Christmas in Cold Creek. RaeAnne Thayne

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      â€œI understand your grandfather was Wally Taylor.”

      â€œApparently.” She spoke in a voice as terse and cool as the freezing rain.

      â€œOld Wally was an interesting guy. Kept to himself, mostly, but I liked him. You could always count on Wally not to pull any punches. If he had an opinion about something, you found out about it.”

      â€œI wouldn’t know.” She avoided his gaze, her voice low. He angled his head, wondering if he imagined sudden sadness in her eyes. What was the story here? He thought he remembered hearing years ago that Wally had been estranged from his only son. If that was the case, Trace supposed it wasn’t really fair to blame the son’s daughter for not maintaining a relationship with the old codger.

      Maybe he shouldn’t be so quick to judge the woman until he knew her side of things. Until he had reason to think otherwise, he should be as friendly to her as he would be to anyone else new in his town.

      â€œWell, I’m just up the road about four lots, in the white house with the cedar shake roof, if you or your daughter need help with anything.”

      She flashed a quick look toward the girl, still engrossed in her book. “Thank you. Very neighborly of you, Chief. I’ll keep that in mind. And thank you for your help with my mess. Eventually I hope to stop feeling like an idiot here.”

      â€œYou’re welcome.” He smiled as he picked up the last shard of glass and set it on her tray.

      She didn’t 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 didn’t 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 didn’t 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 hadn’t written it down.

      â€œShe ever done this before?” Trace asked Donna with a jerk of his head toward Becca, as the other woman passed by on her way to refill another customer’s cup.

      Donna sighed. “I don’t think so. I’m sure she’ll pick up on it a little better any minute now.” She frowned at him. “Don’t you be giving her a hard time, pullin’ your ‘I’m just looking out for my town’ routine. I get the feeling she’s had a rough go of things lately.”

      â€œWhat makes you think?”

      Donna cast a look to make sure Becca and the girl were both out of earshot before she lowered her voice. “She 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.”

      Trace decided he would be wise to keep his mouth shut about his opinions on that particular topic. Donna probably didn’t 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.

      â€œJust be nice to her, okay? You were friendly with Wally, about the only one in town who could say that.”

      â€œHe died alone with only that butt-ugly dog for company. Where was this granddaughter?”

      Donna patted his shoulder in a comforting sort of way, giving her raspy smoker’s cough. “I know Wally and his boy had a terrible falling-out years ago. You can’t blame the granddaughter for that. If Wally blamed the girl for not visiting him, he never would have left his house to her, don’t you think?”

      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 wouldn’t have to interact with the gorgeous man who passed for the Pine Gulch long arm of the law.

      It didn’t seem right somehow. Why couldn’t 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 wasn’t married—or at least he didn’t wear a wedding ring. She was voting on single status for Pine Gulch’s finest. If he had a wife, wouldn’t it be logical he’d 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 husband’s, but he gave off a definite unmarried vibe.

      He didn’t seem particularly inclined to like her. She might have wondered why not if he hadn’t made that comment about being her grandfather’s neighbor. He apparently thought she should have visited more. She wanted to tell him how impossible that would have been since she’d 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 СКАЧАТЬ