Christmas in Cold Creek. RaeAnne Thayne
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He smiled as he picked up the last shard of glass and set it on her tray.
She didnât return his smile but he wanted to think she had lost a little of her wariness as she hurried away to take care of her tray and pick up another order from Lou at the grill window.
Definitely a story there. He just might need to dig a little into her background to find out why someone with fine clothes and nice jewelry who so obviously didnât have experience as a waitress would be here slinging hash at The Gulch. Was she running away from someone? A bad marriage? An abusive husband?
Now that the holidays were in full swing, the uptick in domestic-disturbance calls made that sort of thing a logical possibility. He didnât like to think about it. That young girl looked too bright and innocent to have to face such ugliness in her life. So did the mother, for that matter.
Rebecca Parsons. Becca. Not Becky. An intriguing woman. It had been a long time since one of those had crossed his path here in Pine Gulch.
He sipped at his juice and watched her deliver the plate of eggs and bacon to Jolene Marlow. A moment later she was back at the window, telling Lou apologetically that the customer had asked for sausage and she hadnât written it down.
âShe ever done this before?â Trace asked Donna with a jerk of his head toward Becca, as the other woman passed by on her way to refill another customerâs cup.
Donna sighed. âI donât think so. Iâm sure sheâll pick up on it a little better any minute now.â She frowned at him. âDonât you be giving her a hard time, pullinâ your âIâm just looking out for my townâ routine. I get the feeling sheâs had a rough go of things lately.â
âWhat makes you think?â
Donna cast a look to make sure Becca and the girl were both out of earshot before she lowered her voice. âShe came in here three days ago practically begging for a job. Said she just needed something to tide her over for a few weeks and asked if she could work over the holidays for us. Smart girl knew to hit Lou up for the job instead of me. She must have seen he was the softy around here.â
Trace decided he would be wise to keep his mouth shut about his opinions on that particular topic. Donna probably didnât need reminding about all the free meals she gave out to anyone who looked down on his luck or the vast quantities of food she regularly donated to the senior-citizens center for their weekly luncheons.
âJust be nice to her, okay? You were friendly with Wally, about the only one in town who could say that.â
âHe died alone with only that butt-ugly dog for company. Where was this granddaughter?â
Donna patted his shoulder in a comforting sort of way, giving her raspy smokerâs cough. âI know Wally and his boy had a terrible falling-out years ago. You canât blame the granddaughter for that. If Wally blamed the girl for not visiting him, he never would have left his house to her, donât you think?â
Donna was right, damn it, as she so often was. He supposed he really would have to be a good neighbor to her and not just give lip service to the phrase.
That particular term made him think about her lips once more, lush and full and very kissable. He gave an inward groan. He really needed to go home and get some sleep if he was going to sit here and fantasize about a woman who might very well be married, for all he knew.
The chief of police. Just what she needed.
Becca hurried from table to table, refilling coffee and water, taking away plates, doing every busywork she could think of so she wouldnât have to interact with the gorgeous man who passed for the Pine Gulch long arm of the law.
It didnât seem right somehow. Why couldnât Trace Bowman be some kind of stereotype of a fat old guy with a paunch and a leering eye and a toothpick sticking out of the corner of his mouth? Instead he was much younger than she might have expected the chief of police to be, perhaps only mid-thirties. With brown hair and those piercing green eyes and a slow heartbreaker of a smile, he was masculine and tough and very, very dangerous, at least to her.
She should not have this little sizzle of awareness pulsing through her every time she risked another look at him. Police. Chief. Did she need any other reason to stay far, far away from Trace Bowman?
With habits ingrained from childhood, she catalogued all she had picked up about him from their brief encounter. He either worked or played hard, judging by the slight red streaks in his eyes, the circles under them and the general air of fatigue that seemed to weigh down his shoulders. Since he was still in uniform and his boots were mud-splattered, she was willing to bet it was the former.
He probably wasnât marriedâor at least he didnât wear a wedding ring. She was voting on single status for Pine Gulchâs finest. If he had a wife, wouldnât it be logical heâd be going home for a home-cooked breakfast and maybe a quickie after a long night instead of coming into the diner? It was always possible he had a wife who was a professional and too busy to arrange her schedule around her husbandâs, but he gave off a definite unmarried vibe.
He didnât seem particularly inclined to like her. She might have wondered why not if he hadnât made that comment about being her grandfatherâs neighbor. He apparently thought she should have visited more. She wanted to tell him how impossible that would have been since sheâd never even heard of Wally Taylor until she received the notification of his death and his shocking bequest, right when her own life in Arizona had been imploding around her.
A customer asked her a question about the breakfast special, distracting her from thoughts of the police chief, and she forced herself to smile politely and answer as best she could. As she did she was aware of Trace Bowman standing up from the counter and tossing a few bills next to his plate, then shoving his hat on and heading out into the cold drizzle.
The minute he left, she took her first deep breath since sheâd looked up and seen the uniform walking into The Gulch.
The man didnât particularly like her and she had the vague sense that he was suspicious of her. Again, not what she needed right now.
She hadnât done anything wrong, she reminded herself. Not really. Oh, maybe she hadnât been completely honest with the school district about Gabiâs identity but she hadnât had any other choice, had she?
Even knowing she had no reason to be nervous, law enforcement personnel still freaked her out. Old, old habit. Savvy civil servants ranked just about last on her motherâs list of desirable associates. Becca would be wise to follow her motherâs example and stay as far away from Trace Bowman as possible.
Too bad for her, he lived not far from her grandfatherâs house.
She glanced at her watchâone of the few pieces of jewelry she hadnât pawnedâand winced. Once again, time was slipping away. She felt as if sheâd been on her feet for days when it had been only an hour and a half.
She rushed over to Gabrielle, engrossed in reading To Kill a Mockingbird, a book Becca would have thought was entirely too mature for her except sheâd read it herself at around that age.
âItâs almost eight. You probably need to head over to the school.â
Her half sister looked up, her eyes slightly unfocused, then released a heavy sigh and closed her book. âFor the record, I still donât think itâs fair.â
âYeah, yeah. I know. You hate it here and think the school is lame and well below your capabilities.â
âItâs a complete waste of my time. I can learn better on my own, just like Iâve always done.â
Gabi was eerily smart for her age. Becca had no idea how sheâd managed so well all these years when her education seemed to have been haphazard