathe again under her control. Kincaid had straightened up. Walter had a hand on his arm that looked casual but wasn’t.

Over by the back window, Hal Jackson set his beer down a little too carefully. Hal had been old when Wyatt was in high school, and he never forgot a face. He recognized Hudson. She kept her expression neutral.

“Anyone injured?” she asked.

“No,” Marty said quickly. “No, nothing like that. Dale just—” He glanced at Kincaid and thought better of finishing.

Kincaid spat something under his breath that didn’t quite make words.

Sarah looked at him. “You want to press charges?”

“What? No.” He straightened, dignity reassembling itself in uneven pieces. “Guy just got lucky.”