Karen Kirst - The Sheriff's Christmas Twins

“Are you still in your old bedroom at home?”

“No. Soon after their engagement, I moved to the third floor.”

Hearing the wistfulness in her voice, he said, “You liked that room. You spent hours in the window seat with your books and your diary or simply observing the world from your perch.”

“I did like it.” An adorable pleat formed between her golden eyebrows. “But having an entire floor to myself suits me. With four children and a passel of staff members in the house, I don’t get much privacy.”

Removing the borrowed cape, she draped it over the carved footboard. Peering down at her ill-fitting clothes, she shook her head in disgust. Shane watched as she walked to the mirror above the bureau and inspected her disheveled, paint-flecked hair. In the reflective glass, her gaze found his.

“I made sure my arrival didn’t go unnoticed, didn’t I?”

“At least the color doesn’t clash with your hair.”

Turning, she attempted to smooth it. “It’s still straight as a stick, I’m afraid.”

“Curls are overrated.”

He hadn’t been able to figure out why a girl like Allison would be dissatisfied with her appearance. Her self-consciousness didn’t make sense. Her hair was the prettiest color he’d ever seen, her countenance sweet and agreeable.

“I’ll bring your trunks up and then heat some water you can use along with the cleaning solution Nicole gave you.”

She thanked him with a grateful smile, making him regret his harsh words even more. George had to get here soon. Spending time with her would be a sore test of his endurance.

Pretend she’s your sister.

Not a terrible idea, but he’d already tried that. It hadn’t worked all those years ago. Now that they were adults, it had even less of a chance of working.

A half hour later, he was checking the foodstuffs and making a mental list of necessary supplies when Allison entered the kitchen. Dressed in her own clothes this time—a charcoal gray skirt and flattering blouse in a bold sapphire hue—she wore her hair loose. Still damp from washing, it hung in a sleek curtain to the middle of her back.

“You don’t look a day over seventeen.”

Her eyebrows rose a notch, and he wished the words unsaid.

Emitting a brief, disbelieving laugh, she said wryly, “I believe your memories are clouding your judgment.”

He pointed out where the supplies and cooking utensils were stored, as well as the kindling for the cast iron stove. Her slight frown surprised him.

“I know it’s not as large or efficient as the kitchen at Ashworth House, but it’s got everything you need.”

“It’s not that.” She’d removed her gloves in the bedroom, and her small, pale hand skimmed the pie safe’s ledge. She moved to examine the stove’s cook plates and water reservoir, a dubious expression on her face. “I never learned to cook.”

“You don’t know how to cook?”

“I’ve heated water for coffee before. That’s the extent of my culinary skills, I’m afraid.”

He should’ve anticipated this. Why would Allison apply herself to such basic chores when there were paid staff members to do it for her?

“You didn’t think to bring one of the estate’s employees to see to the task?”

“I considered it. However, it is Christmastime and they all have families. I couldn’t ask anyone to spend this most special of holidays with me instead of with their loved ones.”

Of course she’d consider others’ comfort above her own, even if, as in this case, it was impractical.

In the silence stretching between them, her stomach growled loud enough for them both to hear. With a grimace, she pressed her hand against her middle. “Sorry. I skipped breakfast.”

Shane felt as if a noose was tightening about his neck. This wasn’t how this visit was supposed to go. He’d planned on being polite, yet distant, just like the old days. He and George would catch up while the women were occupied by the children. He wasn’t supposed to be responsible for her every need.

“How did you plan to eat?”

“You do have restaurants here, do you not?”

“There’s the Plum Café. The quality has gone down in recent months, but the fare’s passable. It’s closed on Sundays.”

“So I’ll eat cheese and bread on those days. I’m not spoiled.”

“I know that.”

The Ashworths had every reason to boast—success, wealth, high standing in society. A devout Christian, David had viewed his accomplishments as blessings from God and considered it his duty to use them to help others. While they hadn’t lived meagerly by any means, they hadn’t hoarded their wealth. David had taught his children to love Jesus first, others second and themselves last.

“Besides, the children’s nanny is coming with Clarissa, and she knows her way around a kitchen. She’ll take care of the meals, as well as the holiday baking.”

Shane found himself with two equally problematic choices. He could take her to the café and suffer the type of scrutiny he went out of his way to avoid. Or he could stay here in this isolated kitchen with her and fix something. Dodge questions from curious townsfolk or share a private meal with Allison?

In the end, her damp hair was the deciding factor. He couldn’t risk her health simply because he was uncomfortable in this quiet house that presented zero opportunities to slink off to a secluded spot like he used to do.

Inspecting the cupboard’s contents, he said, “Which one sounds more appealing? Pickled peaches or sweet butter pickles?”

* * *

Allison couldn’t recall the last time she’d shared a meal with a gentleman. Mealtimes were loud, boisterous affairs in her brother and sister-in-law’s home. There were stories, jokes and laughter while the children were in attendance. Once the nanny whisked them upstairs or outside to the gardens for fresh air and exercise, the conversation turned to adult topics such as their family business, society news or happenings in the city.

Not that Shane Timmons fit her view of a gentleman. He was comprised of too many rough edges and dark secrets for that. He neither looked nor acted like the men of her acquaintance. Didn’t smell like them, either. The sheriff smelled like long days in the saddle, strong coffee and virile man.

Having removed his outer coat before preparing lunch, he sat across from her in what must be typical lawman attire—trousers, vest and a long-sleeved, buttoned-up shirt, his sheriff’s badge pinned over his heart. His light blue shirt was shot through with pencil-thin navy blue stripes. His vest was a coconut-shell brown that matched his trousers. Both pieces of apparel showcased his upper-body strength. Every time he lifted his coffee cup to his mouth, she watched the play of his biceps.

Before he’d left Norfolk, his physique had been whipcord lean. He’d packed on muscle in the ensuing years, and he looked solid enough to wrestle one of those black bears she’d read inhabited these East Tennessee forests. That, combined with his over six feet of height, made him a formidable adversary for the criminals who dared pass through his town.

“Are you warm enough?” He broke the silence for the first time since he’d said grace.

Heat from the kitchen stove permeated the adjoining dining room through the doorway. Lit candles positioned around the rectangular space added warmth to the ambience even if they didn’t emit actual heat. Clouds had rolled in, obscuring the sun and making the candles necessary.

“Yes, thank you.”

“I know this isn’t what you’d call a substantial meal. As soon as we’re done here, I’ll leave you to unpack while I make a trip to the mercantile.”

“It may not be typical, but it’s filling. Besides, now I can say I’ve tried pickled peaches.”