Winning the Sheriff's Heart
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Anna Grace
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CHAPTER ONE
TATE RYMAN WAS SMART, charming and handsome. And he was breaking the law. Again.
How many tickets did one teacher need before he finally figured out how things went down in Pronghorn, Oregon? Yes, it was a small town. Yes, the five teachers they’d recruited to revive the high school were unfamiliar with rural customs. And sure, the newcomers had worked tirelessly through the end of August and into September to breathe new life into the failing high school.
But seriously?
Tate couldn’t follow the most basic rules if they were tattooed on the back of his hand. Was he raised in a barn? Or a parking garage, or however you wound up with no manners in the big city?
Sheriff Aida Weston sighed and pulled the ticket booklet out of her back pocket. Her partner, Greg, perked up his ears. She rubbed the soft fur of the German shepherd’s neck and together they approached the perpetrator.
“Mr. Ryman, are you aware that you’re jaywalking?”
Tate stopped in the middle of the street.
“What?! Are you kidding me?”
Now he was jay-standing.
“Do you see a crosswalk under your feet?”
Tate looked down, as though the broad white stripes of Abbey Road might materialize under the soles of his shoes. The only thing on the street was a stubborn cat named Connie, who spent her days lounging in the middle of the pavement. Jay-lounging.
Tate gestured to the empty highway in both directions. “I don’t see a crosswalk for a hundred miles.”
“When there’s no designated pedestrian crossing, you use the nearest intersection.”
“How was I supposed to know that?” He ran a hand through his thick black hair, making it stand up even more than normal.
Also making him more attractive than normal; but Tate’s looks were not germane to the present circumstances.
“Ignorance of the law excuses no one.” Aida clicked the end of her pen and prepared to flip open to a fresh ticket.
“Come on! I’m walking from my home—” he gestured behind him to The City Hotel, the beautiful, if inappropriately named, building where the teachers all lived “—to my place of employment.” He pointed to the two-story brick building across the street.
Pronghorn Public Day School, Proud Home Of The Pronghorn “Pronghorns” was scrawled in yellow paint over the main doors. Arguably, the lettering could also be considered a crime. But poor signage was out of her jurisdiction.
Ten years had passed since Aida had graduated from the same institution. At the time, she hadn’t been aware that funds were dwindling, that the school and town were dying as families moved away one by one. Her only focus during those years was soccer. Had she learned math and language arts? She must have. She regularly called on information stored somewhere in her brain. Mrs. Moran had taught her Spanish, and she’d gone on to minor in that language in college.
But the visceral patchwork of memories that surfaced when she caught a glimpse of the school was all soccer.
Her lungs and legs burning as she charged the pitch. The wind, scented with a heady mix of sage and dry autumn prairies grass, steady on her face. Spectators crowding the sidelines. In those days, when the sidelines were too full, fans backed trucks up to the field and stood on their tailgates to watch. Aida could still hear the ref’s whistle. Two arms up and the call of “Goal!” barely audible over the roar of the crowd.
Then a full ride to college. Then the heartbreak; the loss of her identity and chosen profession when she’d graduated with no prospects of ever playing professionally.
Ideally, she’d never have to walk past the soccer field again. But her grandmother lived here and someone had to care for Flora as she aged. Aida’s job was here. Annoying at present, but overall, she enjoyed the challenges and rewards of being a sheriff in a rural area. She loved Pronghorn. The tiny town at the sparsely populated center of Warner Valley was her home. Rimrock rose on all sides, as though protecting the miles of prairie grasses and wetlands. Hart Mountain stood sentinel to the east and, in the distant west, the Coyote Hills caught the evening sun as it set each night.
Pronghorn was her home. She was invested in its success. And while the school, like Aida, was a little worse for wear, she was glad the community had rallied together to recruit the new teachers. She just wished Tate hadn’t been among them. He was too charming, too gregarious, the constant epicenter of loud, cheerful groups of people. The moms of Pronghorn found excuses to meet with the handsome PE teacher to discuss their children’s progress in his classes. The grandmas of Pronghorn swooned when he offered to carry their groceries from the market. Old men invited him to play checkers. Dads offered to teach him how to fish. Even her dog liked Tate.
And, yeah, that stung a little.
It wasn’t that Aida didn’t like charming people and the cheerful groups they inspired. She did. It was that Tate had supersized charisma and he used it to try to keep from getting in trouble with the law.
“Look, I was just running back to the hotel to grab something,” he said, a soft note of contrition in his voice.
She glanced up at him. His gaze met hers. It was possible that a ticket, while totally within the law, was a little out of line.
But then his lips twisted in a smile that managed to both annoy and charm her and he added, “I’d apologize, Officer, but I’m not sorry about taking the quickest route from my job to my home.”
“The attitude isn’t helpful, Ryman.”
“That cat lies in the middle of the road all day long!” He pointed to Connie. “Ticket her.”
Greg swiveled his furry head toward Aida. He’d been advocating for an apprehension of the feline for as long as she could remember.
“Class starts in ten minutes,” a voice intoned from the school. Aida recognized the speaker as Vander Tourn, the young science teacher. Because there was no bell, the town had grown used to his 7:50 a.m. call.
Tate put his hands on his hips. “School’s starting. I need to get to work. Can you just give me a warning—?”
“Maybe next time you should plan better.”
Tate held up a delicate, pale green cardigan sweater that might fit on his left arm. “I was doing Willa Marshall a favor.” He tilted his head to one side and gave her a hard look, something he might throw out if one of his students was misbehaving. “If you want to give Willa a lesson on planning, be my guest.”
Oh.
Willa was the lead teacher at the high school, far and away the most levelheaded of the newcomers. She’d negotiated with the board, and garnered community support to keep the school up and running. Willa, and her fiancé, Colter Wayne, were two of the most respected people in this town. If Aida were the sort of person who made new friends, Willa would be near the top of her list.
And the weather in Pronghorn did have a habit of dipping dramatically two weeks into September. It wasn’t unreasonable that Willa Marshall would leave the hotel without a sweater. And it was kinda sweet that Tate would run back and grab it for her.
Aida flipped her ticket book shut. She risked another glance at Tate, intent on giving him a warning without appreciating his bright blue eyes.
But then he rolled those eyes and said, “You do know there are actual criminals in this world. While you’re here, ticketing me for standing in the middle of a highway no one ever drives on, there are crimes being committed.”
Aaaaaand here she was, opening the book again.
“Really?” She glanced casually toward the east, the sight of her latest arrest. “Is that what that man I pulled over, the one transporting marijuana laced with fentanyl, headed for the Idaho border, was committing? A crime? I guess it’s a good thing I’d been tracking his movements for months and was able to catch him in the middle of a run.”
Tate shifted uncomfortably. “You stopped a drug runner?”
“And the Hart Mountain squatters? That couple who were breaking into vacation homes, stealing valuables and leaving the homes trashed with angry graffiti messages? It’s a good thing I got them to stop by arresting them and testifying at their trial so they’re now in jail. Is that the kind of crime you were thinking of?”
“You apprehended the squatters?” His expression was somewhere between concern and respect.
It made her feel like she might want to blush. She didn’t, but her nervous system was definitely interested in making her face bright red.
She shrugged. “Me and Greg.”
“Okay.” Tate held up his hands. It wasn’t necessary, inasmuch as all he possessed was a nonthreatening sweater. “It just feels like... I don’t know.” His long lashes obscured his blue eyes for a moment. “What did I do wrong?”
Aida furrowed her brow. “Jaywalking.” And they were still all standing in the middle of the road, two officers of the law, one perpetrator and a cat.
In Tate’s defense, this highway really did not get a lot of traffic.
“No, I mean—” he ran a hand through his hair and gazed into her eyes “—did I offend you?”
A wisp of September breeze brushed against her cheek, his scent joining the sage and prairie grasses. He had a distinctive scent. Aida hadn’t paid enough attention in those language arts classes of her youth to put it into words, but it was something along the lines of athlete with good personal hygiene.
“Jaywalking isn’t offensive,” she explained. “It’s dangerous to you and potential drivers. I don’t want you to get flattened by a car.”
He grinned, his eyes lighting up in a way that felt exciting and dangerous, like a soccer match against a small, well-funded private school. “What about Connie?” He held his palm out to the feline. She lolled comfortably in the shade of his shadow, stretching out even farther.
Aida smiled back. “She’s already pretty flat.”
He threw his head back and let out something someone more versed with words might call a guffaw. When was the last time she’d made anyone laugh? Besides her grandma, of course. Flora had always gotten Aida’s sense of humor, and seen Aida as more than a soccer player, more than a cop.
Tate’s eyes were bright as he glanced at her. It felt like flirting.
“Seriously, why are you always picking on me?”
Greg gave a muted whine, asking the same question.
Was she picking on Tate? All of the new teachers could be a little clueless. They stumbled around breaking laws and local customs like a herd of newborn buffalo calves in an admittedly old and shabby china shop.
Aida straightened her shoulders. “You break the law, I deliver the consequences. That’s not picking on you. Are you picking on your students when you give them lunch duty for misbehaving?”
He made a thoughtful expression, acknowledging her point. “Okay, but since I’ve been here, you’ve given me a ticket for reckless driving—”
How many times was he going to bring that up?
“You were driving an ATV on the sidewalk.”
“I thought that’s where they went.”
“No one thinks that. No sentient human would think to drive an ATV on a sidewalk.”
“An ATV has the same rules as a bike,” he said with unwarranted confidence. Then he undermined his own bluster with, “I think.”
“If that were true, which it isn’t, a bike would go in a bike lane.”
“Of which Pronghorn has zero! I don’t see why you couldn’t just give me a warning.”
“I did give you a warning. Then you started arguing with me. Then you got a ticket. Can you see a pattern emerging here?”
“I was arguing because the night before you’d given me a ticket for an open container.” He tugged at his hair and she was determined not to appreciate how cute that was.
“We don’t drink beer on the streets in Pronghorn. I’m sorry if that’s not the way you do it in Portland.”
“I walked out of the restaurant for half a second with a beer in my hand. There were eighteen antelope walking down the highway and I thought it was amazing. Sorry, I forgot to hand off the beer.”
“There’s nothing amazing about eighteen antelope. Eighteen antelope on these streets is your average Tuesday morning.”
“Well, Officer, I can’t help it if I still feel wonder and joy at the sight of nature.”
“You can feel wonder and joy inside The Restaurant.”
The moment the words left her mouth, Aida recognized her mistake. Tate quirked an eyebrow, his blue eyes connecting with hers. Aida didn’t manage to contain a smile. The Restaurant wasn’t generally associated with pleasant emotions.
But whatever was passing between them at the moment felt uncomfortably pleasant. She needed to give this guy his ticket and get back to work.
Tate continued, “Since I’ve been in town, one month, mind you, I haven’t seen you ticket anyone else, but you’ve given me four tickets and I don’t know how many warnings.” He held up his fingers, counting them off as though she were the one breaking laws. “Reckless driving, open container, public nuisance—”
“You are loud, Tate Ryman.”
Surprisingly loud. Mind-scramblingly loud.
“I was enjoying the evening with my coworkers. Vander played the guitar. Luci and Mateo were arguing about acceptable times to eat a cookie. Yet I’m the one who gets a ticket.”
“You were bellowing. Greg thought there was something wrong with you.”
“Mrs. Moran and I had won a round of pinochle. I was celebrating.”
Aida closed her eyes and let out a short breath. She didn’t intend to single Tate out. He singled himself out. Every time he was within six hundred feet of her, he did something. It was like he was looking for trouble.
“The problem is that you flout the rules in this town. You think none of them apply to you.”
“Really? Because it seems like I’m the only person the rules do apply to.”
She put her hands on her hips and stepped right up to Tate. Unfortunately, that meant she was surrounded by his warm, clean scent. The police academy could have been clearer about the danger of nice-smelling repeat offenders.
“Welcome, Pronghorn Public Day School!” The words sounded like they were coming from a bullhorn inside the school. There was only one person around these parts who regularly used a bullhorn, and if “too much yellow” was against the law, Aida would have apprehended her a long time ago.
Tate swore under his breath.
“I have to go,” he said, like he was inconveniencing her by ending this conversation. “Loretta Lazarus has some kind of all-school rally happening this morning. I’m not going to make the other teachers deal with it on their own.”
Aida pulled the ticket from her booklet and handed it to him. He clenched his fingers, hesitant to take it. She really hoped he’d learned from prior experience that refusing to take a ticket was a good way to get a second one. He reached out and snatched it from her, maintaining eye contact for a moment. Aida wasn’t sorry and she wasn’t going to pretend she was.
Tate scoffed and shook his head. Then, in a flagrant act of defiance, he knelt and gave Greg scritches around his ears.
Greg, who knew better, leaned his chin on Tate’s shoulder and soaked up the love.
“You do know it’s illegal to pet a police dog without permission from the handler.”
Greg gave her a baleful look, reminding her that she’d never once enforced that rule. Not in Pronghorn.
“If snuggling this dog is wrong, then I don’t want to be right.” He gave the dog one last pat then flashed his gorgeous, irritating smile and trotted into the school. “See you around, Officer.”
THE TICKET CRUMPLED in his fist, Tate jogged up the front steps and yanked open the door to the school.
Aida Weston was the most frustrating, unforgiving, mean—
Tate scrambled for words to mentally hurl at the sheriff, well aware that his inner monologue was something you might find on a grade-school playground.
But seriously, jaywalking? In Pronghorn?
It was ridiculous. Even the dog agreed with him.
About the cat situation anyhow.
It wasn’t helpful that Aida was also beautiful, intelligent and had a deadpan sense of humor that almost had him anticipating apprehension.
Almost but not quite.
Tate ran through the front entrance, past the empty main office and bright yellow lockers. The walls were awash with inspirational signs. They’d been purchased at a Goodwill, three hundred miles away in Pendleton, by the local real estate maven and volunteer “principal” of Pronghorn Public Day School, Loretta Lazarus.
Some of the decorative messages made sense for a school.
These Are Your Good Old Days.
It’s Okay to Color Outside Of The Lines.
In a World Where You Can Choose to Be Anything, Be Kind.
Others felt a little out of place, like, What Happens At Grandma’s Stays At Grandma’s.
But Loretta loved a bargain as much as she loved pithy sayings written on plywood. If Tate was confused by the placement of a pastel-colored sign in the shape of a bunny with Hoppy Spring! written across its belly, it was the least of his worries.
Tate trotted past the cafeteria. Glossy wooden floors reflected light from the main entrance. He turned a corner into the long hallway where the main classrooms were located. Three doors down, the gym was situated across from the library. At the end of the hall, two double doors were open to the September sunshine.
Loretta’s voice reverberated from the gym. Tate slowed his steps and took a moment to scan the hallway. Funny, how a place he’d only been in since August could feel so much like home. Within these walls, he’d made good friends, overcome challenges and become the teacher he’d always wanted to be. His old insecurities of not being enough still lingered, but only faintly. It was a lot easier to accept his parents’ disappointment in him when he lived hundreds of miles away, with bad cell service. In high school, he’d put on the character of gregarious, fun-loving Tate to cover up a sensitive, emotional young man. In Pronghorn, as a teacher, he could be both. Here, he really was fun-loving, and found it easy to joke and enjoy life.
Unless someone was handing him a ticket.
“Coach Tate!”
He looked up to see one of his students, Mason, slipping in through the back door. For the first few weeks of school, Mason had been late on purpose, trying to avoid morning PE. Tate had worked tirelessly with the kid, helping him to feel more confident in gym class and inspiring him to step up as a leader at the school.
“I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not my fault,” Mason said. “Besides, you can’t get mad at me for being late since you’re late too.”
Tate chuckled. “I bet my excuse is better than yours.”
Mason made a face. “My mom needed my help emptying the deep fryer at The Restaurant.”
“That sounds disgusting. How often does she change out the oil in that thing?”
“I don’t remember her ever changing it before.”
“You win,” Tate said. “Let’s go see what Loretta’s got for us today.”
“Do you know what the big surprise is?” Mason asked.
Tate had an idea, but it still seemed so improbable.
“Let’s go find out.”
Loretta droned on in the gym. The great thing about having a scatterbrain for a principal was that she took forever to get to the point. Tate was confident that he and Mason had missed very little content so far.
Tate’s friend and coworker, Mateo Lander, leaned out the gym door then headed over to Tate as Mason slipped into the gym. “Where have you been?”
Tate held up Willa’s sweater and the crumpled ticket. “Jaywalking.”
“Right. Sorry.” Mateo dropped a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll all pitch in and help you with the ticket.”
“I got it,” Tate grumbled. Getting a random ticket from a beautiful woman was one thing. Having his friends feel sorry for him and help him pay it was even worse.
“So, I think we have a situation on our hands,” Mateo said.
Loretta’s voice reverberated from the gymnasium. One month into his sojourn in Pronghorn and Tate was no longer surprised or even bothered when Loretta threw an impromptu school assembly.
“What else is new?”
“Yeah.” Mateo waffled his hand back and forth. “I think this might be more impactful than normal. Before we go into the gym, the others and I wanted to make sure you’re still okay running an after-school sports program, maybe even coaching.”
Tate stopped walking. “Yeah. Of course. That’s part of my position as a health and PE teacher.” Tate ran his fingers through his hair. “There hasn’t been a lot of interest yet, but I’m hopeful.”
The kids of Pronghorn had endured online school for three years due to insufficient funding. The community had rallied to support in-person school, and the students had returned to the old brick building one month ago. Skill levels varied dramatically from student to student and socialization had been a huge challenge. And without the daily routines of school and sports programs, many kids were uncomfortable with any kind of organized physical activity.
It broke his heart. Not just in Pronghorn, but across the country, kids had fewer opportunities to run around and get exercise. Sports programs were becoming increasingly competitive. Steep fees and unreasonable time commitments turned after-school activities into elite pursuits, leaving the mass of kids with no vehicle for fun and exercise. At the same time, damaging messages from social media eroded kids’ confidence in their bodies. The boys felt they had to be swol. Girls were pressured to be strong and curvy at the same time. Everyone was convinced they needed to lose weight.
While getting random tickets from the sheriff was annoying, a system that made kids feel uncomfortable in their own bodies infuriated him.
From the first day of school, Tate had worked to increase his students’ activity levels and confidence. He’d encouraged kids to start the day by running a few laps around the track, and taught them fun movement games. Despite pressure from the community, he hadn’t introduced competitive sports yet. Sports teams could be great places for kids to connect, and he appreciated the lessons learned on the field and court. But high school athletics didn’t have to be the pressure-cooker experience of his own youth. Tate would chart a new path in Pronghorn. Every kid would be encouraged to view sports as a lifetime activity, not a do-or-die battle that left so many feeling unworthy.
“Okay.” Mateo nodded. “I’m thinking it might be time.”
“Great. I’ve been hoping we could get a cross-country team going. And the league is fine with us registering a team late because of the situation out here.”
Mateo shrugged. His easygoing personality made him a favorite with the students. He taught math and managed to make that subject the least stressful class at Pronghorn. Whenever Tate walked past Mateo’s class, he saw kids sitting around tables together, working on math concepts. Mateo had “borrowed” several lamps from the hotel they all lived in and lit the space like a living room in which people happened to be discussing algebra.
“This is the moment you’ve been waiting for!” Loretta’s voice echoed out of the gym.
Mateo groaned. “We really should get in there.”
“Let’s do it,” Tate said, clapping him on the shoulder then jumping ahead. Mateo tried to cut him off, but Tate made it into the gym first. He might not lean on competition as a teaching tool, but Tate loved challenging his coworkers to a race, or board game, or card came, or sandwich-eating contest.
Okay, he loved a challenge.
Tate jogged into the gym to see it was full-ish. Like, actually pretty full, which was unusual since the school only had thirty kids.
Luci Walker, the social studies teacher with more argyle in her closet than anyone he’d ever known, gestured them over to where the teachers stood together. Tate joined the group then scanned the room. Among the crowd, there were several new faces.
“I’m thrilled to introduce nine new exchange students!” Loretta cried.
Exchange students?
“I can’t believe she managed it,” Willa Marshall, the respected English teacher and de facto school leader, whispered.
Tate scanned the new students. They ranged in age and size, and appeared to be from all regions of the globe.
“We are soooooo lucky to welcome these kids who will call Pronghorn their home!”
The newcomers didn’t appear to be feeling particularly lucky. Their expressions were sullen. In some cases, defiant. In others, just lost.
Loretta was chirping along, but something felt off. Why didn’t the exchange students look happy?
Instinctively, Tate turned to Willa. She was the direction everyone turned in a crisis. “How did she get exchange students this late in the game?”
“And why?” Mateo asked.
Willa looked each of them in the eye and spoke clearly. “I do not know.”
“But you’re dating the board president,” Tate reminded her.
“Engaged to,” Luci corrected him.
A quick smile flickered across Willa’s face then she rolled her eyes. “Are you suggesting Loretta would think to discuss a major decision with the board president?”
Vander Tourn, the contemplative, empathetic science teacher, studied the new students. “They don’t look nearly as happy about this as Loretta does.”
Tate’s stomach twisted. He understood enough about human anatomy to know it was physically impossible for his stomach to do a full one-eighty flip, but it sure felt like it was trying to.
Loretta’s chirping finally wound down. She beamed at the exchange students. “Any questions?”
The new students stared back at her. Unspoken questions of What is this place? and Who is this lady? and What’s the Wi-Fi? seemed to radiate from the kids.
Finally, a young man with bright eyes raised a long, lanky arm. He spoke with a lilting accent, his words clipped. “When does the football club meet?”
Tate took a closer look at the student. He was wearing a Senegalese soccer jersey and had the easy movement of a natural athlete.
“Football?” Loretta batted her long tangly eyelashes. “Well, welcome to America, young man! We can certainly play a few games of football with our international guests—”
Tate stepped forward, to keep Loretta from stepping in it any further, but the student was quicker. “You call it soccer, no? When is the club to meet?”
“Soccer?” Loretta asked.
“Soccer,” another one of the students said. The girl was scrappy and about half the size of the boy who had spoken. “You said there was a good team here.”
It was then that Tate picked up on clues he should have seen immediately. Soccer jerseys, soccer shorts, an actual soccer ball tucked under the arm of a student who wore a shirt repping Brazil.
What had Loretta told these kids?
He looked back at his coworkers. They knew how he felt about soccer, and smiled hopefully. The exchange students had somehow been roped into spending the school year in Pronghorn, and it was likely the tiny town was a major disappointment.
The one expectation they’d voiced was soccer. He was the only person on staff with any chance of making good on that promise.
Tate pulled in a deep breath then stepped forward.
“Right after school.”
And just like that, he’d committed to coaching his least favorite sport. With any luck, his impending failure as a coach would at least be less dramatic than his failure as a player.
