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About the
Author
Sheila
Roberts lives on a lake in the Pacific Northwest. She’s happily
married and has three children. She’s been writing since 1989, but
she did lots of things before settling in to her writing career,
including owning a singing telegram company and playing in a band.
Her band days are over, but she still enjoys writing songs. Sheila's
books are best sellers and often appear as Reader's Digest Condensed
Books. Her novel "Angel Lane" was named one of Amazon's top
ten romances in 2009. Her novel "On Strike for Christmas"
was a Lifetime Network movie and her novel "The Nine Lives of
Christmas" is now a Hallmark movie, scheduled to air November
8th.
When she’s not speaking to women’s groups or at
conferences or hanging out with her girlfriends she can be found
writing about those things near and dear to women’s hearts: family,
friends, and chocolate.
“Here’s
an accident waiting to happen,” Tilda Morrison said grimly. Just
what nobody wanted on the day before Thanksgiving.
“Not
if we get to her in time,” said her partner, Jamal Lincoln.
“Why
us?” Tilda grumbled to Cherie, the dispatcher. “This is a job for
animal control.”
“Chief
said you’d say that,” Cherie told her. “He also said to tell
you that today it’s a job for you and to bring a rope and get to
work before somebody ends up hurt.”
“I
don’t believe this,” Tilda muttered as Jamal turned on the
look-out-here-come-the-cops lights and shot their patrol car out of
town toward the highway.
“We’re
in Icicle Falls. Believe it,” Jamal said. “You still got that
rope in the trunk?”
“Yes.
It’s there from the last time.” Tilda frowned. “You know, this
really isn’t the job of the Icicle Falls Police Force. I don’t
care if Stumpy Hodgkins is best buds with the chief.”
“You
gonna tell that to the chief?”
“Yeah,
I am. As soon as we get back to the station.”
Jamal
grinned. “That’s what I love about you, partner. You’re
fearless. You should’ve been a man. I swear you’ve got more balls
than most guys.” “Thanks. I think.”
Tilda
knew she was a tough cookie, and she liked being tough. She liked
being a modern woman, able to stand up for herself and hold her own
against any man. But she also had a feminine side and, secretly, she
fantasized about some man tougher than her, pushing her up against a
wall and having at it.
She’d
thought she’d found that man, but it hadn’t worked out. He’d
never bothered to look beneath her tough exterior and check out her
sweet, soft side. Instead, he’d fallen for the kind of woman Tilda
thought of as a cream puff. Maybe that was what all men really
wanted, someone as sweet as honey and as elastic and bendable as warm
taffy. Tilda wasn’t a bending kind of woman. Sadly, there were very
few men who appreciated that.
Jamal
did, but he was her partner. Then there was Devon Black, town bad
boy, the king of speeding tickets and barroom brawls, who thought he
was God’s gift to women. In fact, he thought he was God’s gift to
her.
Christmas might have been just a month away, but she had no intention
of unwrapping Devon Black.
She
frowned, thinking of their last encounter. “What the hell?” he’d
said angrily when she’d pulled him over a week ago for a broken
taillight. “I wasn’t speeding.”
“No,
you have a taillight out.”
Instead
of showing some respect and thanking her for letting him know, he’d
flashed her a cocky grin and said, “You’re looking for excuses to
see me.” As if she had nothing better to do that chase after wolves
dressed in blue jeans.
If
I wanted to see you, I could just wait till the next bar fight,”
she retorted. It was how she’d met him when he moved to town.
Trouble followed Devon around like a lost puppy. “Now, do you want
me to let you off with a warning or do you want to keep flapping that
big mouth of yours and up the ante?”
That
had shut him up—until she gave him his warning and turned to leave.
“I’m working the bar at The Man Cave. Come on by after you get
off work and I’ll give you a beer on the house.” As if he owned
the place. It was his brother’s. He just filled in on weekends.
“In
your dreams,” she’d called back over her shoulder.
“And
yours, too, I’ll bet. I can show you some new uses for those
handcuffs.”
“Oh,
there’s an original line,” she’d muttered. Fifty Shades of
Devon Black. No way, even if he was ridiculously gorgeous.
So was a hot-fudge sundae, but look what it did to your butt.
“There’s
Stumpy,” Jamal said, bringing her back to the present.
Sure
enough, the short, old guy was hobbling as fast as he could down the
side of the snowbanked road in his jeans and cowboy boots and leather
bomber jacket, his hunting cap mashed down over his ears, a lasso
dangling from his right hand and Daisy’s halter from his left. And
there, half a mile farther up the road, trotted his horse, the escape
artist. Loose again. Not a good thing, considering the fact that the
old paint was deaf.
“You
can turn off the lights now,” Tilda said, and Jamal obliged.
They
pulled up beside Stumpy and Tilda lowered the window. “Stumpy, this
is the third time this month she’s gotten loose.”
“I
know, and I’m sorry. Daisy!” he hollered at the horse. “Dang it
all, come back.”
Sometimes
Tilda wondered how deaf Daisy really was. Either she was faking it or
she was psychic because the darned beast tossed her head as though
she was saying, “No way.” Then she started across the road. Oh,
great.
An
SUV came over the rise and Tilda sucked in her breath. The car
skidded to a halt and waited while Daisy stood in the middle of the
road, trying to decide what to do. The driver soon tired of waiting
and honked. The noise didn’t faze Daisy. She stood there, watching
Tilda, Jamal and Stumpy as if wondering what they were doing out here
on a cold winter afternoon.
Then she strolled back to her own side of the road and continued her
journey, probably looking for some other horses to spend Thanksgiving
with.
“Give
me the rope and get in,” Tilda commanded. With Stumpy safe inside
and the rope in hand, they set off in hot pursuit. Well, semihot, not
wanting to end up hitting the animal.
“I’d’a
gotten her,” Stumpy insisted from the backseat. “I don’t know
why Mildred keeps calling you guys.”
“Because
she’s seen the way you drive,” Tilda said. They were lucky that
Stumpy hadn’t taken the horse trailer. The week before, he’d
attempted to rope Daisy from behind the wheel, skidding into Dan
Masters’s truck and effectively blocking traffic for a good forty
minutes while they sorted things out. Daisy, naturally, had gotten
away and wound up at the llama farm.
They’d
almost reached the horse. “Stop here,” Tilda told Jamal. “We
don’t want to spook her.”
“Everything
spooks her,” Stumpy grumbled.
The
natural retort would be, “Then why do you keep the dumb critter?”
But Tilda didn’t say it. She knew why. Daisy had been their
granddaughter Willow’s horse. Willow had died two years earlier
from a brain tumor. Stumpy could no more get rid of the horse than he
could throw out the pictures of their only granddaughter that filled
their living room.
Tilda
got out of the car and shut the door as Daisy moved down the road a
few paces.
“Go
get ’er, cowgirl,” Jamal teased.
“Ha,
ha,” Tilda muttered. Jamal was the size of Texas and could take
down three men single-handed, but he was a city boy and no use
whatsoever in capturing a deaf horse.
Tilda
moved away from the patrol car. Daisy, sensing pursuit, trotted a few
more feet, then stopped and looked around. Neener,
neener, neener. You can’t catch me.
Oh,
yes, I can. You may be big but you’ve got a brain the size of an
onion. Tilda squatted next to the
freshly piled snow on the side of the road and waited. She’d done
her share of ropin’ and ridin’. Gone to horse camp at the nearby
guest ranch all through high school. She was not going to be
outsmarted by a horse.
Daisy
tossed her mane and then, to show that she wasn’t even remotely
worried about Tilda and her rope, decided to enjoy a little roadside
snack, pulling up a mouthful of snow-tipped grass.
Tilda
slowly stood and sneaked forward a few feet. Daisy raised her head
and Tilda froze. This was like playing Red Light, Green Light when
she was a kid. Daisy went back for seconds. Okay, green light. Tilda
moved forward again.
Daisy
lifted her head and checked to see where Tilda was.
Frozen
in place, of course.
The
next time the horse went for some grass Tilda moved in, and this time
when Daisy lifted her head Tilda swung the rope and…missed.
Daisy
shied away and trotted off down the road and Tilda swore.
“You
rope about as good as you shoot,” Jamal called from the patrol car.
Tilda
gave him the finger and started the whole process again. Horses were
such foodies. Tilda could have lured over any other equine simply by
shaking a can of oats. Was there such a thing as horse hearing aids?
If so, it would sure make catching Daisy a lot easier.
It
took two more tries before she got the rope around Daisy’s neck,
although the third try wasn’t exactly the charm. Daisy neighed and
pulled away, and even though Tilda had planted her feet, the horse
still managed to yank her over into the snow. “Oh, no, you don’t,”
Tilda growled, struggling back to her feet. “Bring the halter,”
she yelled.
Stumpy
climbed out, holding it. “We got her now,” he said gleefully.
Finally
Daisy was haltered and rewarded for cooperating with the police with
a pat on the neck. “You’d better stop this escape-artist stuff or
we’re gonna ship you off to become dog food,” Tilda threatened.
Daisy
just tossed her head yet again. She knew Tilda was all talk and no
action.
Tilda
was equally stern with Stumpy. “You make sure your fence is well
mended and you keep that barn door shut,” she told him as she
handed over the escapee. “We can’t keep coming out to help you
catch her.” She felt bad about being mean to the old guy. He was in
his seventies and had arthritis in both hips, and maintaining the
house and barn on their five-acre spread was getting to be too much
for him. His wife was ready to downsize. Maybe being in trouble with
the cops would motivate Stumpy to find a home for Daisy and move
someplace smaller.
Stumpy
hung his head. “I know, Tilda. You guys have better things to do.”
“In
Icicle Falls?” Jamal cracked as they drove off, leaving Stumpy and
Daisy to make their own way home. “Right.”
“Hey,
you want action? Go to New York or LA,” Tilda said, and turned up
the heat. They’d have to swing by her place so she could get some
dry pants.
“No,
thanks,” he said with a grin. “No horses to chase in LA. Anyway,
I’d probably get stuck riding with some clown who farts all the
time. Besides, where am I gonna find a lady cop as cool as you?”
That
made her smile. “If you’re trying to flatter me…”
He
snorted. “Like that would get me anywhere.” He shook his head.
“It sucks when the best woman in town also happens to be your
partner.”
“Okay,
now it’s getting really thick in here.” She had a pretty good
face and her body was in mint condition but, sadly, there were too
many good-looking women and not enough men in this town. She glanced
out the window at the snowy firs and pines.
“Sometimes I think I
should’ve moved to Seattle.” Except that Icicle Falls was her
home and her roots ran too deep. Hmm. Maybe she was root-bound.
Jamal
grunted. “You should’ve thought of that before you bought a
house. Hey, we still on for Saturday?”
“Yep.
When are you coming back from your mom’s?”
“Good.
You can help me finish packing.”
“You
know, some of us have to fill in for you and work that day. Who takes
vacation on Thanksgiving weekend, anyway?”
Somebody
who had a lot of vacation days piled up and more seniority than half
the guys on the force. Tilda grinned at him and played the world’s
smallest violin on her fingers.
“All
I gotta say is you better feed me.”
“`Cause
you’re a growing boy?”
“Order
something from the deli. I don’t wanna get poisoned,” he joked.
“Where’d you not learn to cook?”
“Come
on, your mom owns Pancake Haus. She can’t be that bad a cook.”
“She
hires people to do stuff in the kitchen, you dope.” Tilda sighed.
“The turkey will probably be dry and we’ll have stuffing out of a
box. But I like stuffing out of a box. And Mom’s great with pickles
and olives. And at least Aunt Joyce and the cousins will be bringing
the candied yams and casseroles.”
“What
do you mean ‘from’?”
“I
know you ain’t bakin’ it.”
Busted.
Tilda shrugged. “Gingerbread Haus.”
“Yep,
you’re gonna make some lucky guy a great husband someday.”
He
shook his head. “Somehow, I just can’t picture you in a house.”
“What
I should be living in, a yurt?”
“More
like an army barracks.”
“I
do have a feminine side, you know.”
She
did, and she could hardly wait to get everything all squared away in
her new house on Candy Cane Lane. She’d have dried flowers on the
dining table and she was going to give that quilted wall hanging her
cousin Georgie had made for her a place of honor on the living room
wall. The house had three bedrooms, two baths, a big living room with
a fireplace and a den, which she was going to turn into a kick-ass
party room where her pals from the force could come over and play
Call of Duty
and World of Warcraft. The kitchen
was bigger than the one she’d had in her condo. Once she put in new
flooring, it would be great. Lots of room to…heat frozen dinners.
Or make cookies. She made a mean chocolate chip cookie. Maybe, with
her fancy new kitchen, she’d graduate to cake or pie or something.
Expanding
her cooking skills would have to wait, though. The house needed some
serious work. It had been a bank repo and the previous owners had
done a fair amount of damage. Walls would have to be repainted,
gutters replaced and, of course, the kitchen set to rights. And she’d
have to replace the carpeting, which was badly stained and a little
on the smelly side. Well, okay, a lot. She hoped she could afford to
give herself new carpeting for Christmas, at least in the living room
and den.
“I
don’t know, Tillie girl,” her mom had said when they’d first
gone to see the place.
“Sure looks like a lot of work. You really
want to mess with that?”
“Yes,”
Tilda had replied. “It’s in a great neighborhood. It’ll be a
good investment.”
“It’ll
be a pain in the patootie,” Mom had corrected her.
Yeah,
but it would be her
pain in the patootie and she was
ready for it. For the past five years she’d been envisioning
herself in a house with a great guy and a couple of kids and a big,
friendly dog. The guy thing hadn’t happened and she’d decided
there was no point in waiting around. She was going to get her house
and the dog, too. Heck, maybe even a kid. These days you didn’t
need a man to have kids. These days, it seemed you didn’t need a
man for much of anything.
Tilda
wanted one, anyway. There were still some things nobody did better
than men, and she was darned tired of being the only one who ever saw
the lacy bras and matching thongs she wore under her uniform.
A
man with a handsome, swarthy face and an admirable set of pecs
suddenly appeared at the back of her mind. Oh, no. Devon Black was
not in the running for that cozy life with the house, the kids and
the dog. Devon Black did not
deserve to see her in her bra and panties. Or out of them.
Someday
she’d find the right man. New people moved to Icicle Falls all the
time. Maybe Santa would bring her the perfect man for Christmas next
year. This year it was a house. And that was enough to ask for. After
all, there was only so much the jolly, old guy in red could fit in
his sack...
