Christmas In Snowflake Canyon. RaeAnne Thayne
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shopping misery, puking-sick musicians. Before he knew it, the guy’s friends had entered into the fray and what started as a minor altercation over Christmas carols erupted into a full-fledged, down-and-dirty bar fight involving tourists and locals alike.
Dylan did his best to hold his own but it was harder than he expected, much to his frustration.
At one point, he found himself on the ground, just a few feet from the conveniently located jukebox power cord. He did everybody a favor and yanked it out before leaping to his feet again, just in time to see his brother wading into the middle of the fray, along with Pat and the three-hundred-fifty-pound Speckled Lizard cook, Frankie Beltran, wielding a frying pan over her head.
“I can’t leave you alone for a minute.” Jamie grabbed him by the shirt and threw him away from the fight that was already abating.
His own adrenaline surge had spiked, apparently, leaving him achy and a little nauseous from the residual pain. He wiped at his mouth where one of the tourists—a big dude with dreads and a couple of tattoos—had thrown a punch that landed hard.
There was another new discovery that sucked. A guy had a tough time blocking with his left when he didn’t have one.
“If you’d been here on time, you could have joined in,” he answered.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, hitting a wounded war hero!” The woman who had started the whole thing had apparently turned her ire to the tourist who had punched him. Even though Pat tried to restrain Genevieve, she leveraged her weight back against the bartender to kick out at the dreadlocked snowboarder.
He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about Genevieve Beaumont trying to protect him.
“How the hell was I supposed to know he was a wounded hero?” the snowboarder complained. “All I saw was some asshole throwing punches at my friends.”
A commotion by the door to the tavern announced the arrival of two of Hope’s Crossing’s finest. The crowd parted for the uniformed officers, and Dylan’s already-queasy stomach took another turn.
Two people he did not need to see. Oh, this wasn’t going to end well.
He had dated Officer Rachel Olivarez in high school a few times. If he remembered the details correctly, he’d broken up with her to date her sister. Not one of his finer moments.
If that wasn’t enough, her partner, Pete Redmond, had lost his girlfriend to Dylan’s older brother Drew. He doubted either one of them had a soft spot for the Caines.
He should have remembered that particular joy of small-town life before he moved back. Everywhere a guy turned, he stumbled over hot, steaming piles of history.
Rachel spoke first. “What’s our problem here, folks?”
“Just a little misunderstanding.” Jamie gave his most charming smile, still holding tight to Dylan. Predictably, like anything without a Y chromosome, her lips parted and she seemed to melt a little in the face of all of Jamie’s helicopter-pilot mojo for just a moment before she went all stern cop again.
“They always are,” she answered. “Genevieve. Didn’t expect to see you here. You’re bleeding.”
She said the last without a trace of sympathy, which didn’t really surprise Dylan. Genevieve didn’t have many friends in Hope’s Crossing.
“Oh.” For all her bravado earlier, her voice came out small, breathless. Rachel handed her a napkin off a nearby table and Genevieve dabbed at her cheek, and her delicate skin seemed to turn as pale as the snowflakes he could see drifting past the open doorway.
Rachel turned to him. “You’re bleeding, too,” she said, with no more sympathy.
“Oh, I think I’ve had worse,” he said, unable to keep the dry note from his voice.
“This is all just a misunderstanding, right?” Jamie aimed a hopeful charmer of a grin at Rachel. “No harm done, right?”
“No harm done?” The woman holding a wad of napkins to her still-streaming nose practically screamed the words. She held up a hank of red hair Genevieve had pulled out from the roots, and for some strange reason, Dylan found that the most hilarious thing he’d seen in a long time.
“What do you mean, no harm done? I’ve got a court date Monday. How am I supposed to prosecute a case with a broken nose and half my hair missing?”
“Why don’t you shave the rest?” Genevieve suggested. “It can only be an improvement. It will save you a fortune on hair spray.”
“Can you really be as stupid as you look?” Larry shook his head. “We’re district attorneys. Do you have any idea what that means? We decide who faces criminal charges. Officers, I insist you arrest both of these people.”
Rachel didn’t look thrilled about being ordered around. “On what charges, Mr. Kirk?”
“Assault, disturbing the peace, drunk and disorderly. How’s that for starters?”
“It was just a bar fight,” Jamie protested. “The same thing happens a couple times a week here at the Lizard. Isn’t that right, Pat?”
“Don’t bring me into this,” the bartender protested.
“So are you pressing charges, Ms. Turner?” Officer Redmond asked.
“Look at my nose! You’re damn right I’m pressing charges.”
“Pat?”
The bartender looked around. “Well, somebody needs to pay for these damages. It might as well be Mayor Beaumont.”
“Oh! That’s so unfair!” Genevieve exclaimed. “If you hadn’t bought that stupid digital jukebox, none of this would have happened.”
“You probably want to keep your mouth shut right about now,” Dylan suggested. “I’ll pay for the damages.”
He ignored Jamie’s rumble of protest.
“That’s all I care about,” Pat answered, reaching out and shaking Dylan’s hand firmly, the deal done. “Caine is right. We have bar fights in here a couple times a week. As long as somebody replaces those broken tables, I won’t press charges.”
“It doesn’t matter whether you press charges or not. You still have to arrest and book them for assault,” the prick of an assistant district attorney said.
“Sorry, Dylan, Ms. Beaumont, but I’m going to have to take you in.” Despite her words, Rachel didn’t sound at all apologetic.
“You can’t do that!” Genevieve exclaimed.
Rachel tapped the badge on her chest. “This sort of says I can.”
The officer reached around and started handcuffing Genevieve. With all her blond hair, silky white sweater and that little stream of blood trickling down her cheek, she looked like a fallen Christmas angel.
“Stop this. Right now,” she said, all but stamping her foot in frustration. “You can’t arrest me! My father will never allow it!”
“Believe it or not, there are still a few things around Hope’s Crossing William Beaumont can’t control.”
Like most of the rest of the town, it sounded as if Rachel had had a run-in or two with Mayor Beaumont, who tended to think he owned the town.
“Why aren’t you arresting her?” she demanded with a gesture to the assistant district attorney. “She’s the one who wouldn’t stop playing the stupid songs on the jukebox. And I think she broke my foot with that hideous shoe.”
Rachel seemed unaffected as she turned her around and started reciting her Miranda rights. Her partner turned his attention to Dylan.
“Turn around and place your hands behind your back,” Pete ordered.
“I’ll do my best, Officer,” Dylan