Linda Goodnight - The Lawman's Christmas Wish

“Or what? You gonna arrest me?” Before Ben’s death, she and Reed had been good friends. The ill-begotten marriage proposal had raised a hedge between them and Amy missed the silly give-and-take they’d once shared.

At her cheekiness, Reed grinned. Breath clogged in Amy’s chest. He scowled and grumbled at her so much, she’d forgotten about his killer grin.

“Could be.”

“What’s the charge?” she asked.

“Resisting an officer. Disturbing the peace.”

“Whose peace am I disturbing?”

His eyes narrowed into slits, but the dark brown irises twinkled. “Mine.”

Winner of a RITA ®Award for excellence in inspirational fiction, Linda Goodnight has also won a Booksellers’ Best, ACFW Book of the Year and a Reviewers’ Choice Award from RT Book Reviews. Linda has appeared on the Christian bestseller list and her romance novels have been translated into more than a dozen languages. Active in orphan ministry, this former nurse and teacher enjoys writing fiction that carries a message of hope and light in a sometimes dark world. She and her husband, Gene, live in Oklahoma. Readers can write to her at linda@lindagoodnight.com, or c/o Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

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And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily,

as to the Lord, and not unto men.

—Colossians 3:23

For Maria Masha with love

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion

“You might as well give up and marry me, Miss Amy.”

Amy James, in the Treasure Creek General Store shopping for milk and bread—a never-ending need with her two sons—looked at the speaker, Myron Scroggins, without a bit of surprise. Lately, no matter where she went someone proposed marriage. The situation had become beyond ridiculous.

“Oh, Myron, you’re just after my money,” she said, trying to make light of the silly offer. Everyone in the tiny town of Treasure Creek, Alaska, knew her tour business was struggling. During the last few months, business had improved, but it would be another year before she was back on solid footing.

“Now, Miss Amy, you know better.”

She did. Myron was one of the good guys. The burly man was also forty years her senior, lived far outside town and was seriously set in his ways. His scraggly beard probably housed a family of mice. He rarely came to town, and then only to collect supplies and hightail it back to his ramshackle cabin.

Carl Branch, a sixtysomething farmer in brown duck coveralls and a feed-store ball cap, came around from behind a stack of horse feed and protested. “Hey, I asked her first!”

Myron’s weathered face fell. He looked from Carl to Amy and back. “You did?”

Amy laughed. She couldn’t help herself. In an Alaskan town with few women and plenty of men, she’d become a valuable commodity. Some wanted her tour business, and others simply wanted to take care of the young widow whose family had founded this town. This was the case with both Myron and Carl, two older men she’d known since she was born.

“Myron. Carl. Please. I’m honored by your kindness. Truly, I am, but the boys and I are getting along great. Don’t worry about us.”

Myron’s loose jowls jiggled insistently. “A woman needs a man to look after her.”

That notion didn’t set too well with Amy’s independent spirit, but she didn’t take offense.

“Leave Amy alone.” A scowling Harry Peterson, owner-operator of Treasure Creek’s General Store, slapped a pound of butter on the counter in front of Carl. The pot-bellied proprietor had been particularly grumpy lately. “Just because all those fancy women came flooding in here to find a man, doesn’t mean every woman in town is interested in marrying you slobs.”

“Ah, Harry,” Carl said. “You’re just mad ’cause Joleen’s been flirting with Neville Weeks and he’s flirting back.”

Harry made a harrumphing noise and rattled a paper bag, the furrows in his brow deepening by the second. Amy had a feeling the old farmer had hit too close to home. Joleen Jones was a fluffy, overblown blonde who tried too hard, but she was as good as gold. She’d been hot after Harry since her arrival from Tennessee, but after so many rebuffs, the Southern belle had apparently given up. Amy felt sorry for the woman, though she had to wonder what Joleen saw in Harry in the first place.

“You gotta marry somebody, Miss Amy,” Myron said as he scratched his wooly, gray beard. “Might as well be me. This town would dry up and die without you, and we want to help you out, now that Ben is gone.”

The too familiar pang of loss sliced through the open wound Amy called a heart. Her husband, Ben, had died nearly a year ago, and though the agonizing grief had diminished, she didn’t want to marry anyone.

Ben’s last letter flashed through her head, but she instantly blocked it. He’d loved her and wanted the best for her, and Amy was not about to settle for less than a God kind of marriage such as they’d had. No matter what his letter had asked her to do.

She felt a responsibility to this historic little town, founded during the Yukon Gold Rush by her great-great-grandfather, Mack Tanner. She would fight with her last breath to keep it afloat, but that did not require marriage.

“Tell you what, Myron. I won’t marry you, but I’ll bake a batch of those cinnamon rolls you like. You, too, Carl.”

Both men perked up.

Myron spoke for both of them when he said, “That’s a better deal than getting hitched any day.”

Amy agreed. With a smile and a wave, she gathered her bag of groceries and exited the store, nearly bumping into Reed Truscott, the local chief of police.

“Oops, excuse me,” she said, sidestepping the tall, lean lawman.

He stepped in front of her, blocking the way. “How you doing, Amy?”

“Good. Yourself?”

He shifted in his boots, glanced across the quiet street and cleared his throat. The police chief obviously had something on his mind.

“Look, Amy, we need to talk. About this situation between us—”

She held up a hand, stop sign style. There was no “situation,” and if he asked her to marry him again—check that—if he demanded she marry him, she would stomp his toe. Of all the men who’d offered proposals, this was the one that bothered her most.

“Don’t even think it, Reed. And do not say it. Whatever it is.”

Whirling, she stalked off down the sidewalk. As she went, she heard him grumble, “Frustrating woman.”