Flicking on her turn signal, she shook her head and sighed. Population 867. Talk about a proverbial dot on the map. How on Earth had Sean even met the bimbo homewrecker?
Sadness once again washed over her when, a few minutes later, she turned onto the town square.
Despite its name, she hadn’t been prepared for the extent of the town’s holiday display. Hadn’t really thought about it. Until now.
Old-fashioned lampposts lined the square, their ornate posts wound to resemble candy canes. Festive wreaths adorned each storefront. Christmas lights and garland stretched across the streets at eight- to ten-foot intervals, forming an arch for cars to pass under. An old-fashioned red brick courthouse, complete with huge white towering pillars dripping with garland, loomed from the center of the square. At the base of the front steps was an elaborate manger scene with real animals secured behind a white picket fence.
The pièce de résistance was the stereo system blaring Christmas carols throughout the square. Honest-to-goodness Christmas carols before eight o’clock in the morning.
In her present state of mind, it was enough to make her puke.
A left on the far side of the square took her to Fifth Street. Fumbling with the map printout, she cringed again at the address. Her jaw set, she grimly flipped on her right signal and turned onto Sugarplum Lane. Gag. How was she going to get through this?
She had to get through it.
Bambi Donner lived in a small Victorian-style blue frame house, complete with white gingerbread trim that glistened in the morning sun.
While Sam sat in her car and contemplated the best way to gain entry, the front door opened, its Christmas wreath swinging against the leaded glass.
Samantha sank lower in the gray leather bucket seat and pushed her sunglasses up on her nose.
Two people stepped onto the front porch. One of them was Sean. He gazed lovingly into the eyes of a tall, statuesque blond woman. Big surprise—Sean always gravitated toward blondes. This one was dressed in obvious designer clothes and laughed at something he said.
Samantha’s on-the-road breakfast of a pumpkin cream-cheese muffin and gingerbread latte threatened to reappear. Sean had never looked at her like that. She watched as they paused by the white picket fence and shared a sweet kiss before Sean opened the door of his car for the bimbo. Something else he’d never done for Samantha. Numb, she watched them drive away while she tried to regulate her breathing. She would not cry. She refused to cry. She had too much to do.
She had to break into a house.
Samantha would have bet, living in a quiet, small town like Christmas, Texas, that Bambi would have been more trusting. But, no, the bimbo/homewrecker/dog thief had her little house locked up like she was protecting the crown jewels or something. Other than Rhetta, Samantha would bet Miss Bambi didn’t have much worth stealing. Yet even the stupid little wooden gate was locked, forcing Sam to consider climbing the fence.
A casual glance around confirmed the lack of witnesses, so she swung her leg over the fence and stepped over. Unfortunately, the cuff of her slacks caught on the point of a picket. The abrupt cessation of forward momentum caused her lead foot to slip back, wrenching her ankle as the stiletto heel of her boot slid sideways.
She bit back her yelp of pain as she hopped to disentangle her pant leg. Another quick glance brought relief. No one had watched her humiliation.
As casually as possible, she strolled up the front steps, crossed the porch and pushed the ornate doorbell.
A chime rendition of “Winter Wonderland” echoed in the empty house.
She rolled her eyes and muttered, “Give me a break,” then rattled the locked door.
From somewhere toward the back of the house, Rhetta’s deep, distinctive bark called to her. It sounded muffled, she thought, as she walked around the side of the house, testing windows and glancing over her shoulder as she made her way toward the backyard. Poor baby was probably locked up in her kennel.
Dang. The back door was locked, too. Where was the infamous trust of small-town folk? She glanced up, wondering if the rose trellis next to the back porch would hold her weight. The homewrecker may have forgotten to lock the attic dormer.
“She ain’t home,” a gruff voice called from the next yard. A head, sporting a green-and-yellow-billed cap advertising a tractor supply, appeared over the top of the fence. The man’s weathered cheeks were grizzled with white stubble. “Miz Bambi’s out. Something I can help you with?”
Crap.
“Um, ah, I was just wondering if she still had the, um, room for rent. I thought maybe I could see it.”
The old man frowned. He removed his hat, scratched his thinning hair, and then carefully replaced the hat, adjusting the brim. “You new to town?”
Swallowing around the lump of pure fear threatening to cut off her air supply, she nodded as she tried to stand partially hidden by the post on the porch. No point in letting the old man get a good enough look at her to identify her in a lineup.
“Didn’t know Miz Bambi was rentin’ out a room.” He turned and spit, making her already nervous stomach want to revolt. “I have a nephew who’s been looking to rent a room.” He nodded. “He wants to move to the city. Says he’s tired of the country. Wants to rent b’fore he commits, though.”
Samantha could only nod in a vague manner. The guy’s nephew considered Christmas the city?
She hedged toward the edge of the step. “I’ll come back later.” Like when it was dark and there were no witnesses.
The man smiled. It was a kind smile and made her feel incredibly guilty. “I’ll let her know you were here.”
“No! I mean, that’s not really necessary. She doesn’t know me—we’ve never met. She didn’t know I was coming.” Sam stepped back off the porch. “I’ll contact her later.”
His eyes narrowed. At least, she thought they did. With the shadow of the hat, it was difficult to tell.
She wiggled her fingers in what she hoped was a friendly, nonguilty manner and wobbled back around the side of the house, not stopping until she regained the relative safety of her car.
Sweat trickled along her hairline. Her ankle throbbed. She turned the key to start the car and broke a nail, pain searing her fingertip.
What a crappy way to start the day.
4
“I can’t tell you how much Paige and I appreciate this, Bret.”
Bret Bayne slumped down farther in the scarred office chair and frowned at his cousin, Ed, sheriff of Christmas, Texas. “It’s only temporary, understand? I have a job to get back to after Christmas break.” Teaching seventh-grade science may not have been everyone’s idea of a career, but it was the only one he’d ever wanted, and he was good at it.
“I know, I know.” Ed held up his hand. “I’m just saying I appreciate you filling in for me while Paige has the babies. And don’t worry. It’s always pretty quiet around here. More so during the holidays.” He tapped his pockets. “I keep feeling like I forgot something.”
“Paige? Don’t you need to take her to the hospital?” Bret bit back a grin.
“Smartass.” Ed grinned back and reached for his hat on the rack behind the desk. “She’s being induced, so there’s no hurry. You want to go over the list again?”
“Ed, it’s not rocket science. I come here and sit at the desk for a few hours a day, less an hour lunch break. I lock up and go home and come back again the next day and so on until you get back. Oh, and if someone breaks the law—like that’s going to happen around here—I arrest them and lock them up.”
Ed nodded. “That’s about it. Judge McVay, the circuit court judge, comes through town every second Wednesday of the month, so he won’t be back until after the New Year.”
“Tell Paige good luck and give her a kiss for me.” Bret stood and ushered Ed toward the door.
“I deputized you, right?” Ed paused with his hand on the knob.
“Right. And I have the magnet for my Jeep.” Because Christmas had only one
patrol car, and Ed’s truck was unreliable, Bret had volunteered to use his Jeep. Ed had finally agreed to have a magnet made for the doors instead of an official paint job, for which Bret was grateful. After all, standing in for his cousin was only a temporary thing, even if he had been deputized to make it official. Christmas was a tiny coastal town and didn’t need more than one officer. Everyone knew where Ed lived if they needed him during off hours.
After Ed left, Bret sauntered back to the office in the tiny jail and settled into the creaky office chair, his feet propped up on the desk. Two hours until he could go home. He tilted his Stetson to cover his eyes. Just enough time for a nap.
Samantha wiped her sweating palm and rang the bell on the ornate desk of the Christmas Inn Bed-and-Breakfast for the third time. Hers was the only car in the little parking area. How busy could they be?
“Will you kindly stop abusing my dang bell, young lady? I heard you the first two times.” A rotund gentleman with a full head of snow-white hair and matching neatly trimmed beard shuffled into the foyer. He was dressed in a plum paisley print jacket with black velvet collar and cuffs, a silky black scarf at his fleshy throat. The coat was cinched in at what should have been his waist by a black tie belt. Crisply pressed black trousers and coordinating plum velvet slippers completed the ensemble.
Her first thought was he looked like a GQ Santa.
“Can I help you? Speak up, woman, I’m missing Oprah.”
“Um, I called earlier about a room? Samantha Harrison?” Maybe if she focused on him and concentrated on the conversation, she would be able to ignore all the Christmas decorations threatening to close in on her.
“Right.” He nodded, late afternoon sunlight streaming through the leaded glass transom glinting off his hair. “You’re the one who didn’t want a room that had anything to do with Christmas.” He narrowed his blue eyes. “You Jewish?”
“No. I’m just…not in the Christmas spirit, I guess you could say.”
He chuckled, his belly going up and down with each sound. “Missy, you are definitely in the wrong town if you don’t have Christmas spirit.” Twinkling eyes observed her. “If that’s so, why on Earth did you come to Christmas, Texas?”
“It’s a long story.” She waved her hand when he began to open his mouth. “Don’t ask.” She started to remove her platinum card and then paused. Better not to leave a paper trail when you planned to commit a crime. But was it a crime to steal your own dog? For that matter, was it really stealing? Instead she pulled out the cash she always kept for emergencies and paid for two nights. When the man just stood looking at the money she placed on the ornate writing desk, she bit back a sigh. “What’s wrong? Don’t you take cash?”
He stared at her for so long she thought he was going to tell her to take her money and leave.
Finally, he gave a faint nod. “Oh, yes, ma’m, I just hadn’t seen any gen-u-ine cash in a while.” He turned and took an elaborate key from an ivy-draped hook. “I’ll just show you to your room.” He glanced behind her. “Where’s your luggage?”
She held up her leather tote bag. “I don’t plan to stay very long,” she explained when his snowy eyebrows lifted. “And if you’ll just give me the key and tell me which room, I can find it myself.” She closed her hand over his and tugged at the key ring; then she smiled what she hoped was her most sincere smile. “I wouldn’t want you to miss any more of Oprah.” After pulling the key from his hand, she paused at the base of the stairs. “Thanks, anyway. Which room is it?”
He recovered quickly. “Second door on the left.”
Upstairs, Samantha paused, staring at the shiny brass plaque. “Great. Just great.” She would be staying in the bowels of hell, otherwise known as the Jingle Bell Suite.
She stepped into the room and relocked the door as she flipped on the light to alleviate the impending darkness. The cheerful strains of a bell-chorus rendition of “Jingle Bells” filled the room. Her hand shot out to douse the light. Thankfully, the grating sound of about a million bells also ceased.
Her temples began to throb. Rubbing her stiff neck, she shoved up her sleeve to check her watch. Bare arm greeted her. Her mind flashed to her watch on the tray by the kitchen sink, where she’d placed it while cleaning up from dinner. Crap. Her life just kept getting better and better.
A soft knock sounded on the polished cherry door.
“Go away.” She didn’t know anyone, so it was okay to be rude because the knocker obviously had the wrong room.
“Miss Harrison?” It was the old fat guy from the front desk. “Is everything all right?”
“Is there a way to turn off the bells?”
She thought she heard him chuckle.
“Oh, yes, of course, there is,” his muffled voice assured her. “Simply turn off the light. Anything else I can help you with?”
“No, I think that about does it. Thanks,” she added as an afterthought.
When she was sure he was gone, she flipped the light on and off several times, wincing at the bell chorus.
Just shoot me now.
5
Samantha blew out the cinnamon-smelling candle by the white wrought-iron bed in her room and then licked her forefinger and thumb and touched the sizzling wick to make sure it was out. No point in burning down the only place she had to stay at while on her rescue mission. She sneezed. Candles did that to her but were still preferable to the noise that accompanied the light.
She squinted at the elaborate curlicue clock by the bed. Her stomach growled. Almost eight. It had been dark for a while. Would the bimbo be home by now? With the way Samantha’s luck had been running, not only would the homewrecker be there, she’d be doing the wild monkey dance with Sean.
Samantha gave a derisive chuckle. Despite what Sean said, she knew—she just knew—there was more going on than an affair of the heart. The alternative—that Samantha just hadn’t been good enough, pretty enough, sexy enough for Sean—was too ugly to contemplate.
Bambi, bimbo/homewrecker/dog thief, could have Sean, Samantha thought as she pulled on the rest of her all-black outfit. Good riddance.
Samantha was going to get her dog back.
Bret jumped, startled awake by the jarring ring of the phone clipped to the utility belt at his waist. Where was he? Oh, right. Acting sheriff.
He finally unclipped the unit and connected. “Sheriff’s office. What? Who did you say you were?”
“This is the Jingle Jangle Alarm Company. Who is this? Where is Sheriff Ed? We have an alarm!”
From the thrilled sound of the woman’s voice, it could have been their first. Bret bit back a chuckle. This was one of the reasons he’d moved back to Christmas. He loved small-town life.
“This is Bret Bayne, Ed’s cousin. I’m acting sheriff while he’s gone. He—”
“Hi, Bret! I heard you were back in town. It’s Autumn, Autumn Summers—remember me? We were in the same biology class together in high school.”
“Of course I remember you.” Despite her unfortunate name, Autumn had been homecoming queen their senior year. “How have you been?”
“Fine, fine. Married Ronnie Mays after graduation and had three kiddos—bang, bang, bang.”
He winced. “Congratulations—”
“Don’t bother congratulating me—Ronnie was the same creep he was in high school. I—oh, listen to me! Going on like that when I’m supposed to be conductin’ business. We have an alarm! Now, where did you say Ed was?”
“He took Paige to the hospital this afternoon—”
“Oh, my! Is it time already? How’s she doing?”
“Okay, I guess. Ed called a little while ago. When they began to induce her, they realized there might be a problem with the twins, so they transferred her to a hospital in Corpus. Something about needing a neonatal unit. Now…what was that you were saying about an alarm?”
“Oh! I durn near forgot about that! A silent alarm came in a few minutes ago. Fourteen-oh-three Sugarplum Lane.”
Bret scri
bbled the address on the notepad and then tore off the page. “I’ll get right on it.”
“It’s probably just their cat again. She sets off the motion detector every year about this time. I think the lights from the tree get her hopped up, and she jumps more than usual. But since they pay for our service, I figured someone should take a drive over there.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m on my way.”
“Rhetta?” Samantha called softly to her dog. No point in Rhetta barking and drawing unwanted attention.
Her shin scraped painfully against the edge of a coffee table, causing Samantha to bite back a yelp. Dang, it sure was dark. Even the puny gas street lamps, though pretty, gave off no appreciable light.
Her friend Meg was right. When it gets dark in the country, it gets dark. With a capital D.
Before she realized it, she walked directly into what had to be a Christmas tree, judging by the scratchiness and scent. Luckily, she caught it before it toppled.
A sound came from the back of the house.
“Rhetta?” Samantha called in a whisper.
The blinding light of a powerful flashlight shone on her.
It wasn’t Rhetta.
“Put your hands where I can see them!” a booming voice commanded.
Oh, crap.
6
The first thought in Bret’s mind on seeing the petite woman whose lush curves were clad entirely in black was that it wasn’t a cat that had set off the alarm.
The second thought was: now what? He really, really didn’t want to arrest anyone. Ed had assured him it wouldn’t be necessary. If he arrested someone he’d have to fill out all the stupid forms and go online and set up a hearing date. He’d have to arrange for them to be fed. This was supposed to be his Christmas vacation. He’d planned to spend it relaxing and unpacking the boxes still remaining from his recent move.
The woman chose that moment to turn and run toward the front door.
Under The Covers Page 18