The Sheriff's Christmas Twins. Karen Kirst
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he strode for the door. “Don’t step foot outside this house until I return.”
Without waiting for her response, he joined his deputy on the porch and closed the door behind him, fully expecting her to follow his dictate. Annoyed at his highhandedness—he wasn’t her actual brother, after all—Allison wondered what would happen if she didn’t.
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
Shane checked the first floor. No sign of Allison. Thinking she might’ve decided to take a nap after her long journey, he ascended the stairs and peeked into her room. The bed was made, her trunks pushed into a neat row beneath the windows on the far wall. The other bedrooms were also empty.
Determined to unload the supplies as quickly as possible and get back to the jail, impatience jabbed at him as he bypassed the unoccupied outhouse.
Where had she gotten off to?
Intent on scanning the fields to his right, he almost walked smack into the smokehouse. Scowling, he sidestepped and stopped short. A female figure was crouched half inside the smokehouse’s squat entrance.
“Allison.”
She lurched. Banged her head against the wood. “Ouch!” Scrambling outside, she rubbed the sore spot. “Did you have to startle me like that?”
“I’ve been searching everywhere for you. You weren’t in the house, the barn...” He wasn’t about to admit the trepidation that had roared to life inside him. “I thought I told you to stay inside.”
“You did.” The baleful look she shot him transformed into a grimace. “I’m not one of your locals to boss about, however.”
“What were you looking for in there?” He motioned to the smokehouse.
“Nothing. I was simply curious what was inside.”
Shane removed his gloves and, stuffing them in his coat pocket, moved to her side. “Let me see.”
“I’m fine.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he insisted, nudging her hand aside. His fingers gentle on her scalp, he examined the spot. “It didn’t break the skin.”
She was very close, her round shoulder butting against his chest, the fruity fragrance clinging to her person inviting him closer. She was soft and warm and feminine, traits that were nonexistent in his world of crime and punishment.
“I told you it was nothing,” she whispered, her voice off-kilter.
He took a big step back, his huff creating white puffs that hovered in the air. “You’ve always been a troublesome female, you know that?”
Her chin whipped up. “Excuse me?”
“You kept your father and brother hopping to keep up with your antics. I was thankfully too wise to join in.”
“If I was guilty of anything back then, it was trying to be your friend.”
Brushing past him in a swirl of petticoats and skirts, she marched in the direction of the house. Smoke curled from both chimneys into the gray sky above. She’d restrained her mane with a single blue ribbon, and the long ponytail bounced with the force of her steps.
He watched her for a moment before going after her, wishing for the first time in a long time that he had the kind of relationship with God that David Ashworth and his friends, the O’Malleys, had. He could sure use some divine help right then. But he’d never gotten over the feeling of abandonment that had taken root in his childhood. His pleas for his pa to come and rescue him, for his ma to truly change, for someone, anyone, to help make things better, had gone unanswered. Ignored. So he’d stopped asking.
Catching up to her at the corner of the house, he fell into step beside her, choosing to introduce a whole new subject. The past was a prickly maze of disappointment and confusion. Best to avoid it.
“I think you’re gonna like what I brought for you.”
“Oh?” She got that gleam in her eye that he didn’t trust. “Did you bring me a Christmas tree? A wreath? Greenery to decorate the mantel?”
His pace slowed. “Huh?”
“I think I’d like a cluster of mistletoe, as well. Maybe two.”
“What do you need all that for? You’re only going to be here a few weeks.”
“The most important weeks of the entire year.”
“Hold on.” He halted beside the wagon bed. “Why would you want mistletoe?”
Her crimson lips curved into a smile that many would find winsome. To him, it meant trouble. “You never know when an eligible suitor might pay me a visit at some point during my stay. Best to be prepared.”
Shane was like an unarmed man in an ambush as jealousy pummeled him. While she hadn’t mentioned Ben specifically, an image of his deputy and Allison locked in each other’s arms beneath the mistletoe wedged its way into his mind. Once there, he couldn’t dislodge it.
“What about Trevor Langston?” he ground out.
“Trevor and I don’t have an understanding,” she said airily. “I haven’t yet accepted his suit.”
Going to the rear of the bed, she peered into the multiple crates. He followed, irritated that she was here one day and already getting under his skin. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
“You’re leaving within a month. That’s hardly enough time to court.”
She ignored him as she continued to catalog the contents.
“I hope you’re not considering Ben. He’s not the settling-down type,” he went on. “Don’t pin your hopes on the likes of him. I mean it, Allison.”
“I’m not pinning my hopes on anyone.” Rolling her eyes, she planted her hands on her hips. “I’m teasing, Mr. Lawman. The mistletoe is for decoration...and maybe George and Clarissa. The children descend into giggling fits whenever their parents smooch. It’s quite entertaining.”
Her nose wrinkled adorably, and suddenly he was thinking about someone other than Ben kissing her beneath the mistletoe. Someone like himself.
Having reached the limit of his patience, Shane stifled a groan and, loading his arms with heavy crates, made his way to the kitchen. It took several trips to unload everything. He didn’t stay to help her unpack. Murmuring an excuse about work, he promised to swing by the following morning before beating a hasty retreat.
“Hurry up and get here, George,” he muttered.
At the livery, Milton Warring met him at the entrance, stained fingers tugging at his scraggly beard.
“What’s on your mind, Warring?”
“I’ve found evidence of a trespasser.”
Shane climbed down and let Warring’s assistant take over the rented wagon and team. When the lad was out of earshot, he said, “Show me.”
The livery owner led him upstairs into the loft where mostly hay and other supplies were stored. Near the shuttered opening overlooking Main Street, he spotted an empty tin of beans and nudged it with his toe. Inside, a dirty spoon rattled. Shane bent and examined the tin and raked through the scattered straw for other clues.
“Is it possible your hired boy ate his lunch up here and forgot to clean up after himself?”
“He eats his lunch on the bench out front most days. I asked to be sure, and he denies this is his.”
Shane walked the perimeter of the space, his gaze sweeping the planks. Near the ladder opening, he reached down and plucked a gold necklace from the straw. “Recognize this?”
Taking