by Diana Palmer
With a huff, she scrambled down the ladder, her eyes two pissed-off slits as she stomped over. “You know what they say about men who go waving their pistols around?”
He hadn’t intended to reveal his harnessed weapon, but now he knew why she’d suddenly gone quiet. “That you should approach with caution?”
“That their pistol is far more impressive than their”—her eyes briefly dropped below his belt buckle—“stocking stuffer.”
“Well, now, angel, if you were curious about my stocking stuffer all you had to do was ask. But don’t you worry, I can fire fifteen rounds before reloading.”
She did her best to stare him down, a hard task since she barely reached his shoulder. Hands on hips, that red-tipped nose so high in the air he was surprised she wasn’t experiencing altitude sickness, she said, “I prefer my stocking stuffers to get it right on round one. So why don’t you go show your pistol to someone who cares, so I can get back to decorating my tree?”
She shimmied her cute little backside up the ladder, and he walked over to stand behind her. “And risk getting a lump of coal for not helping an elf lady in need? Imagine what the town would say? I can see the headlines now. OFFICER OF THE LAW NEGLECTS TO REPORT SUSPICIOUS SUSPECT CAMPED OUT IN SHERIFF STATION’S TREE.”
She looked down at him. “I imagine it will read more like OFFICER OF THE LAW WAVES HIS PISTOL AT UNSUSPECTING BRINGER OF CHRISTMAS CHEER—SHE WAS UNIMPRESSED.”
“Either way, I need a good reason not to tell Logan that you’re vandalizing his tree.”
She eyed him suspiciously, as if calling his bluff. When he didn’t move, she gave a sigh big enough to deflate her whole body.
“Okay, but you can’t tell anyone.” The words were spoken so softly, he barely heard her over the rustling tree branches.
“And why’s that?”
“Because it’s a surprise.” Mumbling offensive things about his sex, she made her way back down. “Look, I’ve done this every year since the new tree went in. And every year the town erupts with excitement, trying to guess who’s behind it.” She looked up at him again, but this time her eyes were a warm brown. “If people know it’s me, then it ruins the magic.”
Noah almost told her magic didn’t exist but, somehow, sensed it would be as distressing as telling his little nephew Santa was a big fat lie. Plus, starting as far back as his senior year of high school, there’d been rumors about Sweet’s Secret Samaritan. An anonymous friend of the town who did little favors for people in need. Flower gardens would appear overnight, the elderly would awake to a seasonal pie on their doorstep, widows received flowers on their wedding anniversary.
He didn’t think this Samaritan was old enough to be Sweet’s Secret Samaritan, just as he didn’t think she was telling him the entire truth about why she’d chosen that tree. But he’d done enough interrogations to know that, if he wanted the truth, he needed to soften his approach. Otherwise, she’d dig in, and they’d likely stand there all night, even though she was shivering from the dropping temperature.
He looked at his watch. “Shift change happens in about twenty minutes, so unless you want to out yourself as Sweet’s Secret Samaritan to half the deputies in the county, why don’t you let me help?”
“I’m not Sweet’s Secret Samaritan,” she said coolly. She was a pretty little liar—he’d give her that. But his BS meter was more accurate than most lie detectors. “I just like Christmas.”
That was a truth. In fact, he’d go so far as to say she loved Christmas. Something about the way her eyes sparkled with childlike excitement at the admission was as adorable as it was endearing. Noah didn’t normally go for adorable, but on her it worked.
“Then how about you let me help you help Santa?” he joked and, look at that, she laughed. A good sign he’d made the first crack in those glaciers she hid behind.
“Fine, but only because I have to be home in time for dinner and you’re like ten feet tall. Plus, my ornaments are so big they’re drooping.”
As far as he was concerned, her ornaments were near perfect—in size and shape—but his mama taught him better than to argue with a lady. Plus, the sky was turning darker by the minute and their breath was starting to crystalize in the cold air.
Even though her costume was long sleeved, it wasn’t nearly thick enough to stand up to the dropping temperatures. And he didn’t even want to talk about her skirt and tights, which were more fashion than function.
“You’re one strong breeze from turning into a Popsicle.” Noah slid off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders—ignoring how good she looked in his clothes.
To his surprise, she didn’t argue but immediately burrowed into it, practically disappearing beneath the shearling. She even made a sexy little sigh as she snuggled deeper.
Noah moved to zip it and she took a step back, as if startled that he’d touch her. She tried to pretend it hadn’t happened by keeping her eyes on him, her shoulders ramrod straight, and that tough-girl attitude firmly in place. But it was clear that he’d startled her—and that startled him. Made him uncertain how to proceed, because there was also something similiar to fear flickering in her eyes. Something raw and habitual in her reaction that bothered him.
Deciding the best route was pretending he hadn’t noticed the way she’d jumped, he casually picked up a strand of lights and went about stringing them on the higher branches that even he—at ten feet tall—could barely reach.
She didn’t slow down long enough to defrost her fingers before hanging large plastic balls from the lower branches. But when she stepped beside him, handing over a decoration, he knew he’d made the right call.
And that’s how Noah found himself during the first storm of the season, standing side by side with Sweet’s Secret Samaritan, decorating a tree in complete silence. Every so often, he’d hear her humming a Christmas tune, but then she’d remember he was there and give a dramatic huff before going silent.
The third time she did it, he laughed and she skewered him with a sidelong glance.
“If you don’t answer to Secret Samaritan, then what should I call you?” he asked, and she shoved out a breath as if his presence had ruined her entire holiday season.
“Faith.”
That was it. No last name. No further details. The bite in her tone suggested that one word was the beginning and end of their conversation.
Says her.
“So Faith, just Faith. I’m Noah.” He stuck out his hand. “Noah Tucker.”
“Well, Noah Tucker.” She didn’t acknowledge his extended hand. “I hope your decorating skills are better than your recall, because we’ve met. Many times.”
His recall was near perfect. And with a woman who looked like her? She’d be imprinted on the backs of his eyelids.
So when their gazes met, he made sure his skepticism was clear as day.
“Seriously? We had an algebra class together your senior year. I sat behind you,” she said. He had nothing. “You borrowed my notes.”
Noah didn’t remember a whole lot about senior year. He’d been too busy focusing on how many days were left until he could enlist and get out of this hellhole. But he hadn’t been so focused as to miss a pretty girl with big brown eyes and even bigger ornaments.
Even thinking about her ornaments had him itching to inspect them further. And no matter how many times he reminded himself they were concealed beneath the bulk of his jacket, or thought, “Eyes up, idiot, eyes up,” they’d eventually drift south.
Brow arched, she crossed her arms. “I was a freshman. You were a dic . . . uh, stocking stuffer. Still are.”
Noah noticed her eyes were doing a little wandering of their own—from his eyes to his lips, back and forth. He winked, letting her know she’d been caught. “If I was such a . . . stocking stuffer, then why did you lend me your notes, Faith, just Faith?”
That question prompted a guilty grin. “Because you were a senior still taking algebra. I figured someone needed to help you pass or we�
�d be stuck with you another year.”
“Or maybe you lent me your notes because you had a crush on me. Wait, I remember you,” he said, suddenly placing her. Back then she was a quiet little thing, pretty but young as hell. She’d worked in the tutoring center after school and Noah always got the feeling that school was her way out. “You used to bring me cookies on game days.”
“I brought a lot of people cookies, so don’t think you were special.”
“Good to know.” He grinned and she rolled her eyes. “I probably didn’t thank you back then. I was kind of a stocking stuffer.”
“It’s expected—all men are.”
“You know, some of us learned from our mistakes and grew up.”
She looked unimpressed, as if he needed to work harder. As if she didn’t trust him to be anything other than a disappointment.
“You seem skeptical.” He took an ornament from her fingers and hung it on one of the higher branches. She didn’t bat his hand away, but he could tell she wasn’t someone who played well with others.
“So you’re saying you offered to help me with zero expectations?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And you’re not going to say anything to anyone about this?”
“Trust me, your secret is safe,” he said. “In fact, how about when we’re done here, we grab a coffee?”
“Grab coffee? So what, we can chat about the weather? Catch up?” She looked up at him. “It’s cold and late, and I don’t date. All the catching up we need.”
“Who said anything about a date?” he asked, finding it interesting that her cheeks turned the slightest shade of pink. “What if I was only offering you a chance to thank me for helping with the tree decorating?”
“Thank you for helping with the tree, Noah ‘Let Me Show You My Pistol’ Tucker.” She gathered up her things, including eleven empty twinkle light boxes, a backpack, and a huge purse. “And here I thought you were still that stocking stuffer from high school.” With a grin as sweet as sugar plums, she shoved a box of lights his way. “I hope these don’t take too long to hang. I hear it’s a crime to be merry and bright in front of the sheriff’s station.”
After a “good boy” pat to the arm, she turned on her elfin shoes and headed toward Main Street, still wearing his jacket, and leaving him with a ladder, six strands left to string, and a grin so wide he knew it would still be there come tomorrow.
“Hey,” he called out. “How about that coffee?”
Without slowing down, she called over her shoulder, “Sorry, I’m more of a hot cocoa kind of girl.”
She walked away, hips swaying like she knew he was watching. And he was. He was so focused on the way that fur trim flirted with her incredible heart-shaped backside, he didn’t even notice Logan had strolled up behind him until he spoke.
Sheriff Logan Miller stood on the station’s top step, looking amused as all get-out. Even though he was trained, well over six feet, and carried a badge and gun of his own, Noah could still take him. Didn’t stop the sheriff from saying, “That was entertaining. Watching a Tucker go down in flames always makes for a good night.”
“I was laying the foundation,” Noah replied.
“Or wasting your time.” Logan grinned. “In fact, you’re so far in the friend zone you don’t even see the zone.”
“I’ve been getting in and out of the friend zone since middle school. I’ve got her right where I want her.”
“Where’s that? Doing her chores?” Without waiting for an answer, Logan turned and entered the station. Noah followed.
“You weren’t close enough to see, but she was feeling it, too.”
Logan ushered him past the front desk and into the back office, laughing the entire way. By the time the sheriff sat his annoying backside behind the desk, Noah felt like strangling him.
“Whatever you have to tell yourself to sleep at night,” Logan said.
Noah blew on his hands while rubbing them together. “Are you going to ask about my feelings next or offer me a hot cup of joe?”
Logan reached behind him and in a matter of seconds a Keurig machine whirled to a start and began percolating. Noah almost groaned when hot steam fogged the window that separated the sheriff’s office from the rest of the station.
Logan handed him a mug of coffee, then released a low whistle. “Never thought I’d see the day when Noah Tucker got all out of sorts over a little chill factor. City’s made you soft.”
“Was going to say the same about you.” Noah lifted a brow, then the coffee mug which read REAL MEN DO BALLET.
“Sidney bought me that for Father’s Day,” he said, grinning so big Noah couldn’t help but smile in return.
Logan was dad to the sweetest five-year-old on the planet. With her blond curls and adorable tiny-girl voice there wasn’t much Logan wouldn’t do to make her happy. After suddenly losing his wife a few years back, Logan worked hard to fill both parental roles, trying to give his little girl as normal a life as possible. Noah guessed that meant doing daddy-daughter ballet.
“How’s she doing?”
“Growing up too fast,” Logan said. “She started kindergarten this year. Already negotiated extra recess time for the class with her teacher.”
Noah laughed. “Sounds like you have a little lawyer on your hands.”
“Bite your tongue. One lawyer in the family is enough for me,” Logan said, referring to his sister-in-law, a local county prosecutor. “So what brings you home?”
“My boss had me running an Interview and Interrogation seminar up near Fort Worth yesterday, and I have another one in Texarkana a few days after Christmas. I planned on heading back to Austin in between, but Cody asked me to spend the holidays at the Crossing.”
Coming home always managed to put Noah on edge. Had he been out of his mind when he agreed to spend the entire holiday at his family’s ranch? He’d rather be waterboarded than spend even a night there, but when he’d heard his nephew’s wish was to spend Christmas morning with his favorite uncle, Noah packed his bags for a long winter’s trip.
“You been to the ranch yet?”
Noah took a sip of the hot coffee, not caring if it scorched his tongue. “Nope. Headed there now.” And already he was itching to leave.
“Tell Cody I’ll be there around seven.”
“Is there a game on I don’t know about?” Noah wasn’t all that into sports anymore. He didn’t have the time. But hanging out with old friends and tossing back a few sounded like a fun distraction.
“No, Little Mermaid Live is playing on TV tonight and Sidney asked to watch it with JT,” Logan said, referring to Noah’s nephew.
“How times have changed.”
No game. No beer. No old times to be had, it seemed. Cody was married with a son. Logan, who Krazy Glued all the principal’s furniture to the gymnasium ceiling, was now the town’s sheriff. The only thing that remained the same?
Noah was still scared to go home.
Chapter Two
Growing up the daughter of a convicted felon, Faith Loren had learned that the past was bound to catch up. It was when the past beat her to the punch that really ticked her off.
“Heard you might be applying to be our evening entertainment,” Faith’s part-time boss bellowed from behind the pie display, then pointed a pudgy thumb over her shoulder to the silver pole that sat in the middle of the diner.
Viola McKinney was the owner of the Bluebonnet Burger, Bar & Biscuit, or the B-Cubed to the born and bred in Sweet Plains. “There’s a few nights comin’ up that you’re not on the schedule. I can change that.”
“Not even for time and a half,” Faith said, balancing a tray of drinks, two orders of chicken and waffles, a pimento-cheese burger, and a B(cubed)LT with a side of onion rings. Her phone said it was Friday, but the universe was treating her as if it were a Monday. “I hardly have any days off this month, and they’re already packed. I’ve got holiday shopping to do, Pax’s holiday recital at the community center i
s coming up, and week after next I’m attending a wrapping party at Shelby’s with the girls.”
It was the final prep for the town’s annual Sweet’s Holiday Shindig, an old-fashioned celebration that was over a hundred years running. The Saturday before Christmas, every one of the 9,000 residents were invited to spend a fun-filled evening with neighbors, and take part in holiday activities for the whole family.
There was a silent auction, a pie exchange, even an old-fashioned hayride around the park—best served with a steaming cup of Mrs. McKinney’s hot cocoa. Folks knew to line Main Street before nine, because when the mayor lit the giant tree in front of Town Hall, Santa and his reindeer began their ride through town, waving and passing out presents.
The best part of the event was that all the proceeds went to Treats for Tots, a charity that benefitted local families in need. Last year, the silent auction alone brought in over $18,000. Sweet’s Holiday Shindig had gone from a celebration to a way the town could help neighboring families experience the magic of the season, regardless of where they landed on the income scale. Because, come Christmas morning, every child in town would have a present under the tree.
Once upon a time, Faith had been one of those kids.
She was twelve when her mom moved them to Sweet Plains, and Faith could still remember the Treats for Tots present she’d found under her tree. It was a baking set for beginners, with pink bowls, measuring cups, and a coordinating apron. There was also a recipe box, pink of course, which held a family recipe from nearly every baker in town.
That one present hadn’t just made Faith’s holiday that year; those recipes, handwritten and shared from the heart, had made Sweet Plains feel like home. Something that didn’t happen often when one’s mother was a tumbleweed of the world.
Hope Loren went through husbands like most people went through calendars. Every year was a chance to throw out the old and welcome the new, and with every new man came a new city and a new house. Faith blamed her from-anywhere accent—not to mention her desperate need to belong—on a childhood spent stuck in a never-ending game of hometown roulette.
