The image of Miguel striking Lane—even though he did it accidentally—flashed in his mind. Why was she so protective of the disheveled man? How well did Lane really know him?

“Do you know a man named Miguel?”

“Miguel?” Sheriff Huggins slowed. “Why?”

Had his aunt not told him what happened? “Last night he showed up at the Way Station Café. He was agitated . . . he hit Lane.”

Sheriff Huggins’s jaw flexed. “Byrdie told me it was an accident.”

“Lane said it was, but does that matter? He might’ve been drunk or on drugs or—”

“He’s a veteran.” Sheriff Huggins let that sit between them a few seconds. “He’s a few years younger than I am. Went to Vietnam with the rest of us and came back like most of them. He’s got issues the military understands a lot better now than they did then, but he’s mostly harmless.”

Harmless? “The bruise on Lane’s cheek might say otherwise. I can’t tell you how many investigations I had to look into where PTSD mixed with alcohol or drugs created the perfect storm. I’m concerned Miguel could hurt someone else.”

Sheriff Huggins stopped outside the steps of the sheriff’s station. “We live in a small town, Charlie. Under most circumstances, that’s a good thing. Neighbors look out for one another, but you know that old saying ‘sticks and stones’? Well, words can be deadly.” Sheriff Huggins heaved a sigh. “Miguel’s been sober for more than two decades, but I’ll stop by his place and check on him.”

“Thank you, sir, but . . .” Charlie stared in the direction of the Way Station. His eyes lingered on the men passing by as though he could guess if they were the one bringing fear into Lane’s life. “Someone has been harassing Lane. Showing up at the Way Station after hours. Peeking into her windows. Her alarm went off this morning, and I’m just concerned—”

“Your aunt called me this morning and told me.” Sheriff Huggins wiped at his forehead, which was already glistening with sweat. “Lane’s coming in later to give you a description of the man, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Let’s get that and go from there.”

The conversation was over. Whatever the sheriff was thinking behind his crystal-clear eyes, he was keeping it hidden from Charlie. His uncle warned him not to hurt Lane, and Charlie wasn’t going to allow anyone else to hurt her either. Whatever it took—he’d protect her.

EIGHTEEN

“MOMMA, WHO ARE we taking muffins to?”

“A friend, buddy.” Lane helped Noah out of the car and grabbed the basket of fresh muffins. She caught a glimpse of her bruised and swollen cheek in the mirror. A tingle danced its way down her spine. It was an accident, but it also wasn’t like Miguel. His absence and odd behavior had her worried. “Ready?”