Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
TOM
The station is quiet when I finally finish the last of my paperwork.
Night shift has taken over, leaving me with blessed silence after a day of holiday related nonsense.
Three separate disputes over Christmas light brightness levels.
A fender bender in the grocery store parking lot because someone was distracted by an inflatable Santa.
The high school principal complaining about students stealing decorations for some elaborate senior prank.
I rub my eyes, feeling every one of my forty four years. Christmas brings out the worst in people, despite all the songs about peace and goodwill.
"Heading out, Sheriff?" Deputy Martinez asks, looking up from the dispatch desk.
"Yeah. Call if anything serious happens." I grab my jacket, already planning the silence of my empty house. Maybe a beer. ESPN on low volume.
"Will do. Say hi to Miss Mason for me."
I pause, my hand on the door. "What?"
"Miss Mason. Your houseguest." Martinez looks confused by my reaction. "My wife saw you two walking into town earlier. Said you looked comfortable together."
Great. Town gossip is already connecting us. Four days of cohabitation and suddenly we're the hot topic at the grocery checkout line.
"Miss Mason is just staying until the cabin heater gets fixed," I remind him, keeping my tone professional.
"Of course." Martinez nods, but there's a knowing glint in his eyes that makes me want to assign him to traffic duty for a month.
Outside, snow has started falling again, fat flakes drifting lazily in the glow of street lamps.
The temperature has dropped considerably since this afternoon.
I hope Kelsie found her way back to the house alright.
She didn't seem prepared for mountain weather with those impractical city boots and thin jacket.
The thought of her walking alone in this weather speeds my steps. Ridiculous, really. She's a grown woman, perfectly capable of managing a quarter mile walk from town. Yet I feel responsible for her safety, a feeling that goes beyond professional duty.
When I get back to the house, I'm surprised to find lights blazing from every window. Normally I leave just the porch light on. The house looks different somehow. Warmer. Alive.
The smell hits me the moment I open the door. Something rich and garlicky that makes my stomach growl in protest of the coffee and vending machine snack that constituted my dinner. Music plays softly from the kitchen, something jazzy and unfamiliar.
I hang my jacket and move toward the sounds and smells. The scene I find stops me in my tracks.
Kelsie stands at the stove, back to me, stirring something that smells incredible.
She's changed into soft looking leggings and an oversized sweater that slips off one shoulder, revealing smooth skin and the thin strap of whatever she's wearing underneath.
Her hair is twisted up in a messy knot, exposing the delicate curve of her neck.
She's singing along to the contemporary Christmas music, completely off key but with infectious enthusiasm, her hips swaying slightly with the rhythm. The casual domesticity of the moment creates a strange tightness in my chest.
How long has it been since anyone cooked in my kitchen? Since music filled these rooms? Since the house felt like something other than a place to sleep between shifts?
Sixteen years. Since Caroline.
I must make some sound because Kelsie turns suddenly, wooden spoon in hand, expression brightening when she sees me.
"You're home!" She smiles like my arrival is the highlight of her day. "Dinner's almost ready. I hope you don't mind. I figured you might be hungry after working late."
"You didn't have to cook," I say, moving further into the kitchen.
"I wanted to. Consider it rent for the guest room." She turns back to the stove. "It's just pasta with garlic and vegetables. Nothing fancy."
"Smells good." I hover awkwardly, unsure of my place in this scenario. "Can I help with anything?"
"Plates?” She glances over her shoulder, glasses sliding down her nose in a way that's becoming increasingly familiar. Increasingly distracting.
I move to get the plates, hyperaware of her presence as I pass behind her. She smells like vanilla and something spicy. The combination is unexpectedly appealing.
"How was your afternoon?" I ask, setting the table. "Find what you needed for your research?"
"Whisper Vale is a goldmine of small town charm.
" Her enthusiasm is evident as she carries the pasta to the table.
"Everyone was so friendly. Mrs. Henderson at the bookstore insisted I take tea with her while she told me all about the town's history.
Did you know this place was founded by silver miners who supposedly followed a whisper in the mountain wind to find the original vein? "
"Hence the name," I confirm, sitting across from her. "The story gets more elaborate every time it's told. When I was a kid, it was just prospectors following basic geological signs."
"Don't ruin the magic with facts, Sheriff." She serves pasta onto my plate, the gesture casual yet strangely intimate. "Stories are what give places their character."
"Even if they're not entirely true?"
"Especially then." She sits, tucking one leg beneath her in a way that seems both childlike and graceful. "Truth is overrated in storytelling. It's the feeling that matters."
I take a bite of the pasta. The flavors are perfectly balanced, the pasta cooked exactly right. Nothing like the frozen meals I usually eat standing over the sink.
"This is really good," I tell her, surprised by how much I mean it. "You didn't have to go to the trouble."
"Cooking relaxes me." She twirls pasta around her fork. "Especially when I'm working through plot problems. Something about the repetitive actions frees my mind to solve the creative puzzles."
"And did you solve the one you were having?"
Her eyes meet mine, something warm and pleased in their depths. "You remembered I was stuck on a plot point."
"You mentioned it earlier." I shrug, uncomfortable with her apparent delight at such a small gesture.
"Most people tune out when I start talking about my writing process." She takes a sip of water. "But yes, I think I figured out why my protagonist was being so stubborn. She's afraid of being vulnerable again after being hurt. Easier to keep everyone at a distance than risk another heartbreak."
The character description hits uncomfortably close to home. I focus on my food, avoiding her perceptive gaze.
"Your daughter was a font of information today," she continues, allowing me the momentary retreat. "Called me after she left to tell me all about local holiday traditions I should include in my book."
"Savannah loves Christmas," I say carefully. "Always has."
"She mentioned the tree lighting tomorrow night again." Kelsie watches me over her glasses. "Why don’t you ever attend?"
I set down my fork, appetite suddenly diminished. "I work. Someone has to keep the peace while everyone else celebrates."
"Every year?"
"It's more efficient. Deputies with families get the night off."
"And what about your family?" Her question is gentle but direct. "Doesn't Savannah wish you were there?"
"She understood a long time ago that holidays and I don't mix well." I meet her eyes, daring her to push further. "She has Colt now. They're building their own traditions."
Kelsie studies me, her expression thoughtful rather than judgmental. "It's hard when dates on a calendar carry so much weight, isn't it? When a perfectly ordinary day becomes a minefield of memories and expectations just because of its place in December."
Her insight catches me by surprise. "Speaking from experience?"
"My parents viewed holidays as inconvenient obligations. Something to endure rather than enjoy." She shrugs one shoulder, the sweater slipping further to reveal more skin. I force my eyes away. "Christmas was just another day with extra pressure and inevitable disappointment."
"And now?" I’m genuinely curious.
"Now I'm trying to figure out what I actually enjoy rather than what I was conditioned to expect." Her smile is small but genuine. "Though I have to admit, the idea of a small town tree lighting ceremony with hot chocolate and caroling does sound pretty magical."
The hope in her voice creates an unexpected pang of guilt. She's excited about experiencing a small town Christmas, and here I am, the perpetual holiday grinch.
"You'll enjoy it," I tell her. "Whisper Vale does Christmas well. The whole town participates."
"Except its sheriff." Her observation carries no judgment, just quiet understanding.
"Some traditions are better observed from a distance."
She nods, accepting my boundary without pushing. The conversation shifts to safer topics as we finish eating. She tells me more about her explorations around town, the characters she's developing for her book, the way the mountain setting inspires her creativity.
I relax, drawn into her animated descriptions and genuine interest when I occasionally share insights about the town and its inhabitants. She's easy to talk to, her questions thoughtful rather than intrusive, her laughter quick and uninhibited.
After dinner, I insist on cleaning up since she cooked. She perches on a kitchen stool, legs crossed, watching me with that writer's observant gaze that makes me feel simultaneously exposed and seen.
"You don't have to analyze my dish washing technique for your book," I tell her, uncomfortable with her scrutiny.
"Sorry." She ducks her head, a flush coloring her cheeks. "Occupational hazard. I people watch without realizing I'm doing it."
"And what fascinating insights have you gleaned from watching me rinse plates?" I'm surprised that I’m almost teasing her.