A Very Merry Un-Christmas -- Chapter Three by Alison Henderson

Why didn’t we get together? Really??

Lizzie could have bitten her tongue. In college, Ryan had been one of her close circle of friends. She’d always thought he was cute in a serious, intellectual kind of way, but he’d seemed to view her mainly as a study partner.

His dark eyes crinkled at the corners the way she’d always liked. “I don’t know. Maybe you thought dating would spoil our perfect relationship.”

Something about the look in his eyes gave her a tiny jolt. He sounded like he was teasing, but…

No buts. Just go with teasing.  She gave her hair a Miss Piggy-style toss. “I think you were just afraid to ask me out.”

He didn’t smile. “You could have asked me.”

O-kay. “Point taken.”

He rose from the table and walked to the window to peer out. “It looks like the snow’s let up. As soon as you finish your cider, I’ll show you to the Ethan Allen Suite—it’s our best. Then maybe you’d like a tour of the property. I noticed a camera bag with your luggage. You could take some pictures for your readers, maybe write a story about your unexpected holiday detour.”

Lizzie drained her mug. “That’s a great idea.”

She followed him up to a lovely, bright corner room on the second floor, furnished with antiques. After a quick freshen-up and a call from the room phone to Angela to apologize for having to bail on her invitation, Lizzie headed downstairs, where Ryan waited in the foyer.

“Ready?” He opened the front door and ushered her out.

A few sparkly flakes still drifted from the sky, but enough sunlight glowed through the clouds to send shadows of the bare trees across the smooth, white lawn. When she stepped off the porch, the snow nearly topped her boots.

“Here, take my hand.” He grasped her gloved hand and guided her toward the cluster of red-painted outbuildings behind the house.

“You keep chickens!” she exclaimed, when they approached the wire-covered enclosure attached to the smallest of the buildings.

“Just a few. The guests enjoy the idea of farm-fresh eggs for breakfast.”

“I bet they do. Our readers all seem to want chickens these days. I wrote an article about keeping urban chickens last year.” After snapping several photos, she scribbled a few notes in the small notebook she kept in her pocket.

They peeked into the barn, which he currently used as a garage and machinery shed, then Ryan led her to a classic New England dry-stacked stone wall. “This marks the edge of the property. From here you can see down to the creek and across to the next ridge of mountains.”

Lizzie followed the sweep of his arm. The stunning vista was a far cry from the urban landscape of Brooklyn. Maple trees, stubbornly hanging onto their last brown and orange leaves, blanketed the hills, and a rocky stream gurgled in the hollow. She couldn’t resist a few more photographs.

She sighed, and her breath rose in frosty puffs. “I can see why you left Washington for this. I’ve never been anyplace quite like it. It’s so beautiful and peaceful.”

His grip on her hand tightened. “I have to admit, I don’t miss the traffic or the crowds.”

“Who would?” She drew a deep breath. “I haven’t smelled air like this in forever.”

His lips curved with the beginning of a secret smile before he turned away.

When they got back to the house, Ryan helped her off with her coat and hung it in the hall closet. “I know it’s Christmas Eve, but since neither of us is celebrating this year, how about a pot of chili followed a classic sci-fi movie? I’ve got a great collection.”

Lizzie smiled, grateful that he understood. He always had. “That sounds like a perfect non-Christmas Eve.”

She followed him into the kitchen and perched on a stool while he pulled out a heavy stock pot and assembled the ingredients. “Can I help?”

Ryan’s dark eyes twinkled. “I don’t know. This is my secret recipe.”

She drew a X on her chest. “I solemnly swear I won’t tell a soul.”

He appeared to consider for a moment. “How are you with a knife?”

“I can chop with the best of them.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” He handed her a chef’s knife, a clove of garlic, and a big round onion. “Have at it. The cutting board’s over there.”

An hour later, sitting across from him at the kitchen table, Lizzie’s taste buds were in heaven. “Are you sure you won’t share your recipe? Our readers would love it.”

Speculation gleamed in his dark eyes behind his glasses. “You really like your job, don’t you?”

“I do. I live and work in one of the biggest, busiest cities on Earth, but I get to spend my days looking at lovely photos and writing about the simple joys of country living—the best of both worlds.”

His expression clouded. “I guess that’s one way of looking at it.” He rose and gathered their empty bowls. “You go on into the living room and pick out a movie while I clean up here. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

She thumbed through his DVD collection and selected the 1951 classic The Thing from Another World. When Ryan came in, he gave her a friendly smile but sat at the opposite end of the sofa.

She tried not to be miffed. What did you expect—a cuddlefest? You’re old friends. Period. But it didn’t work. Instead, she spent the rest of the evening chewing on the kernel of an idea that had been growing ever since she’d seen the chicken coop.

The morning dawned bright and sunny. Ryan brushed aside Lizzie’s offer to cook with a firm, “I’m the innkeeper. You’re the guest” and presented her with a plate of fresh-from-the-chicken scrambled eggs and cinnamon French toast. In the spirit of the non-holiday, they both scrupulously avoided any mention of Christmas.

After breakfast, he offered a snowshoe excursion to the creek, which she eagerly accepted. As she took pictures and made more notes, her idea continued to ripen.

The following morning, a persistent ringing from the bell on the front desk interrupted their coffee. Ryan pushed back from the table with a frown. “You stay here. I’ll go see who it is.” He returned a few minutes later and dropped a set of car keys in front of Lizzie. “The rental car company dropped off your new wheels.”

She palmed the keys and stood. “I guess I’d better go upstairs and pack.”

He followed her through the foyer to the staircase. “You’re welcome to stay a few more days. I don’t have any guests booked until after New Year’s.”

An impish internal voice whispered, Go for it, but she shushed it. She’d probably imagined the hopeful tone in his voice. After all, they hadn’t seen each other in ten years. Anything deeper than friendship would take time to develop. “Thanks, but I’d better get back to the city.”

When she came back down with her suitcase, Ryan was waiting where she’d left him. He picked up her bag, walked her out to the car, and opened the door.

She turned and gazed into his unfathomable dark eyes. “Thank you for rescuing me, and thank you for helping me get through my un-Christmas.”

He reached toward her then dropped his arms. “Now that you know where I am, come back anytime.”

“You could always visit me in New York.”

“Between my law practice, guests, and the chickens, it’s hard to get away.”

She sighed and glanced at the gathering clouds. “The Weather Channel says there’s another storm headed this way. I guess I’d better get going.”

“I guess you’d better.”

“Goodbye, Ryan.”

“Lizzie, I…”

She rose on tiptoe and brushed a soft kiss against his cheek. His arms came around her swiftly but released her the second her heels touched the ground. With a wavery smile, she climbed into the car and slowly drove away.

An hour later, she pulled off the highway into a gas station parking lot.

What am I doing?

And suddenly, she knew.

She turned around drove back toward Paxton Falls.

When she pulled up in front of the stately white house, Ryan ran down the steps. She wasn’t conscious of opening the car door, but a split second later, she was in his arms.

“You came back,” he whispered against her hair.

“I missed you.” She’d never realized how much.

“I missed you, too.” His arms tightened and his mouth captured hers is the most amazing first kiss she’d ever experienced—one a decade in the making.

When he eased back, she gazed into his eyes with a tentative smile. “I had an idea.”

He smiled back then swooped down for another quick kiss. “You were always full of ideas.”

“This is a good one. At least, I hope you’ll think so. How would you like a long-term guest?”

“I can think of one long-term guest I’d welcome with open arms.”

“I was thinking I could talk to the Editor-in-Chief about working remotely. Using Maple Creek Farm as an example, I could write a whole series of articles about gardening, canning, cooking, crafts—”

“And don’t forget the chickens.” He nuzzled her neck, almost derailing her train of thought.

“No. I won’t forget the chickens.”

“I think it’s a terrific idea. Let’s go inside and work out the terms of the deal. But I have to warn you, I have a long list of conditions.”

      Her heart sang, and she squeezed his arm. “I can’t wait to hear them.”

A Very Merry Un-Christmas -- Chapter Two by Alison Henderson

Ryan Murray couldn’t believe his eyes. The curly, dark blond hair was the same, although she’d cut it shorter, and she might have gained a few fine lines around her blue eyes, but the high cheek bones and strong chin definitely belonged to Lizzie Carmichael. What was she doing smashed into a tree on a country road in rural Vermont? The last he’d read in their college alumni magazine, she was a rising star on the New York publishing scene.

“Lizzie? What are you doing here? Are you hurt?”

She blinked and refocused. “I’m okay—I think.”

He straightened and scanned the exterior of the small car. The impact had bent both the bumper and the hood. “Can you back up onto the road?”

She shook her head. “The engine won’t start.”

“I’ll call for a tow, but first let’s get you out of the cold.” He reached for her hand.

As she climbed out of the damaged vehicle, Lizzie scrambled to gain her footing in the deep snow. Instinctively, Ryan slid an arm around her waist and held tight. As soon as they reached the flat surface of the road, he released her.

His insides contracted at her quick smile of thanks, and it was all he could do to keep from grinning like a simple-minded baboon.

Lizzie is here.

He didn’t know why or for how long, but it didn’t matter.

Lizzie is here. Nothing else matters.

He loaded her into the front seat of his SUV, turned on the engine, cranked up the heat, and pulled his phone from his pocket. “I’ll call a tow truck then get your luggage.”

She shivered and tightened her hold on her purse. “I was on my way to a B&B called the Maple Creek Farm.”

“I guessed that. I’ve been waiting for my last-minute guest for a couple of hours. When no one showed up, I came looking.”

Her expression changed from numb shock to surprise. “You’re the owner of a B&B in Paxton Falls, Vermont? When we graduated, you were headed to Georgetown Law School. What happened?”

He dropped his gaze to his phone. “We can talk about that after I get you out of the storm and back to the inn.” He placed a quick call to the tow service in town then disconnected. “George will be here in about ten minutes. Will you be all right if we wait?”

“Of course.” She rotated her head in a slow circle. “I’m not hurt. I’m not even cold anymore. I’m mostly upset about the car—it’s a rental. It’s a good thing I let them talk me into taking the extra insurance.”

“I’m sorry this has upset your Christmas plans.”

The animation drained from her face, leaving her expression closed. “It hasn’t. I’m not doing Christmas this year.”

Now, it was Ryan’s turn to be surprised. “I’m not, either. My parents are in Albuquerque, visiting my sister’s new baby. But you? You always loved Christmas.”

She stared out the window at the falling snow. “Not this year.”

“Why?”

“That’s another topic we can save for later.”

Before he could push her further, George arrived with the tow truck. A few minutes later, Ryan had retrieved Lizzie’s luggage and her battered car was on its way to the garage in Paxton Falls. Silence filled the car until he turned into the gravel drive leading to the B&B.

 When the house came into view, Lizzie perked up and leaned forward to get a better view. “Oh, it’s beautiful—like something out of a Currier and Ives print.”

He pulled the SUV to a stop in front of the classic, white-clapboard colonial and parked. “Thanks. It was built in 1771 by a way-back relative who was a member of Ethan Allen’s Green Mountain Boys and helped capture Fort Ticonderoga.”

“Wow. So, it’s a national landmark.”

“More like a local point of interest. My grandparents lived here until four years ago when Grandma died and left it to me.”

“What a wonderful legacy.”

“It came at a good time.”

She faced him with a questioning frown. “You’re being awfully cryptic.”

“No more than you.” He opened the car door and stepped out. “Let’s go inside, and I’ll heat you a mug of the local cider.”

“That sounds terrific.”

While he unloaded her suitcases, Lizzie climbed out, walked up the steps to the covered porch, and waited. Ryan set the luggage down long enough to unlock the front door then ushered her into the foyer.

She swiveled her head, taking in the wide-plank pine floors, colorful wallpaper, and period furnishings. “It’s almost like a museum in here.”

“It’s really not. Grandma wanted to keep the place as authentic-looking as possible for the visitors, but we have all the modern conveniences. It’s pretty comfortable for an almost-two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old building.” He left her bags at the foot of the stairs. “Come into the kitchen, and I’ll fix that cider.”

She followed, unzipping her coat on the way. She draped it over the back of one of the Windsor chairs and took a seat at the big, worn farmhouse table. “I’d better call the rental car company about the accident.”

“Good idea. They should be able to arrange for a replacement vehicle. You can use my phone.”

While she was on the phone, Ryan poured cider from a jug into a pot and put it on the stove. A few minutes later, he handed Lizzie a steaming mug with a cinnamon stick poking out before joining her at the table.

“You were right.” Her smile was apologetic. “They’re going to send another car, but it won’t be here before the twenty-sixth.”

“That’s no problem. You’ve got a suitcase. I’ve got an inn.” He raised his hands in a good-natured shrug.

“I’m sure you had other plans for your un-holiday.”

“Nope.” He watched her take a long sip then set down her cider. “So, do you want to go first?”

Her lips tightened. “It’s been ten years since we’ve seen each other. I don’t know where to start.”

“How about with why you aren’t doing Christmas this year.”

She glanced down and twisted an antique gold ring on her left hand. “It’s hard.”

He placed a hand over hers, stilling its movement. “Then it must be important.”

Her lashes were damp when she met his gaze. “My mom died in March.”

Ryan’s heart contracted. “Aw, Lizzie…” He squeezed her hand. “I’m so sorry.”

She blinked a couple of times and took another sip of cider. “I’ve been doing okay, but it’s Christmas…you know.” She lifted her chin and faced him with a tight smile. “Now, it’s your turn. I can’t wait to hear how you ended up running a B&B in your grandparents’ old house.”

“If you ask my dad, it’s a classic tale of squandered opportunity.” With a glance at her raised brows, he continued. “When I graduated from Georgetown law, I got a job at one of those prestigious Washington firms every law student drools over.  Our clients were mostly politicos and other Beltway bigwigs.”

“That doesn’t sound much like you.”

He grimaced. “I hated every second of it. When Grandma died and left me the inn, I couldn’t wait to leave D.C. Now, I run the inn, practice law part-time, and write.”

Lizzie’s expression brightened, and she leaned forward. “You write? That’s wonderful! You were the best writer in the English department.”

Elbows on the table, she propped her chin on laced fingers. “So, tell me what you write.”

 “Nothing highbrow. Political thrillers, mostly for fun. But I understand you’re a writer, too.”

She nodded and sipped her cider. “Among other things. I’m an editor at Your Country Life magazine. I write articles about food, gardening, crafts—everything you need to live the romantic country lifestyle.” She waved a hand around at his kitchen. “And here you are, out in the country, living the life our readers dream about.”

“I don’t know how romantic it is, but it suits me.”

She hesitated for a long moment, staring into her mug, then raised her gaze to meet his. “Do you have anyone special in your life right now?”

His breath stilled in his chest. “No. You?”

      “No…Ryan, why didn’t we ever get together?”

A Very Merry Un-Christmas -- Chapter One by Alison Henderson

She peered through the snow-spattered windshield at the neon sign and hoped like hell there was room at the inn. She wasn’t likely to get much further until this storm let up.

Lizzie Carmichael eased her foot off the gas pedal of the small rental car as she rolled down the exit from Vermont Route 30 and into the parking lot of the Green Mountain Motel. It didn’t look promising. The single-story roadside structure didn’t appear to have been updated at any point during the past fifty years, but every parking space was full, even though it was only early afternoon.

She pulled to a stop in front of the covered entrance and turned off the engine. Grateful for her faux fur-lined boots and long, down-filled coat, she braced herself against the wind as she locked the car and struggled toward the double glass doors. As soon as she dragged one open, a strong gust shoved her inside.

The lobby was small, with dark-stained pine paneling and flat turquoise carpet, worn through in some spots and unraveling in others. However, the middle-aged woman behind the desk greeted Lizzie with a friendly smile. “Do you have a reservation?”

“No, I’m sorry. I was on my way to meet friends in Sugarbush for a few days, and the storm caught me by surprise.”

The woman nodded. “Happened to a lot of folks. The worst of it wasn’t due until tonight.”

Lizzie crossed her fingers inside her knit driving gloves. “I don’t suppose you have any extra rooms.”

“I’m sorry, but we were full even before the storm. It is Christmas Eve, you know.”

She tried to tamp down her rising panic. Agreeing to drive from Brooklyn to the mountains of Vermont to join her friend Angela and her family for a skiing holiday just to avoid having to face Christmas this year might not have been the smartest decision. “I know, but I’m afraid my car won’t make it in this weather. Are there any other motels in the area?”

“Sure, but my guess is they’re full, too. It’s been a good year for winter visitors—lots of snow, you know.”

Lizzie nodded miserably. What was she going to do? She didn’t relish the idea of spending the night camped out in the car in the motel’s parking lot.

The desk clerk pursed her lips, tapped her pen against the big green reservation book, then picked up the phone. “Let me make a few calls and see if I can find anything for you.”

Lizzie leaned against the counter, resting an elbow on the smooth, well-worn Formica top, and listened to the woman make one fruitless call after another. Maybe she should just park herself in the lobby until the worst of the storm passed then drive back to the city. Then the image of her lonely, undecorated apartment flashed into her mind, pushing her spirits even lower. Mom had always filled it with leftovers from her exuberant holiday preparations—a few extra yards of evergreen garland here, the nutcracker collection she no longer had room for there, platters of “extra” Christmas cookies. But not this year.

“You’re in luck!”

Lizzie raised her gaze to meet the desk clerk’s cheerful smile.

“The Maple Creek Farm Bed and Breakfast is normally closed for the holidays, but under the circumstances, the owner is willing to make an exception for you.”

The pressure in her chest eased a bit. “That’s great. Is it close?”

“About five miles up Route 30. You take the exit for Paxton Falls, and the farm is three miles down the main road, on your right. They put up a pretty new sign a couple of years ago—you can’t miss it.”

Even in this storm she should be able to make it five miles if she drove carefully. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.” Lizzie turned and headed for the door.

“You’re welcome, and have a merry Christmas,” the woman called after her.

A Merry Christmas. As if.

Thank goodness for the slab of roof that sheltered the entrance. The snow was coming down harder now, and the wind buffeted her as she pushed the glass door open and raced to her car. She backed out cautiously, although there were no other signs of life in the parking lot. Snow squeaked and crunched under her tires as she drove slowly toward the highway on-ramp. There must be at least six inches of the stuff on the ground already.

Visibility was poor and there was no sign of a plow, so the traffic moved along at a slow crawl. Lizzie kept one eye on the odometer, one eye on the road signs—she didn’t want to miss her turn—and one eye on her fellow motorists. No, wait, that made three eyes. Oh, well, whatever. The short drive quickly became an exhausting ordeal.

She released a short huff of relief when a white-encrusted green sign that read Paxton Falls appeared. Tapping the brakes lightly, she eased off the highway onto a country road. Trees lined both sides almost to the edge of the pavement, and there wasn’t a building in sight. The motel clerk had said the B&B was about three miles ahead.

Lizzie dropped her gaze to the odometer. When she glanced back up, she let out a shriek. A huge moose stood in the center of the road, staring at her, unconcerned. She braced her arms against the steering wheel, and mashed her foot into the brake pedal as hard as she could. The car skidded off the road and slid nose-first into a tree. Fortunately, she hadn’t been going fast enough to trigger the airbag. As she sat stunned, the moose ambled over and peered at her through the window before disappearing into the woods.

What should I do now? She shook her head to clear the brain fog.

The car had gone off the road at an angle and was tilting downward and to the right. The first order of business was to see if it was drivable. She shifted into Neutral and gave the engine a little gas. Nothing. She tried again. Still nothing.

Incipient tears clogged her throat. Could this holiday get any worse? Now, she’d broken the rental car and would have to call a tow truck.

Unbuckling her seatbelt, she leaned over the center console to snag her purse from the floor of the passenger seat, only to find it squashed under the box of grapefruit she’d picked up at Ferrini’s Market as a hostess gift for Angela. Lizzie tugged and maneuvered until she finally extracted her bag, but when she pulled out her phone, she discovered the heavy box had smashed the screen.

It might still work, right?

She held her breath and pushed the button. No friendly little glowing icons appeared. Instead, the cracked black screen seemed to mock her. It looked like she wouldn’t be calling for help after all. She should probably get out and try to flag down a passing car.

There were just two problems: the car door was jammed shut—probably from the impact—and the road was completely deserted. She could only hope someone would drive by soon and spot the wreck.

Shoving up the sleeve of her coat, she glanced at her watch. It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and this appeared to be the only road into Paxton Falls. Somebody was bound to come by soon…weren’t they?

She sagged back against the seat and tried to find a reasonably comfortable position for what she hoped would be a short wait. After several minutes of fidgeting, she checked her watch again. The cold was beginning to penetrate her boots and coat, and she wished she hadn’t put her knit ski cap in her suitcase in the trunk.

Come on. Somebody. Anybody.

But the snow continued to fall, and the road remained eerily silent. Anxiety gnawed at her stomach. Another hour or two and she and the car would disappear until the spring thaw.

She was drowning in a mire of self-defeating speculation when the door beside her jerked open and she found herself staring into a familiar pair of brown eyes framed by tortoiseshell glasses. The fur-rimmed hood of his olive-green parka had fallen back, revealing wavy dark hair and a lean, square jaw.

      Her heart skipped a beat. It couldn’t be. “Ryan?”

Christmas at Sinners Part 3 of 3 by Rolynn Anderson

Christmas at Sinners Part 3 by Rolynn Anderson

Sable cocked her fist at Mitch's suggestion about the bed, but decided to treat his comment as a joke. She could use some back-up to collar two criminals, and this guy had the build of a wrestler. His blurt about the sister's medical bills gave her pause, but his strategy for vetting the guys in the bar made sense. What she didn't understand was the sadness she saw in his eyes when she smiled at him and the distance he kept between them.

Mitch’s eyebrows were up, waiting for her answer.

A throat clear. “We’ll try your way, Mitch. Don’t know if you can detect an eye-twitch from your position, but maybe you can watch for other tells.”

Mitch nodded. 

“I want you to come over and put your arm around me to show the guys I tried to worm a room out of you, regretful you didn't have one to give.”

“O...okay.” He rose from his stool and gave her a quick side hug before he moved away. His expression was wistful when he said, “I like you Sable Chisholm and you smell good. Don’t forget to smile. Big. They’ll do anything for you when you smile.”

Sable surveyed the bar, wondering where to start. Something about the guy smack in the middle, head down like he was drunk, but neck held too stiffly to signal inebriation, drew her. Another man, black hair and mustache, staring into space, sat at the same table. The vast distance between them clarified they weren’t mates.

She graced them with a small smile. “Gentlemen, may I sit for a moment?”

The pretend-drunk shot her a side look, his alertness no surprise. He was a broad-shouldered fellow, square-jawed, dark brown eyebrow shooting up to his short brown hair. A good haircut. Jeans and a jeans jacket. Shirt looked tailored. Did his eye just twitch? Was he medium height? She couldn’t tell.

The mustached guy said “Take a load off,” so she stuck out her hand. “Thanks,” she said, sitting. “Sable. I won’t take much of your time. Promise.” Sable worked on a grin until their eyes focused on her. "Names?"

“Burke,” said the not-drunk guy.

“Ken.” The mustached guy squirmed in his seat. 

“Tough we have to spend Christmas Eve here when we should be with our families." 

Ken stroked the hair under his lip. "We’re stuck, for sure. Buy you a drink, ma’am?” The man dipped into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. “Name your poison.”

When she waived off the offer, Ken said, “Snow’s stopped. Storm’s over.”

“How did you learn that? The internet’s down.”

He shrugged.

“But they’re out of rooms.” Sable said plaintively. “Are you guys going to sleep in this bar tonight?”

Burke scoffed. “Not me. I bought a room off that guy over there." He pointed to the far left of the bar. "And I’m about to crash. You looking for a sleeping partner tonight, ma’am? Why don’t I buy a bottle of champagne and we can retire to my place.” He lifted his eyebrows suggestively.

Sable ignored his offer. “I heard the road’s closed at Rainier because of snow. Customers are stranded up there.”

“Hell of a bad stretch. Those folks at Rainier won’t get out of there for days.” Burke smiled as he fingered a hundred dollar bill. “Now about that bottle of champagne?”

She waved away his offer a second time and zeroed in on Ken. “Do you have a room I could buy from you, sir? You look like you’d prefer to spend the night out here, anyway.”

Ken shook his head. “No room at Sinners for me.”

Frowning, Sable stared at Ken’s finger, the one he used to rub his forehead. She stood and walked over to the man. “Sir, you’ve cut yourself on your cheek. Right here.” She swiped her thumb on the place. With a quick pivot, she turned to Mitch, and hidden from the Ken’s view, she showed her finger.

Mitch jumped off the bar stool and approached the table. “Am I hearing a ‘ho, ho, ho’ from over here, Miss Sable? Did you find a room?”

“Better. I’ve got a 10-32.” Burke looked confused. Mitch’s smile disappeared. Ken stood abruptly and stared at Sable. 

She walked behind Burke, put her hands on his shoulder, and bent her head close to his. “Looks like you’re about to gift me with your bed for the night.”

The man leaned back to take advantage of her caress. In the next second, he jerked up and yelled, “What the hell?”

Sable held the gun she’d taken from Burke’s belt, dangling it by one finger to save fingerprints, and setting it on the floor well away from the table. She flipped a nylon tie out of her pocket and had him cuffed before he could stand. The pressure she applied to the back of his neck immobilized him. He groaned in pain.

"Witnesses at Mt. Rainier ID'd the gun you waved, 'Burke.' Extruded green plastic. Homemade." She Mirandized him.

“Mitch, come over here, will you?”

With a puzzled look, he approached Sable.

“Closer."

He complied, reluctantly.

"You’re bleeding on your nose, my friend.” She reached out and swooped her thumb over the spot and examined her finger. Sable turned to Ken and asked, “You on the job?”

The man’s shocked expression was almost comical. She smiled. “See this finger. Make-up. Got cuffs?”

Ken nodded slowly.

Sable gestured to Mitch. “He’s your man. In disguise.” She raised an eyebrow at the imposter. “Mitch, bounty hunters memorize cop codes. You didn’t know what a 10-13 was. Weather. A 10-32 means person with a gun.” She tsked. “Maybe you don’t care a 10-24 means ‘assignment completed.’ God we love our 10-24’s.”

She watched as Ken finished cuffing Mitch. “Your second mistake was giving me the make-up and disguise idea.” Another tsk. “Using me to find you a tow or a place to hide until morning, wasn't the smartest, either.”

Mitch stayed quiet, head down.

When she surveyed the bar, few customers seemed interested in the arrests. Too many troubles of their own. She winked at Ken, all six foot five feet of him. Definitely not drunk. Definitely interesting. “We’ve got a room, partner. Mr. Mustache shelled out big bucks to procure one for our benefit. I’ll report in, and we’ll take these bastards to the room, tie them up tightly and get some sleep. We’re about to make the local cops and Rainier’s rangers very happy because they can go home to enjoy Christmas Eve.”

Ken glanced at Burke, then at Mitch. “I thought the mustached guy was my man.”

“Nope. He bought a room from a guy in the bar, which seemed like the action of someone newly wealthy. Plus, my smile dazzled him and he straightened up in the chair. At my refusal to go to bed with him, he slumped over and I saw his jacket catch on his gun.”

Spike lumbered over to their table with a key card and a Buddha smile. “Chisholm, I watched you in action and I have to admit I’ve never seen a smoother operation, with not one bit of damage done to my bar. Here’s the key to his room. I’m having two steak dinners and a bottle of wine delivered. I know a professional when I see her.”

As the big guy spoke to the bartender, Sable cast a sympathetic look toward Mitch. “In the spirit of Christmas, I'll mention in my report you surrendered peacefully.”

She put more of her weight on the back of her collar and spoke to Ken. “So we’ve opened two big gifts this Christmas Eve. I've risen a notch or two in the eyes of my colleagues; you’ve earned a bounty.”

“Add dinner and wine and a bed,” said Ken, looking hopeful.

“You realize we’ll have to spell each other all night so these two don’t rabbit on us.”

Ken clicked his tongue. “It’s not perfect, this Christmas Eve at Sinners. A ranger and a bounty hunter, spending the night with two thugs.”

“Unless…” Sable said.

“Unless what?”

Sable smiled big at Spike. He rolled his eyes and stalked to the front room, returning with the goofy tree. When he handed it to Sable, she thanked him.

To the room of men, now alert and watching her, she raised the blinking tree. “Merry Christmas, everyone.”

Thanks for reading my story. Sable Chisholm is the main character of my mystery series, kicked off with FIRE IS NICE, now in pre-order. Save a dollar on this e-book until its release Dec. 4. 

Amazon: http://a.co/d/iOgLJuw

Smashwords : https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/902286

Tomorrow, enjoy Alison Henderson's short story: "A Very Un-Merry Christmas"