Christmas on 4th Street. Susan Mallery

sidewalks scraped. Someone put magical stuff down so it wasn’t slippery. She never had any trouble in town.

      Growing up in Florida, followed by a career move to Los Angeles, had not prepared her for a real winter, she thought as she made it to the porch. Her feet started slipping again. She lunged for the railing and managed to hang on as her lower body slipped and stretched until she was nearly parallel to the ground.

      She dug her toes into the snow and ice, hoping to find some traction. At last she managed to get her legs back under her and straighten. It was like being a cartoon character, she thought grimly. Only with the possibility of breaking bones.

      “This is so not what I expected,” she said aloud, thinking that Felicia’s request had seemed so reasonable. With everyone running around, Webster, her friend’s eight-month-old puppy, had been left home alone. Could Noelle go and let him out?

      Felicia had been a good friend to Noelle. When Noelle had opened her own store—The Christmas Attic—over Labor Day weekend, Felicia had been right there, helping stock the place and offering suggestions. When Noelle wanted to participate in town advertising with the other local retailers, Felicia had helped her navigate the maze that was local government regulations. When Noelle worried that she would never find a man for...well, you know, let alone love, Felicia had reassured her that it would happen. So helping with the family puppy seemed the least she could do to pay back her friend.

      “I am capable,” Noelle told herself as she made it up the stairs. They were surprisingly not slippery. Whatever that magic stuff was, they must use it here, she thought.

      She walked to planters on the railing and felt around for the spare key. Only there wasn’t one. She checked all the planters, sure that was where Felicia had told her to look.

      Nothing.

      Unsure what to do next, she walked to the front door and heard a soft snuffling sound.

      “Hey, Webster,” she called.

      The puppy yipped excitedly.

      Noelle reached for the door handle and found it turned easily. She pushed it open.

      Two things happened at once. A very excited fifty-pound German shepherd puppy bounded out toward her and she saw a duffel bag in the foyer.

      Noelle automatically patted the enthusiastic dog. He licked her hands and wiggled before dashing down the stairs and heading for the trees on the side to take care of business.

      “It’s slippery,” she called after him, only to realize he had magical feet because he returned at the same hyperspeed with which he’d left and never skidded once.

      “Good boy,” she said, hugging him.

      Problem one solved, she thought. Which only left the mysterious duffel and the open front door.

      The bag could be Carter’s, she thought, picturing Gideon’s thirteen-year-old son. Or it could be the proof that some evildoer had broken into the house and was, even as she stood there, ransacking the place. Either way, she had to find out.

      She stepped cautiously inside, the eager dog at her side. By the front door was an umbrella stand. She grabbed the biggest, most threatening umbrella she saw and held it in her hands like a club. She was tough, she told herself. After all, she’d taken a self-defense class earlier that fall. Of course her instructor had warned them all against walking toward trouble.

      “If you’re in here to steal stuff, I’ve called the police and I’m heavily armed,” she yelled as she walked through the open area of the main floor. There was a big living room and a huge kitchen. She knew there were bedrooms at each end of the house and more living space downstairs.

      Webster enjoyed the game, staying at her side, his wagging tail thumping against the wall at regular intervals.

      “Just walk out with your hands up and no one will get hurt,” she continued.

      She paused, listening. There was a sound from the hallway. She turned, umbrella poised. If necessary, she would hit the guy, then run. She was pretty sure Webster would run with her, thinking this was just more happy puppy fun.

      The bathroom door opened and a guy stepped out. A tall guy wearing nothing but jeans. He had a towel in one hand and was using it to rub his just washed hair. In fact, staring at the tall, well-muscled man, Noelle would guess he’d just washed the rest of himself, too.

      She paused in the middle of the hallway as several thoughts moved through her brain. First, few burglars bothered to shower while on the job. She didn’t have actual working knowledge of that as fact, but was willing to assume it was true. Second, while she knew she’d never seen the man before, something about him was familiar. Third, he was really handsome, with light brown hair and dark blue eyes. And had she already mentioned the body to her brain? Because it was good, too.

      They stared at each other and she remembered her list. Right. Fourth... Her gaze dropped and she swallowed. He had a nasty-looking cut on his left hand—complete with raw flesh, black thread from stitches and—

      “Oh, no,” she whispered as the edges of her consciousness seemed to fold in on herself. “Not blood. Anything but blood.”

      For someone who had been through what she had, it was pretty funny that the sight of blood made her woozy, but there it was. Life with a sense of humor. Her stomach roiled, her skin got clammy and she knew she was about an eighth of a second from crumpling to her knees. If that happened, she didn’t think Webster was up to saving her.

      She bent down to shorten the distance to the floor and hopefully save herself from a lasting brain injury.

      * * *

      Gabriel Boylan stared at the half-collapsed blonde. “This is why I hate the suburbs,” he told her as he dropped his towel and moved toward her.

      “Can you hear me?” he asked, speaking loudly.

      She waved toward his hand. “Keep that away from me.”

      Her voice was weak and she seemed to be swaying. He swore under his breath, noticing even as she started to go down that she was still brandishing that ridiculous umbrella in his direction. Great. His brother had fallen for someone insane.

      He grabbed the umbrella and twisted it out of her grip, then lowered her the rest of the way to the floor. She groaned. He took in her paleness and rapid breathing and figured she was close to fainting.

      The annoyed, I-really-don’t-like-people side of him wanted to let it happen. At least unconscious she would be less trouble. But the doctor in him knew that wasn’t the right decision. He shifted her so she was on her knees, then pushed her head down.

      “Head lower than the heart,” he told her. “Slow your breathing. You’re fine.”

      “You can’t know that,” she managed to say.

      “Want to bet?”

      When it seemed like she was going to stay conscious, he returned to the bathroom and quickly wrapped his left hand. The deep cut was still tender and oozing. He was lucky—he’d been stupid to get injured in the first place, but while it was ugly, no permanent damage had been done. A good thing considering he needed his hands to make a living.

      When the tape was secure, he shrugged into a clean, long-sleeved T-shirt, then walked back into the hallway.

      The woman had straightened and was staring up at him. Her gaze dropped to his hand, then darted away.

      “Thank you for covering up,” she said, her voice low.

      He assumed she meant the wound and not his chest. “You’re welcome.”

      The puppy settled next to her, leaning heavily on her, ready for the next round of whatever it was they were playing.

      “You’re sensitive to blood,” Gabriel said.

      The woman winced. “I know. It’s ridiculous. I always have been. You’d think I would get over it, but no. Oddly, I can