Chapter 2: The Marine and The Ranger

Fifth damn call today about that black wolf terrorizing livestock. Mitch was starting to think the thing had a vendetta. At least a disabled vehicle was a break from the usual—especially one driven by a long-legged blonde. Well, what do we have here?

He picked up the mic and called it in.

Mitch stepped out of the Jimmy and sized up the woman. Most lone drivers were either frustrated or flustered. This one looked tired but composed. She turned to face him, hands raised to chest level—open, calm, deliberate. She knew how to handle law enforcement.

She was tall, maybe 5’10”, athletic, with long legs in denim cutoffs. His gaze stopped at her waist—her white linen shirt hadn’t quite covered the weapon.

He had two options: aggressive or passive. Her posture made the choice easy.

“Appreciate the compliance, ma’am,” he said, keeping his tone warm. “I assume you’re having car trouble?”

Jesalyn studied him. She wasn’t handing out titles like candy. He seemed to understand she wasn’t a threat.

“You assume correctly… Deputy?” she asked, voice cautious.

“Interim Sheriff, technically. But Sheriff works. And you are?”

“Masters. Jesalyn Masters, Sheriff,” she replied. “How do you want me to comply?” Please don’t make me lie spread-eagled on the hot ass road.

Mitch chuckled. She was sharp. “Policy says I should call a female deputy to disarm you. But I doubt your bladder can wait that long.”

She blushed. Mitch smiled—he’d read her right.

“You would be correct. I offer a solution,” she said.

“Off-hand?” he asked.

She nodded, biting her lip.

“Alright. Please hand me your weapon slowly, with your off-hand.”

Jesalyn lifted her shirt with her right hand, flexed her left, then carefully drew the pistol and handed it to him, barrel down.

Mitch accepted it just as slowly. She knew her gear—Trijicon RMR, Streamlight TLR-7A.

“Nice setup, Miss Masters,” he said, ejecting the mag and stepping to the back of her Jeep to set it down.

“I assume you’re a one-in-the-chamber type?”

“You assume correctly,” she said with a polite smile. He’s good. And not a dick. That’s a relief.

“Not my first rodeo,” Mitch replied. He ejected the round, locked the slide, and showed her the empty chamber. She nodded, and he placed the gun beside the mag.

She shifted again, legs bouncing. He glanced toward the boulder, then back at her.

“I promise not to peek,” he said, gesturing.

“Oh my God, thank you!” she exclaimed, scurrying off.

Mitch chuckled as Jesalyn scurried off toward the boulder, her urgency comical and oddly endearing. He turned away, catching himself admiring her rear a little too long. This kind of interaction was a welcome break from the endless ‘Cry Wolf’ calls the department had been fielding lately. Honestly, he didn’t want it to end.

She was beautiful, sure—but it was her composure that stood out. Disciplined. Calm. Different from most women in Nowhere.

Women in town tended to fall into three categories: uninterested, too eager, or married. A few exceptions existed—good, honest women—but they were rare. Nowhere had a way of changing people. The bright ones usually left before Nowhere could.

He shook his head. She’s probably just passing through to Vegas. Then he heard rustling behind him and turned.

Jesalyn approached slowly, hands raised, palms out. “Thank you, Sheriff. One too many large coffees,” she said with a sheepish smile, cheeks still tinged pink.

He waved it off. “Not a problem, Miss Masters.” He sighed. “Now I’ve got to ask for your ID, registration, and concealed carry permit.”

“All in the sun visor pouch,” she said, pointing to the Jeep.

“Want me to grab it, or would you prefer to?”

“I assume if I say yes, I’m giving you consent to search?” she asked, eyebrow raised.

Smart, Mitch thought. Sharp as she is attractive.

“You law enforcement?” he asked. Only cops, lawyers, or ex-cons knew that nuance.

“Not currently. I was a Military Police in the Marine Corps.”

“Well, thank you for your service,” Mitch said. “I was in the Army myself. So yes?”

Jes nodded. “Law enforcement?” she asked, curious.

“Nothing that exciting. First Ranger Battalion,” he said casually, opening the door and retrieving her documents from the visor—exactly where she said they’d be.

A glance told him she was meticulous. Trash bagged. Phone docked and charging. Everything in its place. Marine Corps checks out. This Jeep could pass a white glove inspection.

“Oh yeah, being an Airborne Ranger must’ve been so dull,” Jes said, grinning.

Mitch smiled as he scanned her license. Virginia. Registration matched. But her concealed carry permit was from Nevada.

“Jesalyn Ill-yanna Masters.” Twenty-eight. 5’10”, 180 pounds. Blonde hair, blue eyes. He noted the stats but kept them to himself.

Usually, he wasn’t this friendly with strangers. But her sarcasm had disarmed him. It felt like the kind of ribbing that came with military camaraderie. Yet there was something more about her presence that resonated with him.

“You got something against Airborne Rangers?” Mitch asked, smirking.

Jesalyn caught the look and grinned. Game on.

“Only in the elite forces pecking order. You guys rank way under Navy SEALs,” she fired back.

“Oh, sure. SEALs get all the glory—movies, TV shows, memoirs stacked to the ceiling. How’s a Ranger supposed to compete with that?” He paused. “I take it you know a few?”

“I did,” Jes said, her voice dipping with unintended sorrow. She recovered quickly, adding, “And it’s Illy-yan-nah. Thank you very much.”

Mitch registered the shift. His joke had landed on something raw. He knew that feeling too well.

Loss—universal, but only fluent to those who’ve lived it.

“Illy-yan-nah,” he repeated gently. “Russian, right?”

Jesalyn caught the subtle pivot in his tone. He was steering away from the pain, giving her space. She appreciated it.

“Da, eto russkoye imya,” she replied, her accent flawless.

Mitch raised his brows, impressed. It had been years since he’d heard Russian spoken that cleanly.

“Ochen priyatno, Miss Mastera. Vy govorite s takim krasnorechiem. Ya ochen vpechatlen,” he said with a smile. His Russian was rusty, but serviceable.

Jesalyn nodded, smiling back. “Let me guess—Ranger unit?”

He handed her ID back. “Yeah. A long time ago.” He glanced at the license. “So, Virginia girl with a Nevada CCW. What brings you this far west?”

Jesalyn tucked her documents into the visor pouch. “Needed a change of scenery. My dad was born in a town called Nowhere. He left me some property there. Figured it’d be a good place to reset while I figure out what’s next.”

She gestured toward the flat tire. “I applied for the CCW online since I’ll be living here for a while. It was easy—the Virginia permit helped. But now I need to change this tire. I’ve got a meeting with the property manager at three.”

“Oh, let me help,” Mitch said, smiling. “You’re not a criminal, and it was my intent anyway.”

Jesalyn laughed, the sound light and genuine. It had been a long time since she felt anything close to ease.

“Well, I’d never turn down help from someone who means well. Can I rearm, or do you want me to stow it?”

“You can rearm. I trust you,” he said. It made no sense to disarm someone who’d proven herself competent and responsible. He carried every day, even off duty. Some officers would’ve made her stow it just to flex authority. Mitch saw it differently; this was goodwill. And something about her felt familiar, though he couldn’t place it yet.

“Spare under the bed?” he asked.

“Yes,” Jesalyn replied, retrieving her Staccato. She reinserted the magazine, released the slide, performed a press check, then ejected the magazine again to top off the round. With practiced ease, she holstered the weapon and adjusted her shirt to cover it.

She moved to the back of the Jeep, lowered the tailgate, and opened the jack compartment.

Mitch watched, quietly impressed. She handled the firearm with the kind of grace that came from muscle memory, not bravado. Women in Nowhere would either hate her or want to be her best friend. One thing was certain—she’d stir things up.

And he was glad she was moving here.

Then it clicked.

“Wait…You’re Harlan Masters’ daughter?”