“You don’t need to vet women for me, East,” he growled. “I do fine on my own.”
“Do you?” Though her voice was teasing, he didn’t miss the concern in her eyes. “You know I love you and only want the best for you. You deserve to be happy, Trace.”
He wasn’t sure a woman like Becca Parsons, who obviously didn’t trust him, was the route to happiness.
“I am happy. I’ve got a great life, full of interesting people and darling little shoplifters.” He grabbed the pack of gum out of Belle’s chubby little fingers that she must have lifted when neither he nor Easton were looking.
“Belle. No, no,” Easton exclaimed.
“I like gum.”
Trace laughed. “I’m sure you do, honey. But you’d better be careful or Ralph Ashton will throw you in the slammer.”
This was about the only time she really missed Arizona.
Since she left for work, the snow had been falling steadily. At least four inches now covered the sidewalk and driveway that she had just shoveled first thing in the morning before she headed for the breakfast shift.
What she wouldn’t do for a few saguaro cactuses in her line of vision right about now, the beige and browns and grays of living in the desert. Instead, she was surrounded by snow and icicles and that very cold wind that seemed to sneak through her parka to pinch at her with icy fingers.
For three days, Mother Nature had been relentlessly sending flurries their way.
It was the worst kind of snow, too—not a big whopping storm that could be taken care of in one fell swoop, but little dribs and drabs spread over several days that had to be shoveled a few inches at a time.
She was already tired of it and had been reminded several times by customers at The Gulch that winter was really only beginning. She did have to admit she was looking forward to what everyone told her were spectacular summer days—and wondrously cool nights. During the summer in Phoenix, it was often still ninety degrees at midnight.
“We tell people hereabouts, if they complain about the winter, they don’t deserve the summer,” Donna had told her a few days earlier.
She scooped another shovelful of snow, wishing her budget would stretch for a snowblower. As it was, she would be lucky to be able to give Gabi a few toys and books for Christmas. She was picking up a few things here and there for the girl. Money was tight but she was managing—and she was more excited about the holidays than she might have believed possible even a few weeks earlier.
Much to Becca’s befuddlement, Gabi loved to shovel the snow. She ought to leave the driveway for another few hours until her sister came home from school, but Becca was afraid if she waited much longer, it would be so deep it would take hours to clear. As it was, by the time she finished the curve of sidewalk leading to the house, her biceps burned and her lower back was already beginning to ache.
She started on the driveway when she heard an approaching vehicle heading down the street. To her surprise, the vehicle slowed and then stopped in front of her house. Through the whirl of snow she recognized the white Pine Gulch Police Department SUV and she suddenly felt as warm as a Phoenix afternoon in July.
Trace climbed out of the SUV and headed toward her. He wore a brown shearling-lined police-issue parka and a Stetson and he looked rough and gorgeous. She, by contrast, felt frumpy and bedraggled in her knit hat and gloves and the old peacoat that wasn’t quite as effective as it should be against the weather.
He smiled warmly and she suddenly felt breathless from more than just the exertion of shoveling.
She hadn’t seen him since that day in the store, nearly a week earlier, though she had seen his vehicle pass by a few times when she’d been up late at night.
He looked tired, she thought, with a pang of sympathy for his hard work on behalf of the good people of Pine Gulch.
“Need a hand?” he asked.
She ought to tell him no. Every moment she spent with him only seemed to make her hungry for more. But the driveway was long, the snow heavy, and she was basically a weak woman.
“As long as it has a shovel attached to it, sure.”
He opened the back of his SUV and pulled out a snow shovel, then dug in without a word.
They worked mostly in silence on different ends of the driveway, but she didn’t find it uncomfortable. She wanted to ask him about the woman in the grocery store and what his feelings for her were. They were plainly friends but she gained the distinct impression in the store that the two of them had shared more than that. Did it bother him to see her with one child and another on the way? Was he still in love with her?
None of those questions were any of her business, she reminded herself, shoveling a little more briskly.
Trace was obviously much more proficient at this particular skill than she was—and much stronger—and what would have taken her at least an hour was done in less than half that.
“Thank you,” she said when the last pile had been pushed to the side of her driveway. “That was a huge help.”
“I told you, people in Pine Gulch take care of each other.”
She was beginning to believe it. Much to her surprise, Becca was beginning to enjoy living in Pine Gulch. What had started out as only a temporary resting place while she tried to figure out what to do next had become familiar. She liked the fact that when she went to that quaint little grocery store in town, Trace hadn’t been the only person who had stopped to talk to her. She had been greeted by two different people she’d waited on at the diner, each of whom had stopped her to make a little friendly conversation and wish her Merry Christmas.
“Just out of curiosity, why do you have a shovel in your vehicle?”
He smiled at the question. “For digging out stranded cars or helping the citizens of Pine Gulch with their snow removal needs. Even the reluctant ones.”
She flushed. “I let you help, didn’t I? I’m grateful. Believe me, you saved me all kinds of work. For the most part, I guess I’m used to taking care of myself.”
“Nothing wrong with that. You should fit right in here in eastern Idaho. We’re known for our self-sufficient resilience.”
“You were probably on your way somewhere, weren’t you?”
“Just home for a few hours of downtime and to put the dog out before I head back at six for another shift. I’m shorthanded right now, if you haven’t figured that out.”
“Well, I appreciate you spending a little of your downtime helping me shovel when you’ve got your own to do. Would you like me to go help you with your driveway?”
“No need. I pay a neighbor kid to come over with his dad’s snowblower. It puts a little change in his pocket and keeps him out of trouble. Plus, it makes things a little more convenient for me. With my shifts being all over the place, I never know when I’ll be available to shovel the snow. This way I don’t have to worry about it. I can give you his name if you’d like.”
She considered her meager budget and how much paying someone to clear her driveway would probably cost through a long eastern-Idaho winter. Cheaper than buying a snowblower herself, she supposed, but until she was able to finish the waiver requirements for transferring her bar membership—which included a hefty fee, unfortunately—she would have to make do.
“I’m okay. I like the exercise,” she lied. He didn’t appear to buy the excuse. To divert his attention, she said the first thing she could think of. “Would you like to come in for some cocoa? It’s the least I can do to repay you for helping me.”
She didn’t really expect him to say yes. Why would he want to spend any more of his brief leisure time with her? To her surprise he kicked the rest of the snow off his shovel and propped it against his truck. “I’d like that. Thanks.”
Now she’d done it. She couldn’t rescind the invitation without sounding like an idiot. At the same time, she wasn’t sure being alone with Trace on a snowy December afternoon was the greatest of ideas, not with this awareness that seemed to pop and hiss between them.
Sh
e would be polite, would make him some cocoa and then send him on his way. She had absolutely no reason to be nervous.
Reasonable or not, nerves jumped inside her as she opened the door to her grandfather’s house and led him inside.
He should be stretched out on his recliner taking a nap right about now. For the last three weeks, he’d been running on about five hours of sleep a night or less and he was beginning to feel the effects. He should have just helped her shovel and then headed home. Her invitation to come inside had taken him completely by surprise and he’d agreed before he’d really thought through the wisdom of it.
“The tree looks great,” he said. She and Gabi had added a popcorn-and-cranberry garland and homemade ornaments. Paper-cut snowflakes hung in the windows and across the door frame and it appeared as if she had cut some of the greenery from the evergreens out in the yard and tucked them on the fireplace mantel and on the banister up the stairs, threaded with lights and a few glossy ornaments. More greenery and ribbons wound through the old chandelier above the dining room table.
In the few weeks since he had been here helping them put up the Christmas tree, Becca had created a warm, welcoming haven out of Wally Taylor’s dark and gloomy house. The house no longer looked like a sad old bachelor’s house, years past its prime. Somehow on a budget of obviously shoestring proportions, Becca had created a cozy space full of color and light—plump, bright pillows on the old sofa, new curtains, a colorful quilt over the recliner.
He hoped the efforts she had expended into creating a comfortable nest for her and for and her daughter indicated Becca intended to stay in Pine Gulch, at least for a little while.
“You’ve been hard at work. The place looks great,” he said, ignoring the little spurt of happiness lodged in his chest when he thought about her giving his town a chance.
She looked embarrassed at the compliment. “It’s still a dark, crumbling old house with outdated linoleum and ugly carpet. I can’t do anything about that right now until I save a little more. But I own it outright and nobody can take it away from me.”
An interesting comment that made him even more curious about her background. He wondered again what had led her here and what sort of insecurity and instability she might have faced that made her cling so tightly to the house.
“Let me take your coat,” she said. “Sit down here by the fire and warm up a little while I fix the cocoa.”
“I’ll let you take my coat but this isn’t The Gulch. You don’t have to serve me here. I can help with the cocoa.”
“It’s not The Gulch but it is my home and you’re a guest here.”
As she reached for his coat, her fingers brushed his and that subtle awareness simmered to life between them again. Had he ever noticed the curve of her cheekbone before, that particularly unique shade of her eyes?
She was so lovely, soft and restful, and he just wanted to stand here for a moment with the little fireplace crackling merrily and the snow still falling steadily outside and simply enjoy looking at her.
He grabbed her fingers in both of his hands around his coat. “Your hands are cold,” he murmured.
She stared at him, her eyes suddenly wide. He could hear the ticking of a clock somewhere in the house and the shifting of the house and the sudden whoosh as the furnace clicked on. A low hunger thrummed between them, glittery and bright. He could step forward right now and pull her into his arms, capture that lusciously soft mouth with his. He might not learn all her secrets that way but it would be a start.
The fire suddenly crackled and Becca blinked and the moment was gone.
She cleared her throat and tugged her still-cold fingers away. “I’ll, uh, hang up your coat and see about the cocoa.”
She headed back through the house. He followed her into the kitchen, with its dark-wood paneling and old-fashioned appliances. She had tried to brighten this room up, too, with new white curtains, a set of brightly colored dish towels hanging on the stove and a water-color print on the wall above the small crescent table, an Impressionist painting of a small cottage with an English garden blooming around it.
She stood at the stove, pouring milk into a saucepan.
“I thought when you said cocoa you were going to make it from the mix,” he said.
“I like the old-fashioned way, with powdered cocoa and milk. It only takes a minute, though. Would you like a cookie? Gabi and I made them last night.”
“I would, thank you. I’m afraid I’m weak when it comes to holiday goodies.”
He picked one up and tasted shortbread and raspberries from the jam center. “These are delicious!”
“Thanks.”
“Is it a family recipe?” he probed, hoping to get some insights into her background.
She shrugged. “Probably. Someone else’s family, anyway. I found it online.”
Okay, so much for that subtle line of questioning, he thought ruefully. But after a moment she added, somewhat reluctantly, “I don’t remember my own mother ever making cookies.”
“She wasn’t the domestic sort, then?” he asked.
Her laugh was small with a hint of bitter undertone that made him sad. “That, Chief Bowman, is an understatement.”
He would have liked to pursue it but she once again deflected his inquiries by turning the conversation back to him. “What about your family?” she asked as she measured vanilla. “Was your mother the cookie-baking type?”
“Sometimes, when the mood struck her. When she wasn’t busy with her work.”
“What did she do?”
“She was an artist. Oil on canvas.”
“Really?” She narrowed her gaze. “Margaret Bowman. Was that your mother?”
He blinked, surprised. His mother had only just started becoming commercially successful when she was killed. “Yes. How did you know?”
“I saw one of her paintings of Cold Creek Canyon in springtime hanging in the library the other day. It was absolutely stunning. It gave me a little hope that maybe there’s more to Pine Gulch than snow.”
He had forgotten that he and his siblings had donated one of her paintings to the library in memory of their mother. “Mostly she did it for fun and passion. I think she loved collecting art as much as she enjoyed creating it.”
Her polite smile encouraged him to add more. “When she was a young girl growing up in southern Utah outside Zion National Park, she and her mother became friends with Maynard Dixon, who had a home there,” he said of the great Western artist. “Dixon was fond of my mother and encouraged her talent. He even gave her a small oil painting depicting the area. Later she and my father acquired three more Dixon paintings, as well as a couple of Georgia O’Keeffes and a small Bierstadt. They were the cornerstone of their collection.”
“You must feel so fortunate to have such beautiful pieces to enjoy in your family.”
The familiar anger and helplessness burned through him. “We don’t. Not anymore. The Dixons and O’Keeffes and the Bierstadt were stolen ten years ago, along with the rest of their collection, the night my parents were murdered.”
She paused from stirring the milk on the stove, her eyes shocked and sympathetic.
“I’m so sorry, Trace. You said they died. I thought … perhaps an accident.”
“No accident. They were victims of a robbery and had the misfortunate to have seen the bastards who broke in.”
“How terrible.”
Usually he hated talking about this, hated the pity and that hint of avid curiosity he would see in people’s eyes when the topic came up. With Becca, her concern felt genuine and he found an odd sort of solace in it.
“I don’t care about the artwork, you know? I never did. The paintings were beautiful, but I would have ripped them off the wall myself and given them to any passing beggar on the street if it could have saved my parents.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It breaks my heart they never had the chance to even know Destry, to see where Ridge has taken the ranch, to watch Caidy
grow into a beautiful young woman.”
His voice trailed off and he flushed, embarrassed that he had revealed so much of himself to her, but she only continued watching him with that quiet compassion. “You said they died right before Christmas.”
“Right. December twenty-third, ten years ago.”
“How difficult for you and your family. That must have made it even harder, coming so close to Christmas.”
He never talked about this part, but for reasons he couldn’t explain he felt compelled to add the rest. “I was home on leave from the marines. I’d just finished my second deployment to the Middle East and had only three months left in my commitment to the military. I was trying to figure out what to do with my life, you know? Trying to figure out if I should re-up or get out. I spent most of my leave partying. Drinking. Staying out late. Living it up. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my parents, my family, but I was a stupid kid. I met a girl and we were …”
His voice trailed off and he was angry all over again at his stupidity. He should have known something was wrong. He’d been a military policeman, for God’s sake. But a devious little witch had thrown his natural instincts all to hell.
“I think I can figure out what you were doing,” Becca said, a hint of dryness in her tone.
His jaw worked. “She was in on it. Her job was to keep me busy and away from the ranch while the rest of the crew went in and did the job. My parents weren’t supposed to be home. My sister had a school choir concert. But at the last minute, she got sick and so they all stayed home. My dad surprised the thieves and he was shot first. My mom tried to run and they got her next. Caidy was hiding in the house the whole time. She still won’t talk about it.”
Her eyes drenched with sympathy, she poured cocoa into a mug with a snowman on it and then set it in front of him before taking the seat across the table from him.
“That’s why you became a police officer? Your parents’ murders?”
He looked into the murky depths of his drink where he could still see the swirl of cocoa from her spoon. “Yeah. Something like that. The age-old quest for truth, justice and all that idealistic garbage.”
Christmas in Cold Creek Page 7
