Chapter One

“Feels like we could get some snow before Christmas,” Sheriff Micah Trent remarked as he pulled worn leather gloves off his cold-stiffened fingers and stepped toward the jailhouse’s warm pot-bellied stove.

“Got a couple of weeks yet.” His brother and part-time deputy, Jeb, looked up from Jubilation, Kansas’s weekly newspaper. “Could come and go by then.”

“Don’t know that it will, just said it felt like it.” He didn’t want to wind up in a useless argument with his brother over predicting the weather. Besides, he’d been gone for five days assisting a New York industrialist locate his fourteen-year-old son, who’d been seduced by the dime novel tales of the exciting life in the West. With father and son on their way back to the city, it was time to get back to his real job.

“Anything happen while I was gone?”

Jubilation wasn’t a cow town and therefore, not as prone to disruption as places like Abilene and Dodge. Still, it had its share of interesting predicaments.

“Got a letter from Susanne.” Jeb pulled a crumpled envelope from the inside pocket of his vest.

“Worth reading?” Micah asked, taking it.

“Let’s see.” Jeb rolled his eyes toward the ceiling as if that would help him recall its content. “She says she’s coming for Christmas whether we like it or not, sends thanks to you for helping her out with this runaway case, and wonders why we’re insisting on wasting our time being lawmen in the middle of nowhere when we could be working important cases with her at the Pinkerton agency.” He turned back to the paper. “And, she’s joined some group who are going to get women the vote.”

Their little sister, Micah mused indulgently. Shaking his head, he unfolded her letter and saw her unladylike scrawl rushing across the page. “I guess I’ll have to write and remind her again that we were Pinkerton agents, and it wasn’t for us. And I’m not so sure women shouldn’t have the vote.”

Jeb grunted his disapproval. “Someday, Susie will meet a man, and she’ll forget all her foolishness.”

“Maybe.” Micah refused to get caught up in this conversation, too. Susanne was bossy, independent, and smart as a whip. If she did find a husband, Micah was pretty sure he would have to take her just the way she was. “I’ll write her anyway. I need to thank her for sending that job my way. Turned out real good; the man had more money than Midas. Gave me two-hundred fifty dollars for helping him find his boy.”

Jeb looked impressed. “So what are you going to do now that you’re rich?”

Micah reached into his coat pocket and drew out a small black box. “Can you keep a secret?”

Jeb raised an eyebrow at it skeptically. “Awful small for that saddle you’ve been wanting.”

Micah's face heated. “Well, this is something I want more.”

He opened the box and displayed a thick gold ring set with a garnet the size of his fingernail.

“You wanted a fancy ring?”

“It’s not for me.” Micah took the bauble out of the case. “It’s for Brenna.” He added the last as if his brother didn’t know he was completely taken with the town’s red-headed innkeeper.

“You asked her yet?” Jeb’s eyes shone with anticipation.

“Nope, I’m gonna wait ’til Christmas.” Micah repackaged his treasure and tucked it safely in his pocket again. “It’s not new, and it’s not a diamond. Do you think she’ll like it anyway?”

“I think most women like anything a man gives’em as long as they like the man,” his brother replied sagely. “And the way Brenna McCabe looks at you, I think she likes you plenty.”

“I hope she likes me enough to say yes.” Micah stepped into the small room at the back of the jail that served as his living quarters to gather fresh clothes. “Are you going to be here a while yet? I’d sure like to get down to the bathhouse, then get a shave and—”

“Go to the hotel for a hot dinner,” his brother supplied. “Go on. I’ll come down in an hour or so and eat with you.”

Micah tucked his clean clothes under his arm and started to pull on his gloves but stopped when Jeb cleared his throat and held out his hand with a meaningful look.

“Oh.” Micah thrust his hand deep in his other coat pocket and drew out fifty dollars. Brothers or not, Jeb didn’t work for free, and since Jubilation only paid for a sheriff, any deputy services came out of Micah’s wages.

Jeb snatched it and nodded his head curtly. “Thank you kindly. Now I might even buy you a Christmas present.”

****

Brenna McCabe lifted the last huge soup kettle out of the dishwater. Having the hotel full meant she’d have extra money this month, but it also meant the work never seemed to end.

She heard the swinging door from the dining room creak open, and exasperated, ordered, “I’ll be thanking you to stay out of my kitchen, Jonas Clancy. I told you the dining room’s closed until morning. Now, get out before I take the meat cleaver to your privates.”

“Is that threat for all men who invade your kitchen, or for annoying stage coach drivers in particular?”

At the familiar voice, she spun around. Micah.

She drank in the sight of him as if it had been five years instead of five days since she’d seen him. It seemed she’d nearly forgotten how tall he was, a full head taller than she. What she hadn’t forgotten was his narrow, elegant face with its surprisingly strong angled jaw and the way his eyes twinkled when he smiled at her. Hard, strong muscles in his arms and chest rippled under his newly ironed shirt. He was freshly bathed and shaved, the scent of soap mingling with the aroma of the slow-cooking roast in her oven. His honey-colored hair curled up in damp ringlets at his collar.

Her head realized where her heart was going. Someplace it shouldn’t. Couldn’t.

She’d known it since the day they’d met. That whatever was between them, the attraction, the longing, could never be acted upon. Never. And she was a fool to let it have gone this far. She needed to break it off, but every time she intended to firmly, politely, tell him that she valued his friendship greatly, but regretted they could never be anything more, the words froze in her throat. And so, they’d progressed from days to weeks to years and him none the wiser of how she would break his heart. And her own.

“So you’re back then?” Her voice, carefully modulated so that the lilt of Ireland only barely touched the words, was calm and steady.

“I’m back.” He grinned like a demented raccoon.

“And the trip was worthwhile? What was it you said you were going after?” She bent over the damp soup pot and furiously wiped it with a dish towel so he couldn’t see her face.

“A spoiled rich boy with dreams of becoming a gunslinger.” He leaned over a pot where apples from her root cellar were cooking down to a nice sauce for the piece of pork she would serve for tomorrow’s noon meal.

“And did you find him?” She bent to set the kettle on a low shelf under the butcher block in the center of the room.

“Of course.”

He sounded so smug. Early on, he’d told her of his days with the grand Pinkerton detective agency, his and Jeb’s. And their sister! A woman working doing a man’s job in Chicago. That had drawn her to him at the start, knowing he did not believe women should stay behind the doors of their homes and only venture forth to visit sick friends, attend their garden clubs, or go to services on Sunday morning.

He eyed her questioningly. “Is the kitchen really closed?”

She glanced up at him with a flirty flutter of her eyelashes. “That would depend on why you’re asking.”

“I’m asking because I haven’t had anything to eat but some dry biscuits and jerky for the last day and a half, and I’m hungry as a bear.” He leaned down to steal a kiss.

Her heart raced, and she fought to hide her reaction. She shouldn’t let him kiss her. Not only was it improper, it would only make ending things worse. But she couldn’t find the words to tell him to stop kissing her any more than she could find the words to tell him they could only be friends.

“The dining room’s closed to customers, but not to my personal guests. Would some flapjacks and an egg or two keep you from wasting away before morning?” Even as she spoke, she stoked the fire in the cook stove and moved an iron skillet over the heat, then took four eggs from the basket by the door.

His expression said he wasn’t sure. “It takes a terrible amount of energy to ride for five days, not to mention apprehending dangerous fourteen-year-old fugitives.”

“Well, if that’s the case, I may have a half a ham in the lauder, too. We can’t be having the sheriff too weak to protect the citizens of this good town. Get along with you now, and I’ll have your dinner to you in a shake.” She shooed him toward the dining room.

“Ah,” He paused at the door. “Jeb will be along directly. He knew I was coming here, and I reckon he'll let us have a few minutes alone before he interrupts.”

In reply, she took four more eggs from the basket.

Ten minutes later, she emerged from the kitchen, carrying three plates. Proceeding to the table where the men had settled, she sat plates before the two brothers then sat down herself.

“Didn’t know how hungry I was, then I smelled the ham sizzling.” She swept a napkin across her lap, bowed her head for a brief second then crossed herself before picking up her fork. “I’ve been so busy. Seems like nobody’s where they want to be, and they all have to get where they’re going in time for Christmas mass.”

“It’s getting closer, that’s for sure,” Jeb remarked with a sly look at his brother. “You been makin’ your list for Santie Claus, Brenna?”

“I’m too old to be hoping for things from Mr. Claus.” She dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand. “I haven’t believed in him since before I left Ireland.”

“Come on, Bren,” Micah coaxed, leaning his elbows on the table. “There have to be things you want. Go on, name three.”

She wanted so many things. Her family safe and together. A life that was more than a half-truth, one that had no secrets.

She looked into Micah’s steel-gray eyes. You. See, Sheriff, it’s not the wanting that’s the problem.

“Come on, Brenna, ’fess up.”

“I want—” she started slowly. “I want a fat hen to roast for Christmas dinner, a new handle for my kitchen pump, and a holly wreath for my door.”

“And nothing for yourself?” Micah’s eyebrow quirked up.

“The holly wreath,” she said, feigning wide-eyed innocence. “That would be for me. I named this establishment Holly Hill Inn, and there’s not a sprig of it on the place. Back in Ireland, it’s everywhere and even the poorest of the poor have a holly wreath at Christmas.”

“I’ll fix your pump handle,” Jeb offered. When the scruffier, ganglier version of Micah wasn’t working at being a deputy, he was the town blacksmith. “There’s one thing off your list.”

“And if I get my hen, you and your vagabond brother here can come to share my Christmas dinner.”

Jeb grinned. “And there’s one thing off mine.”

Brenna looked at the big grandfather clock in the hall. Ten-thirty. She’d eaten enough to dull her hunger pangs and wanted to stay in the brothers’ company, but she had to be up before dawn. She rose wearily. “There’s a stage due tomorrow at ten. I’ll barely have time enough to roll tonight’s set of guests out of their beds before tomorrow’s group will want to roll into them. Would you excuse me if I went up?” She saw the flicker of concern in Micah’s face. “It’s been a very long day. You’ll be seeing that the dishes aren’t left on the table and the doors are locked, won’t you, Sheriff?”

After good-nights, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom in the third attic. Tucked under the eaves, the tiny space was as Spartan as a nun’s chamber. A washstand, a slop jar, a narrow iron bed with a frayed coverlet, and plain panels of unbleached muslin covering the windows. The niceties of the lower floors were for the guests.

She fell onto the thin mattress with relief, but even in her exhaustion, sleep would not come. She thought of New York, the good and the bad, young Thomas and little Martha, of life and death and poverty and plenty, of honor and compromises. She thought of Micah with longing and mourned what could never be. Finally, after the grandfather clock tolled one a.m. through the silent inn, she drifted into sleep thinking of fat hens and holly wreaths.