The Sheriff's Christmas Twins. Karen Kirst

Chapter One

      December 1886

      Gatlinburg, Tennessee

      “We have a situation at the mercantile, Sheriff.”

      Shane Timmons set the law journal aside and reached for his gun belt.

      The banker held up his hand. “You won’t be needing that. This matter requires finesse, not force.”

      “What’s happened?” His chair scraped across the uneven floor as he stood and picked up his Stetson. “Did Quinn catch a kid filching penny candy?”

      “I suggest you come and see for yourself.”

      Unaccustomed to seeing Claude Jenkins flustered, Shane’s curiosity grew as he shrugged on his coat and followed him outside into the crisp December day. Pedestrians intent on starting their holiday shopping early crowded the boardwalks. Those shopkeepers who hadn’t already decorated their storefronts were draping the windows and doors in ivy and holly garlands. On the opposite side of the street, they passed a vendor hawking roasted chestnuts, calling forth memories of bitter Norfolk, Virginia, winters and a young boy’s futile longing for a single bag of the toasty treat.

      Shane tamped down the unpleasant memories and continued on to the mercantile. Half a dozen trunks were piled beside the entrance. Unease pulled his shoulder blades together as if connected by invisible string. His visitors weren’t due for three more days. He did a quick scan of the street, relieved there was no sign of the stagecoach.

      Claude held the door and waited for him to enter first. The pungent stench of paint punched him in the chest. The stove-heated air was heavy and made his eyes water. Too many minutes in here and a person could get a headache. The proprietor, Quinn Darling, hadn’t mentioned plans to renovate. The first day of December and unofficial kickoff to the holiday fanfare was a terrible time to start.

      His gaze swept the deserted sales counter and aisles before landing on a knot of men and women in the far corner.

      “Why didn’t you watch where you were going? Where are your parents?”

      “I—I’m terribly sorry, ma’am,” came the subdued reply. “My ma’s at the café. She gave me permission to come see the new merchandise.”

      “This is what happens when children are allowed to roam through the town unsupervised.”

      Shane rounded the aisle and wove his way through the customers, stopping short at the sight of statuesque, matronly Gertrude Messinger, a longtime Gatlinburg resident and wife of one of the gristmill owners, doused in green liquid. While her upper half remained untouched, her full skirts and boots were streaked with paint. Beside her, ashen and bug-eyed, stood thirteen-year-old Eliza Smith.

      “Quinn Darling,” Gertrude’s voice boomed with outrage. “I expect you to assign the cost of a new dress to the Smiths’ account.”

      At that, Eliza’s freckles stood out in stark contrast to her skin.

      “One moment, if you will, Mr. Darling,” a third person chimed in. “The fault is mine, not Eliza’s.”

      The voice put him in mind of snow angels and piano recitals and cookies swiped from silver platters. But it couldn’t belong to Allison Ashworth. She and her brother, George, wouldn’t arrive until Friday. Seventy-two more hours until his past collided with his present.

      He wasn’t ready.

      His old friend, George Ashworth, had written months ago expressing the wish to spend Christmas with him. He’d agreed, of course—it had been years since he’d seen George and longer still since he’d clapped eyes on Allison. As tempted as he’d been to deny the siblings, the memory of their father and his generosity had prevented him.

      Edging two steps to his left, Shane gained a clear view of the unidentified female. His jaw sagged. Gertrude Messinger should consider herself fortunate because this woman had suffered the brunt of the mishap. The oily green mixture covered her from head to toe. Her face was a monochrome mask. Only her eyes—the color of emeralds and glittering with indignation—and lips were untouched.

      Gertrude stared. “That girl was right beneath the ladder when it happened.”

      She put a protective hand on Eliza’s shoulder. “That may be so, but I believe it was my foot that snagged the ladder and caused the can to tip over. I offer you my sincere apology. And of course, I’ll make reparations for the damage.”

      “Your apology doesn’t change the fact I’m standing here dripping in paint!”

      “See what I mean?” Claude leaned close to murmur in Shane’s ear.

      As a lawman, his duties ranged from unpleasant to exasperating to downright perilous. This sort of dilemma was far from typical.

      Quinn held his hands out in a placating gesture. “I regret this incident ever happened, ladies. It was my hired man who left the unopened can on the ladder unattended. I’ll pay for cleaning services, as well as provide enough store credit for replacement fabric and shoes, hats, ribbons. Whatever you need.”

      The older woman glared down her patrician nose. “This dress is beyond saving. Besides, how am I to be expected to walk the streets looking like this?” Spotting Shane, she summoned him with an imperious flick of her fingers. “It’s about time you got here, Sheriff. I want this woman arrested.”

      Eliza and the stranger gasped in unison. Moving closer to Quinn, Shane was careful to avoid the oozing globs on the gleaming floorboards. Belatedly removing his hat, he addressed Mrs. Messinger.

      “And what, exactly, am I to charge her with?”

      “Public mischief.”

      The stranger ripped her gaze from Shane to gape at the older woman. “I am not a criminal.”

      “Your clumsy disregard for your surroundings is a danger to others.”

      “I believe that’s exaggerating things a bit, Mrs. Messinger,” Quinn intervened. To the other woman, he said, “What did you say your name was, ma’am?”

      She shrunk back. Even with her features concealed, Shane sensed her distress. His senses sharpened. Years of dealing with those who disregarded the law had nourished his already suspicious nature. Was she hiding something?

      A blob of paint dripped from her chin and splattered on the floor. “Introductions can wait, wouldn’t you agree? Do you have a place where I can clean up in private?”

      “My wife’s seamstress shop is in the back. Nicole will provide you with something suitable to change into,” Quinn offered.

      Her gaze slid to Shane and then darted to the side. Definitely suspicious. When she started to move away, he clamped a hand on her arm. “You’re not going anywhere until you state your name and business here.”

      “I see you still enjoy being difficult, Shane Timmons,” she challenged, eliciting gasps from the spectators.

      He released her at once. He should’ve heeded his initial response. Her voice had been familiar for a reason. The strands of her hair that weren’t coated in paint seemed to pulse with the sun’s rays. Those distinctive flaxen locks, combined with wide green eyes and crimson lips, reminded him of Christmases past. Bittersweet holidays with a temporary family that had magnified his outsider status.

      “Allison. You’re early.”

      A single, green-tinted eyebrow lifted. “After more than a decade apart, that’s the only thing you can think of to say?”

      The tips of his ears burned. The crowd pressed closer, no doubt delighted by this unexpected turn of events. He hadn’t divulged much about his past. Wasn’t anything to boast about.

      Wesley, one of the new shop assistants and most likely the reason for this debacle, appeared with a damp cloth. She thanked him with a graciousness that attested to her generosity