Chapter 4 - The Man Behind the Sheriff’s Badge
The forged signature changed everything.
Until that moment, Julian’s betrayal had been personal.
An affair.
Financial cruelty.
A husband blaming his wife for infertility while secretly knowing his own diagnosis.
Ugly, yes.
But still something that might disappear quietly into divorce court.
Forgery made it different.
Medical fraud made it different.
Rebecca became very careful about what she said over the phone.
“We are not accusing anyone yet.”
“Julian forged my signature.”
“We’re establishing who did.”
“It looks like my signature.”
“That’s why we establish it.”
“What happens if it was him?”
“Then your divorce may become the least of his concerns.”
Meanwhile, Garrison grew quieter.
That worried me more than anger would have.
The following morning, I found him in the barn behind his farmhouse.
He was brushing Duke, who had somehow collected half the field in his coat.
“You knew this could become criminal.”
Garrison continued brushing.
“I knew it could become serious.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because suspicion can poison people almost as efficiently as lies.”
“That sounds like something a sheriff would say.”
“I was one.”
“Only a sheriff?”
The brush stopped.
There it was again.
That hesitation.
“I’ve never lied to you.”
“You haven't told me everything.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Garrison set the brush down.
“Because you just escaped a man who controlled information to control you. I wasn't going to replace him by deciding which truth you could handle.”
That answer disarmed me.
“So when do I get the rest?”
“When it becomes your business.”
I crossed my arms.
“And who decides that?”
“You.”
Before I could respond, his phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
Declined it.
I caught the name.
Senator Halston.
I stared.
Garrison slipped the phone away.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Start.”
“A United States senator calls the retired sheriff of Cedar Hollow on a Tuesday morning?”
“He owes me a fishing trip.”
I laughed despite myself.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Frequently.”
Treatment gave me something else to think about.
The first cycle produced more viable eggs than Dr. Adler expected.
Genetic testing narrowed the number.
We discussed options.
The emotional difference between those appointments and the ones I had attended with Julian surprised me.
There was no accusation.
No scoreboard.
No husband asking whether failure meant we should “finally be realistic.”
I was allowed to ask questions.
Allowed to be scared.
Allowed to stop.
Then one afternoon Dr. Adler explained a complication.
Because of the damage caused by years of unnecessary aggressive treatment, she wanted to proceed conservatively.
Pregnancy remained possible.
But time mattered.
That night, I sat with Garrison on the back steps.
Autumn had begun turning Cedar Hollow gold.
“I spent six years believing motherhood was something I had failed at.”
Garrison looked across the field.
“Some people need another person to carry blame because they’re too weak to carry truth.”
“Were you always this philosophical?”
“No. Mostly I wrote speeding tickets.”
I smiled.
Then I became serious.
“There’s something I haven’t told you.”
He waited.
“I’m considering using donor sperm.”
“All right.”
“I expected you to react differently.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want children?”
“Yes.”
“Then make the decision based on the life you want, not the opinions of people who aren't raising them.”
I looked at him.
“What if I wanted the father to be someone I knew?”
His eyes moved slowly toward mine.
Silence stretched.
I heard leaves moving across the yard.
Duke sighed beside us.
Garrison understood.
I immediately regretted saying it.
“Forget I—”
“No.”
His voice was quiet.
“You don’t get to ask something that important and then run away because I took three seconds to breathe.”
My cheeks burned.
“I’m not asking you because you helped me.”
“Good.”
“I’m not confusing gratitude with…”
“Good.”
“I don’t even know what we are.”
“Neither do I.”
I looked down.
Garrison continued.
“But I know what I’m not.”
“What?”
“Julian.”
My eyes filled before I could stop them.
He shifted closer.
“I would never agree to something like that because you felt indebted to me.”
“I don’t.”
“And I would never become part of your child’s life temporarily.”
I looked up.
He held my gaze.
“If I helped bring a child into this world, I’d be there for every fever, every school play, every scraped knee, every argument, every graduation, every terrible teenage decision.”
A laugh escaped through my tears.
“You've thought about this.”
“For about fifteen years.”
There was no dramatic kiss.
No impulsive promise.
We spent weeks talking.
Dr. Adler required counseling.
Garrison underwent testing.
We discussed age.
His history.
My expectations.
Legal protections.
What would happen if romance developed.
What would happen if it didn't.
One counselor asked Garrison what he wanted.
He answered without hesitation.
“A family I don’t walk away from.”
That was when I realized I loved him.
Not because he rescued me.
Because he never demanded that being rescued make me smaller.
The relationship changed slowly.
Coffee became dinner.
Dinner became evenings on the porch.
One evening became a kiss.
No fireworks.
No cinematic music.
Just warmth.
Steadiness.
A feeling I had mistaken for boredom during my marriage because Julian had trained me to believe anxiety was passion.
Two months later, the transfer took place.
Dr. Adler warned us.
“No expectations.”
Garrison nodded.
“I’m excellent at following orders.”
She stared at him.
“I highly doubt that.”
For nine days, I tried not to think about it.
On the tenth morning, I woke before sunrise.
I took the test.
Two lines appeared.
I sat on the bathroom floor.
I didn't scream.
I couldn't.
My whole body began shaking.
Garrison knocked.
“You okay?”
I opened the door.
He looked at the test.
Then at me.
For the first time since I had known him, Garrison Blackwood completely lost his composure.
He sat down on the floor.
A sixty-something former sheriff with a reputation for intimidating grown men sat beside me against the bathroom cabinet and covered his face with both hands.
I started laughing.
Then crying.
He looked at me.
“Is that good?”
“Yes.”
“Definitely?”
“Yes.”
He kissed my forehead.
Neither of us knew there were two.
At the first ultrasound, Dr. Adler stared at the monitor.
Then smiled.
“I hope Mr. Blackwood enjoys being outnumbered.”
Garrison narrowed his eyes.
“Why?”
She turned the screen.
Two gestational sacs.
Two tiny beginnings.
Twins.
Garrison went pale.
I laughed so hard the technician had to reposition the wand.
The pregnancy immediately became high-risk because of my medical history and twin gestation.
Dr. Adler assembled additional specialists.
A maternal-fetal medicine physician.
A hematologist.
A cardiologist because of medication effects from prior treatment.
Then something strange happened.
The medical team expanded.
Dr. Samuel Cross joined remotely from New York.
I recognized him from television.
Then Dr. Naomi Bennett, a fetal surgeon whose research articles I had read.
Then another specialist from Chicago.
“What is happening?” I asked Dr. Adler.
She hesitated.
“Mr. Blackwood requested consultation.”
“I know, but these people don't exactly answer random calls.”
Dr. Adler smiled strangely.
“No. They don't.”
I confronted Garrison that evening.
“You called Samuel Cross?”
“Yes.”
“He is one of the most famous maternal specialists in the country.”
“He’s competent.”
“He’s on television.”
“That doesn’t make him competent.”
“Garrison.”
He sighed.
“I know Sam.”
“How?”
“Long story.”
“And Dr. Bennett?”
“Know her too.”
“And why did the hospital administrator personally escort us out today?”
“He’s polite.”
“Why did security address you as Chairman?”
Garrison became very still.
I stared at him.
“Chairman of what?”
Before he could answer, headlights appeared at the end of the driveway.
Three black SUVs rolled toward the farmhouse.
Men and women in suits stepped out.
One opened the rear door of the middle vehicle.
An elderly man emerged.
I recognized him immediately.
Former governor Thomas Keene.
He walked directly toward Garrison.
Then embraced him.
“Blackwood,” he said. “You should have told us.”
Garrison glanced at me.
The former governor followed his gaze to my still-flat stomach.
His entire face changed.
“Is this her?”
I stood frozen.
Garrison nodded.
“Yes.”
Thomas Keene smiled.
“Then the entire foundation is going to lose its mind.”
My mouth went dry.
“What foundation?”
Nobody answered immediately.
And for the first time, I realized the biggest secret in Cedar Hollow might not belong to Julian.
May you like
It belonged to the man sleeping beside me.
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