Christmas In Snowflake Canyon. RaeAnne Thayne

piece of crap, probably to put in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing “Away in a Manger” or something else equally inappropriate for the setting.

      Dylan chuckled when, after a quick, startled second, the mayor’s genteel daughter rushed forward like a Broncos tackle, her drink spilling a little as she darted ahead, her body blocking the woman from accessing the jukebox.

      “Move your bony ass,” he heard the woman say, quite unfairly, in the personal opinion of a man who had just had ample evidence that particular piece of Ms. Beaumont wasn’t anything of the sort.

      “Make me,” Gen snarled.

      At that line-in-the-sand declaration, Dylan did a quick ninety-degree swivel on his barstool to watch the unfolding action and he realized he wasn’t the only one. The little altercation was beginning to draw the interest of other patrons in the bar.

      Nothing like a good girl fight to get the guys’ attention.

      “I have the right to listen to whatever I want,” Madame Power Suit declared.

      “Nobody else wants to listen to Christmas music. Am I right?”

      A few nearby patrons offered vocal agreement and the color rose in the redhead’s cheeks. “I do,” she declared defiantly.

      “Next time, bring your iPod and earbuds,” Genevieve snapped.

      “Next time be the first one to the jukebox and you can pick the music,” the woman retorted, trying to sneak past Genevieve.

      She shoved at Genevieve but couldn’t budge her, again to Dylan’s amusement—until the man who had been sitting with the carol-lover approached. He wore a dress shirt and loosened tie but no jacket and was a few years older than his companion. While he carried an air of authority, he also struck Dylan as similar to the bullies in the military who had no trouble pushing their weight around to get their way.

      “Come on. That’s enough, girls. What’s the harm in a few Christmas carols? It’s the day after Thanksgiving, after all.”

      “I believe this is between me and your girlfriend.”

      “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s my associate.”

      “I don’t care if she’s Mrs. Santa Claus. She has lousy taste in music and everybody in the place has had enough.”

      The other woman tried again to charge past Genevieve with her credit card but Genevieve blocked access with her own body.

      “Do you have any idea who you’re messing with?” He advanced on her, his very bulk making him threatening.

      “Don’t know, don’t care.”

      He loomed over her, but Genevieve didn’t back down. She was just full of surprises. On face value, he wouldn’t have taken her for anybody with an ounce of pluck.

      “She happens to be an assistant district attorney. We both are.”

      Oh, crap.

      Genevieve apparently meant it when she said she didn’t care. “I hate attorneys. My ex-fiancé was an attorney,” she snapped.

      The guy smirked. “What’s his name? I’d like to call the man and buy him a drink for being smart enough to drop-kick a psycho like you.”

      Genevieve seemed to deflate a little, looking for a moment lost and uncertain, before she bristled. “I drop-kicked him, for your information, and I haven’t missed him for a minute. In my experience, most attorneys will do anything necessary to get their way.”

      “Damn straight,” the woman said. She planted her spiked heel on Genevieve’s foot hard and when the effort achieved its desired result—Genevieve shrieked in surprise and started to stumble—the woman tried to dart around her. But the former head cheerleader of Hope’s Crossing High School still apparently had a few moves. She jostled with the woman and managed to slap away her hand still gripping the credit card before she could swipe it.

      “That’s assault!” the woman declared. “You saw that, didn’t you, Larry? The stupid bitch just hit me.”

      “That wasn’t a hit. That was a slap. Anyway, you started it.”

      “True story.” A helpful bystander backed her up.

      The woman turned even more red in the face.

      “Okay, this is ridiculous. Let her pass. Now.” Larry the Jerk reached for Genevieve’s arm to yank her away from the jukebox. At the sight of that big hand on her white sweater, Dylan rose, his barstool squeaking as he shoved it back.

      “Sit down, Caine,” Pat urged, a pleading note in his voice. Dylan ignored him, adrenaline pumping through him like pure scotch whiskey. He didn’t necessarily like Genevieve Beaumont, but he hated bullies more.

      And she did have a nice ass.

      “You’re going to want to back down now,” he said, in his hardest former-army-ranger voice.

      The guy didn’t release Genevieve’s arm as he looked Dylan up and down, black eye patch and all. “Aye, matey. Or what? You’ll sic your parrot on me?”

      Dylan was vaguely aware of an audible hiss around him from locals who knew him.

      “Something like that,” he answered calmly.

      He reached out and even with only one hand he was able to deftly extricate Genevieve’s arm from the man’s hold and twist his fingers back.

      “Thank you,” she answered in surprise, straightening her sweater.

      “You’re welcome.” He released the man’s hand. “I suggest we all go back to our drinks now.”

      “I’m calling the police,” the woman blustered. “You’re crazy. Both of you.”

      “Oh, shut up,” Genevieve snapped.

      “You shut up. You’re both going to face assault charges.”

      “I might not be a lawyer but I’m pretty sure that wasn’t assault,” Genevieve responded sharply. “This is.”

      Dylan hissed in a breath when Genevieve drew back a fist and smacked the woman dead center in her face.

      Blood immediately spurted from the woman’s nose, and she jerked her hands up, shrieking. “I think you just broke my nose!”

      The contact of flesh on flesh seemed to shock Genevieve back to some semblance of sobriety. She blinked at the pair of them. “Wow. I had no idea I could do that. I guess all those years of Pilates weren’t completely wasted.”

      The words were barely out of her mouth when the woman dropped her hands from her nose and lunged at her, and suddenly the two of them were seriously going at it, kicking, punching, pulling hair.

      Why did they always have to pull hair?

      Dylan, with only one arm and skewed vision, was at a disadvantage as he reached into the squirming, tangled pair of women to try breaking things up. Larry, without a similar limitation, reached in from the other side but the women jostled into him and he stumbled backward, crashing into a big, tough-looking dude who fell to the floor and came up swinging.

      Everybody’s nerves were apparently on edge tonight, what with dysfunctional family dinners, early-morning shopping misery, puking-sick musicians. Before he knew it, the guy’s friends had entered into the fray and what started as a minor altercation over Christmas carols erupted into a full-fledged, down-and-dirty bar fight involving tourists and locals alike.

      Dylan did his best to hold his own but it was harder than he expected, much to his frustration.

      At one point, he found himself on the ground, just a few feet from the conveniently located jukebox power cord. He did everybody a favor and yanked it out before leaping to his feet again, just in time to see his brother wading into the middle of the fray, along with Pat and the three-hundred-fifty-pound Speckled Lizard cook, Frankie