The Sheriff's Christmas Twins
Read The Sheriff's Christmas Twins Online
Authors: Karen Kirst
Holiday Baby Blessings
Convinced that Allison Ashworth deserves better, Sheriff Shane Timmons has always tried to remain aloof around his childhood companion. But with Allison in Gatlinburg for the holidays, insisting on caring for two motherless babies, Shane feels obliged to help her. How can he keep his distance when she and the children are quickly becoming the family he never dared to wish for?
As a girl, Allison was drawn to the wary yet handsome Shane, who never seemed to look her way. But in spending time with him and two sweet babies, she might yet find a chink in the confirmed bachelor's armor. Every shared moment gives Allison hope that this Christmas, her dreams of motherhoodâand a life with Shaneâmay finally be coming true.
He touched her shoulder, and she whirled on him.
“I have to be honest, Shane. I hate that you see me as a burdensome child. Every time you sigh and huff and roll your eyes, I'm tempted to throttle you.”
He stared at her. “I'm sorry.”
He was sorry that he wasn't a different man, one who knew how to trust and love and have normal relationships. He was sorry he hadn't done a better job of hiding his unease around Allison.
She began to dig in her reticule, her frustration evident. He pulled the key from his pocket and held it up.
“Looking for this?”
When she went to snatch it from him, he held it out of reach. “For the record, I don't see you as a burdensome child.”
“Oh?” Her chin jerked up, her hair gleaming in the night. “How
do
you see me, Shane?”
He strove for a rare moment of honesty between them. The fact she couldn't see his face helped. “As an intelligent, caring, gorgeous woman who makes me wish I was a better man.”
Karen Kirst
was born and raised in East Tennessee near the Great Smoky Mountains. A lifelong lover of books, it wasn't until after college that she had the grand idea to write one herself. Now she divides her time between being a wife, homeschooling mom and romance writer. Her favorite pastimes are reading, visiting tearooms and watching romantic comedies.
Books by Karen Kirst
Love Inspired Historical
Smoky Mountain Matches
The Reluctant Outlaw
The Bridal Swap
The Gift of Family
“Smoky Mountain Christmas”
His Mountain Miss
The Husband Hunt
Married by Christmas
From Boss to Bridegroom
The Bachelor's Homecoming
Reclaiming His Past
The Sheriff's Christmas Twins
Cowboy Creek
Bride by Arrangement
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KAREN KIRST
The Sheriff's Christmas Twins
For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
âRomans
8:38â39
To Teresa Bensch, sweet cousin and friend.
And to editor extraordinaire Emily Rodmell.
Your guidance makes all the difference.
Contents
Chapter One
December
1886
Gatlinburg, Tennessee
“W
e have a situation at the mercantile, Sheriff.”
Shane Timmons set the law journal aside and reached for his gun belt.
The banker held up his hand. “You won't be needing that. This matter requires finesse, not force.”
“What's happened?” His chair scraped across the uneven floor as he stood and picked up his Stetson. “Did Quinn catch a kid filching penny candy?”
“I suggest you come and see for yourself.”
Unaccustomed to seeing Claude Jenkins flustered, Shane's curiosity grew as he shrugged on his coat and followed him outside into the crisp December day. Pedestrians intent on starting their holiday shopping early crowded the boardwalks. Those shopkeepers who hadn't already decorated their storefronts were draping the windows and doors in ivy and holly garlands. On the opposite side of the street, they passed a vendor hawking roasted chestnuts, calling forth memories of bitter Norfolk, Virginia, winters and a young boy's futile longing for a single bag of the toasty treat.
Shane tamped down the unpleasant memories and continued on to the mercantile. Half a dozen trunks were piled beside the entrance. Unease pulled his shoulder blades together as if connected by invisible string. His visitors weren't due for three more days. He did a quick scan of the street, relieved there was no sign of the stagecoach.
Claude held the door and waited for him to enter first. The pungent stench of paint punched him in the chest. The stove-heated air was heavy and made his eyes water. Too many minutes in here and a person could get a headache. The proprietor, Quinn Darling, hadn't mentioned plans to renovate. The first day of December and unofficial kickoff to the holiday fanfare was a terrible time to start.
His gaze swept the deserted sales counter and aisles before landing on a knot of men and women in the far corner.
“Why didn't you watch where you were going? Where are your parents?”
“IâI'm terribly sorry, ma'am,” came the subdued reply. “My ma's at the café. She gave me permission to come see the new merchandise.”
“This is what happens when children are allowed to roam through the town unsupervised.”
Shane rounded the aisle and wove his way through the customers, stopping short at the sight of statuesque, matronly Gertrude Messinger, a longtime Gatlinburg resident and wife of one of the gristmill owners, doused in green liquid. While her upper half remained untouched, her full skirts and boots were streaked with paint. Beside her, ashen and bug-eyed, stood thirteen-year-old Eliza Smith.
“Quinn Darling,” Gertrude's voice boomed with outrage. “I expect you to assign the cost of a new dress to the Smiths' account.”
At that, Eliza's freckles stood out in stark contrast to her skin.
“One moment, if you will, Mr. Darling,” a third person chimed in. “The fault is mine, not Eliza's.”
The voice put him in mind of snow angels and piano recitals and cookies swiped from silver platters. But it couldn't belong to Allison Ashworth. She and her brother, George, wouldn't arrive until Friday. Seventy-two more hours until his past collided with his present.
He wasn't ready.
His old friend, George Ashworth, had written months ago expressing the wish to spend Christmas with him. He'd agreed, of courseâit had been years since he'd seen George and longer still since he'd clapped eyes on Allison. As tempted as he'd been to deny the siblings, the memory of their father and his generosity had prevented him.
Edging two steps to his left, Shane gained a clear view of the unidentified female. His jaw sagged. Gertrude Messinger should consider herself fortunate because this woman had suffered the brunt of the mishap. The oily green mixture covered her from head to toe. Her face was a monochrome mask. Only her eyesâthe color of emeralds and glittering with indignationâand lips were untouched.
Gertrude stared. “That girl was right beneath the ladder when it happened.”
She put a protective hand on Eliza's shoulder. “That may be so, but I believe it was my foot that snagged the ladder and caused the can to tip over. I offer you my sincere apology. And of course, I'll make reparations for the damage.”
“Your apology doesn't change the fact I'm standing here dripping in paint!”
“See what I mean?” Claude leaned close to murmur in Shane's ear.
As a lawman, his duties ranged from unpleasant to exasperating to downright perilous. This sort of dilemma was far from typical.
Quinn held his hands out in a placating gesture. “I regret this incident ever happened, ladies. It was my hired man who left the unopened can on the ladder unattended. I'll pay for cleaning services, as well as provide enough store credit for replacement fabric and shoes, hats, ribbons. Whatever you need.”
The older woman glared down her patrician nose. “This dress is beyond saving. Besides, how am I to be expected to walk the streets looking like this?” Spotting Shane, she summoned him with an imperious flick of her fingers. “It's about time you got here, Sheriff. I want this woman arrested.”
Eliza and the stranger gasped in unison. Moving closer to Quinn, Shane was careful to avoid the oozing globs on the gleaming floorboards. Belatedly removing his hat, he addressed Mrs. Messinger.
“And what, exactly, am I to charge her with?”
“Public mischief.”
The stranger ripped her gaze from Shane to gape at the older woman. “I am not a criminal.”
“Your clumsy disregard for your surroundings is a danger to others.”
“I believe that's exaggerating things a bit, Mrs. Messinger,” Quinn intervened. To the other woman, he said, “What did you say your name was, ma'am?”
She shrunk back. Even with her features concealed, Shane sensed her distress. His senses sharpened. Years of dealing with those who disregarded the law had nourished his already suspicious nature. Was she hiding something?
A blob of paint dripped from her chin and splattered on the floor. “Introductions can wait, wouldn't you agree? Do you have a place where I can clean up in private?”
“My wife's seamstress shop is in the back. Nicole will provide you with something suitable to change into,” Quinn offered.
Her gaze slid to Shane and then darted to the side. Definitely suspicious. When she started to move away, he clamped a hand on her arm. “You're not going anywhere until you state your name and business here.”
“I see you still enjoy being difficult, Shane Timmons,” she challenged, eliciting gasps from the spectators.
He released her at once. He should've heeded his initial response. Her voice had been familiar for a reason. The strands of her hair that weren't coated in paint seemed to pulse with the sun's rays. Those distinctive flaxen locks, combined with wide green eyes and crimson lips, reminded him of Christmases past. Bittersweet holidays with a temporary family that had magnified his outsider status.
“Allison. You're early.”
A single, green-tinted eyebrow lifted. “After more than a decade apart, that's the only thing you can think of to say?”
The tips of his ears burned. The crowd pressed closer, no doubt delighted by this unexpected turn of events. He hadn't divulged much about his past. Wasn't anything to boast about.
Wesley, one of the new shop assistants and most likely the reason for this debacle, appeared with a damp cloth. She thanked him with a graciousness that attested to her generosity of spirit, one of a dozen admirable traits he'd witnessed during his time at Ashworth House.
He was suddenly tongue-tied, as if he were fourteen again and being introduced to his new sister of sorts for the first time. David Ashworth had brought Shane to live with him and his childrenâsixteen-year-old George and twelve-year-old Allisonâin their grand estate located on exclusive Peyton Avenue. While George had been cautiously welcoming, Allison had greeted him like a long-lost friend. He hadn't known what to make of the effervescent, fair-haired dynamo. Still didn't apparently.
“Um, welcome to Gatlinburg?”
* * *
This wasn't how she'd envisioned her first encounter with Shane Timmons.
Allison was supposed to be showing her former infatuation how mature and sophisticated she'd become. Shane was supposed to take one look at her and regret all those times he'd dismissed her as unworthy of his friendship. Nothing in her imaginings had prepared her for this!
A rogue drop rolled to her eyebrow, and she hurriedly swiped at it, refusing to look down to inventory the damage to her person. She might be tempted to cry.
The distinguished, raven-haired store owner looked confused. “You know her?”
Another man peeked around Shane's shoulder. “You're the sheriff's first visitor. Not a single soul has come to see him in all these years.”
A third person piped up. “How do you know each other?”
“Is she a special lady friend, Sheriff?”
The skin around his right eye twitched. It used to do that when he was annoyed.
“Go on about your business, folks,” he instructed without taking his eyes off her. “Nothing more to see here.”
Most everyone shuffled to various sections of the mercantile, only pretending to shop. Quinn led a protesting Mrs. Messinger to the shelves containing the fabric bolts and began pointing out selections. Eliza lingered.
“Th-thank you, Miss Ashworth.”
“You've nothing to thank me for, Eliza.” She smiled for the girl's benefit. “Hopefully the next time we meet will be under better circumstances.”
Dipping her head, she rushed for the exit. Allison wished she could follow her. How ridiculous she must look! Beneath the paint, her cheeks burned with humiliation. At least that was hidden from his view.
“I wasn't expecting you until Friday,” Shane accused in a strained voice. “Where's George? Clarissa and the kids? I thought you were all set to travel together.”
After all this time, Allison had expected at the very least a polite welcome. Disappointment compounded her embarrassment. “Do you mind if we discuss this after I've cleaned up?” She indicated the damp cloth. “I'd like to get this off before it dries.”
Shane took hold of her arm again and, keeping a more-than-was-required amount of space between them, maneuvered her between the counters and into a darkened hallway.
Unable to deny herself the pleasure, she drank in his profile. The boyish appeal she remembered was a thing of the past. His features were lean and taut, his cheekbones more defined, his jaw a line of defiance. His piercing azure eyes emitted a subtle but very real warningâdon't come too close, don't try to unearth buried secrets, don't cross the line of separation he maintained between himself and the rest of the world. Framed by a light beard, even his mouth appeared hard. Sculpted and slightly fuller than many men's, Shane's was set in a perpetual frown.
He was the type of man who expected bad things to happen. Thanks to his poor excuse for a mother, he'd long ago lost the ability to look for good in the world. The hope she'd harbored that he had overcome his unfortunate beginnings flickered out.
At the end of the hallway, one door appeared to exit the building and another led to the seamstress shop. He rapped lightly before swinging it open. The woman who greeted them was everything Allison was notâstatuesque, slender and in possession of the beauty that inspired men to pen sonnets. With inky black curls, flawless skin and unusual violet eyes, Nicole Darling must've had scads of men making fools of themselves in order to win her favor. Allison had long ago accepted that she didn't have that effect. Most men liked her. The problem was they saw her as a chum, not a potential wife. The handful that had been interested in her romantically over the years hadn't been able to measure up to the one who'd deemed her irrelevant.
Nicole's sincere greeting faltered when her gaze encountered Allison. Her shock was quickly masked, but it made Allison dread peering into a mirror. Shane explained what had happened and left to fetch a wagon in which to load her trunks.
Contrary to her composed demeanor, Nicole turned out to be gracious and kind. She assisted Allison out of her ruined dress and located a cleaning solution that rid her skin of most of the paint. Washing her hair would have to wait until she reached the house Shane had arranged for her and her family to rent. Nicole riffled through the racks of clothing and found a plain black skirt and matching gray-and-black-striped blouse that a customer had decided against purchasing. The skirt was several inches too short and the blouse fit her like a circus tent. Fortunately, the cape Nicole lent her covered the ill-fitting clothes. Shane was pacing the hallway by the time she was presentable. Well, as presentable as she possibly could be.
His gaze swept her up and down, his thoughts a mystery. “The wagon's this way.”
Instead of heading to the mercantile's main entrance, he led her out the rear exit and down a steep flight of stairs. The deserted lane was edged by a wide, fast-moving river over mossy rocks of varying size. The opposite bank was a steep, tree-covered hill. Most of the trees were forlorn versions of themselves, their twisted branches bare, but plenty of pines and other evergreens were sprinkled throughout.
She surveyed the team of fine-looking horses hitched to the wagon. Their giant hooves stamped the winter-hardened earth and their breaths created white clouds. At the stairs' base, she took a moment to inspect the shops' rear facades and the livery beside the mercantile.
“Is this where the deliveries are made?”
He nodded and, giving her a boost onto the high seat, circled the horses and climbed up beside her. “I thought this route would be less of a hassle.”
“Meaning, you'd rather no one else see us together quite yet,” she retorted, old hurts rising to the surface.
He grimaced. “You've no idea what small towns are like. Every bit of news is blown out of proportion. I can guarantee half the town will have us engaged by nightfall.”