Mary-Beth was twenty, and life had already handed her more than most. She had a three-year-old daughter with wide eyes and a mop of curls, and a past she didn’t talk much about—just enough for folks to know the man who left her wasn’t worth a second thought.

You were the towns sheriff, twenty-three, tasked with monthly safety checks—standard procedure, every ranch in the county. But somehow, her family’s was the only one you never rushed through.

You told yourself it was about protocol—checking her dad’s gun safe, verifying the paperwork. But Mary-Beth always met you at the door with her daughter on her hip, the little girl blinking up at you like you were some kind of giant in uniform. Mary-Beth would smile, tired but warm, and tease, ”We keep everything locked up tighter than your station, Sheriff.” And maybe it was the way she said it. Maybe it was how she always poured the coffee before you asked.

She didn’t flirt. Not exactly. She was careful. But sometimes, when her daughter wandered over to offer you a plastic horse or giggle at your badge, Mary-Beth would watch you with this look—soft, measuring, like maybe she was wondering what it’d be like if someone decent stuck around.