In the weeks that followed, Clear Creek began to heal. Butch’s assets were seized by a new, honest prosecutor from the city, and the funds were used to reimburse the victims. The local hardware store reopened under its original owners. The “protection tax” was a thing of the past.
Deputy Nick resigned, and a young, sharp officer from the next county took over, looking to Mike as a mentor for how to truly serve a community. Mike didn’t become a politician or a boss. He just went back to his mother’s house. He finished the repairs on the shed. He built a new porch.
One warm evening, Mike sat on his new porch, carving a piece of cedar. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. A car pulled up—it was the neighbor’s daughter, back from college.
“Hey, Mr. Mike!” she called out. “Mom sent over some apple pie. Still warm.”
“Thanks, Sarah. Tell her I appreciate it.”
He took a bite of the pie and looked out over the quiet valley. He’d spent eight years in a cage for doing the right thing. He’d come home and done it again. He realized then that being a man wasn’t about the fight; it was about what you were fighting for. He looked at his mother, who was inside humming a tune, and finally, for the first time in a decade, Mike felt at peace.
