Chapter 6 - The Sheriff at the Gate
Monday morning arrived with a clear, pale sun that burned away the weekend’s storm clouds, leaving the long grass of Cedar Hill glistening like glass.
I was sitting up in my hospital bed, the IV monitor finally silent, drinking a glass of orange juice while Dr. Chen completed her morning rounds.
“Your uterine muscle is completely relaxed,” Dr. Chen said, her stethoscope resting against her neck as she reviewed my chart. “The baby’s heart rate is holding steady at one hundred and forty-two. You can go home tomorrow morning, Abigail, but my conditions haven't changed: total bed rest for two weeks, no stairs, and absolute quiet.”
“She’ll have quiet,” Rowan said, stepping through the door with two paper coffee cups from the shop downstairs. He looked exhausted—his suit was wrinkled, his hair uncombed—but the dark, panicked look in his eyes from Saturday night was gone, replaced by a quiet, steady resolve.
He kissed the top of my head, setting one of the cups on my tray table, then pulled his phone out as it began to buzz against his hip.
It was Lena.
“Put it on speaker,” I said softly.
Rowan tapped the screen and set the phone between us on the white bedsheet.
“Mr. Armand?” Lena’s voice was crisp and clear through the small speaker. “She’s at the main gate.”
Rowan’s eyes narrowed. “Did she come alone?”
“No sir,” Lena replied. “She has two men in a commercial moving van behind her Mercedes. She brought a locksmith from town.”
I sat up a little higher on my pillows, my hand instinctively going to my stomach. “A locksmith?”
“She’s trying to force the third-floor doors,” Lena continued, the sound of heavy diesel engines idling in the background coming through the connection. “She claims she has personal papers in the wall safe that aren't subject to the trustee audit.”
“Where is Sheriff Miller?” Rowan asked, his voice completely level.
“He just pulled up behind her van,” Lena said, a faint trace of satisfaction creeping into her usually formal voice. “He has two deputies with him. Mr. Vance’s associate is standing on the driveway with the injunction papers.”
Rowan stood up from his chair. “Stay on the line, Lena. Tell Miller I’m listening.”
Through the phone, we heard the clatter of a car door opening, followed by the wet crunch of heavy boots on the gravel driveway outside the Cedar Hill gate house.
Then Celeste’s voice came through—sharp, shrill, and loud enough to cut through the diesel engine rumble.
“Get your hands off my car, Deputy! I am Celeste Armand! I own thirty percent of this property! My family built this town!”
“Ma’am,” a deep, gravelly voice—Sheriff Miller—responded calmly. “I have a Section Eight Emergency Injunction signed by Judge Harris at six o'clock this morning. Your access rights to the Cedar Hill estate have been temporarily suspended pending the outcome of a grand jury investigation into trust fraud.”
“Fraud? That’s absurd!” Celeste screamed. “My brother’s wife is a mentally unstable liar who forged those documents! She’s trying to steal my inheritance while my brother is out of the country!”
“Your brother is on the phone right now, Celeste,” Rowan spoke directly into the handset, his voice cold and clear enough to echo across the gravel driveway sixty miles away.
The line went dead silent for three seconds.
“Rowan?” Celeste’s tone changed instantly, shifting from rage to that high, panicked whine she used when she was losing control. “Rowan, tell these people to move! They’re standing on our land! They’re threatening to arrest me in front of the moving crew!”
“You have five minutes to turn your car around and leave the property entrance, Celeste,” Rowan said into the speaker. “If you are still standing on the county road at seven-ten, Sheriff Miller has my explicit authorization to execute the trespass warrant and place you in county custody.”
“You can’t do this to me!” she shrieked, her voice breaking into a dry, breathless sob. “I’m your sister! I lived in that house before that... that woman ever heard your name!”
“That woman is my wife,” Rowan said, his thumb hovering over the red disconnect button. “And the child she is carrying is the primary heir to everything my father left behind. You are nothing to this estate anymore, Celeste. Nothing at all.”
He tapped the screen.
The line went dead.
Rowan set the phone down on the small table beside my bed, then reached out and took my hand. His fingers were warm, steady, and dry.
May you like
“It’s over, Abby,” he whispered, his eyes searching my face. “She’s gone.”
I leaned back against the white hospital pillows, listening to the quiet, steady thump-thump-thump of our son’s heart coming from the monitor beside the bed, feeling the soft, heavy kick of his small feet against my palm.
