Chapter Twenty-Three
Riley was glad Miles had agreed to a walk around town after that meal.
She always seemed to lose any sense of portion control when the luscious food Valencia’s served was in front of her.
And she needed to walk some of this off, at least. Besides, now that all the decorations and lights were up, she wanted to soak in some Christmas.
As they walked down Main Street and passed Kolaches, the town bakery, she caught herself smiling.
“What?” he asked.
“This is probably the only time I can walk past that place and not give in to the smell of cinnamon rolls.”
He chuckled, and she liked that he did that so easily. She’d always figured someone at his level in his business would be far above such simple amusements.
Wrong again?
They continued walking. The third time he looked around and let out an audible breath, Riley couldn’t stop herself from asking him why. He gave a one-shouldered shrug. She thought that was going to be all the answer she would get when a moment later he spoke.
“It’s just…it’s different here. The whole Christmas thing, I mean.” He gestured at the colorful lights that ran along the sidewalk, and every block crossed the street in an arch of lights and tinsel and delicate shapes formed by each.
“Different how?”
“In Hollywood they do it up just as big, but there it’s all a big show. A production, because it’s that time of year and it’s expected. Here it’s…real. You can feel the difference. Here it’s joy, celebration, not a push to make people remember you when your next project premieres.”
Riley laughed. “I get your point, but believe me, Last Stand has had its moments. For a few years there, there was a big contest between all the businesses for who put up the best Christmas display. And the spirit of Christmas had a lot less to do with it than the spirit of competition.”
He smiled. “Did everybody get to vote?”
“At first, but then we found out a couple of less scrupulous sorts were buying votes. Neither of whom,” she added pointedly, “are still here in Last Stand, by the way.”
“Y’all ride them out of town on a rail?”
She raised a brow. “Why, Mr. Flint, that ‘y’all’ almost sounded genuine.”
He didn’t take offense—another point in his favor—but only grinned. “I’m trying. So how is the contest decided now?”
“Minna Herdmann.” He blinked, and she laughed. “She’s the true matriarch of Last Stand.”
“I thought Maggie Rafferty was.”
“She’s close enough, but still in training,” Riley said with a laugh. “She’s gradually taking over as Minna steps back. She is pushing a hundred and four years old, after all.”
His eyes widened. “Wow.”
“She’d only come up to your shirt pocket, and she’s thin and wiry as a fiddle string, but she’s still feisty as can be and as sharp as ever.”
He chuckled. “She sounds fascinating.”
“She passed that a while back. She was born here, as was her father, and his father, repeat repeat repeat.”
He chuckled again. “I love the way you folks put things. You just nail it in the best way.”
That encouraged her to risk the question she wanted to ask. “You’ll have to meet Minna sometime.” She gave him a sideways look, then plunged ahead. “Assuming you’ll be here long enough.”
“Until after Christmas,” he said. “Jeremy saw to that.”
“I’ll bet he did,” she replied, thinking that it would be hard for anyone to say no to that kid. “You’ll have plenty of chances then. Lots of Christmas events coming up.”
“Like?”
“Well, sadly you already missed the Corbyns’ tree trimming at their place in town—that’s a big deal.
But the Christmas parade and town tree lighting is this Friday.
Most of Last Stand turns out for that. Then next weekend will be the Christmas market downtown.
” He was smiling, and she realized probably why.
“I know, our downtown is nothing compared to yours.”
“Or maybe everything,” he said quietly. “There’s a lot to be said for a whole town celebration where you know almost everybody, over one where you don’t know anyone.”
Riley thought there was a note of almost sadness in his voice. Was he really that unhappy there? Stuck, having no choice because that’s where the world he moved in was?
At that moment a woman in a police uniform, with sandy blonde hair pulled up neatly into a rather intricate style—that Christi thing again—and walking with an alert-looking black German shepherd, reached the corner of Main and Hickory.
“Emily,” Riley said, pleased to see her.
“Hi, Riley. Mr. Flint,” Emily Stratton said with a nod.
Clearly they’d encountered each other before, probably at the Baylor place Riley thought, given she was Jackson’s best friend’s girlfriend.
“Miles, please,” he said.
“You might as well,” Riley teased her friend. “Seems he’s going to be around until Christmas.”
The woman laughed. Riley bent to greet the dog at her side. “And you look distinguished as ever, Mr. Lobo.” The dog’s tail wagged happily.
“He’s working out really well,” Emily said. “Better than we’d ever hoped.”
“He found his person,” Riley said with a smile.
“I hope so, because I adore him. Chance still working on finding you the perfect ranch dog?” Emily asked.
“Yes,” she said. “But then I think Chance Rafferty is working on finding everyone in Last Stand the perfect dog.”
“Successfully, if Jeremy’s Maverick is any indication,” Miles said.
“Aw, you just think that because Mav likes you so much,” Riley said, making clear it was meant teasingly.
“But then,” Emily put in, “who wouldn’t?”
To Riley’s surprise, Miles actually looked disconcerted. And when he flicked her a sideways glance, she had the silliest feeling that it was questioning. As if he wanted to know if she felt the same way.
Bolstered somehow by her friend’s presence, she leaned back and looked him up and down as if assessing. “Good point,” she said.
She and Emily both laughed, and Miles looked downright embarrassed. For somebody from his world, she found that rather remarkable.
“I need to get going on my foot patrol,” Emily said regretfully. “And I have to thank you yet again.” She reached up and patted the intricate weave of her hair. “I’d have been late for my shift if it wasn’t for you.”
She sensed rather than saw Miles’s curious look and said hastily, “Why, Emily Stratton, whatever were you doing that made you nearly late?”
Emily laughed, but a touch of pink in her cheeks gave the answer. Riley watched as the pair walked away, the big black dog already a fixture in town.
“She and Tucker seem like a good match,” Miles said.
“Yes. They had some stuff to work through, but who doesn’t?”
“Indeed,” Miles said. “And sometimes they don’t. Work through it, I mean.”
Feeling as if she were treading on wet rocks to cross a stream, Riley said carefully, “Speaking from personal experience?”
“More than once,” he answered, his mouth twisting ruefully.
“I know the feeling,” she admitted.
They walked on, Riley not quite sure why she was feeling tense. Surely not because they had strayed into the very personal?
Another block down they had to pause as a sizeable knot of people made their way into the Last Stand Saloon.
“I presume you know about this place?” she asked.
He smiled and nodded. “Jeremy made sure of that. Showed me the bullet holes and the plaque. He’s even got a book about it at home he made me read.”
“We’re proud of our history,” she admitted.
“And rightfully so. It’s pretty amazing.”
That last had come from a man standing by the door, ushering the last of the crowd in. Then he turned to look at her, his blue-green eyes reflecting the twinkling Christmas lights above, his dark, short beard neatly trimmed as always.
“Slater, hello,” Riley exclaimed with a smile.
The owner of the saloon smiled back at her. “Haven’t seen you in a while. I’ve been a bit…busy.”
“New fatherhood will do that,” she said teasingly.
The man grinned. “That it will.”
“Have you met Miles Flint?” she asked, her manners finally surfacing.
“Jackson’s producer? Not personally, no.”
“Miles, meet Slater Highwater, owner of this cornerstone of Last Stand history.”
“Highwater? As in…the police chief?”
“Yeah.” The man grinned. “Those Highwaters. Crazy, huh?”
They shook hands, looking each other up and down, and Riley caught herself wondering if every man who met someone new did that assessing thing.
“Coming in?” Slater asked, and she realized he was holding the door open, and it was getting a bit chilly.
She glanced at Miles. “Not tonight, I don’t think. We just left Valencia’s.”
Slater laughed. “No wonder you’re walking around. They forgot the stop sign on that food.”
He wished them a good evening, then turned to go inside. But then he looked back at them and said, with a gesture pointing upward, “By the way, you’re under the mistletoe.”
Riley’s gaze shot upward, and out of the corner of her eye she saw his do the same. A healthy bunch of the fabled greenery indeed hung directly over the entrance. And their heads.
Instinctively she lowered her gaze to Miles, and found him looking back at her. In those hazel eyes she saw a glint of…something.
“Well, far be it from me to break tradition here at this cornerstone of Last Stand history,” he said, and his voice had taken on a low, rough note that went with that glint she’d seen.
And then he was kissing her, his hands cupping her face, warm against her skin.
Her pulse went from normal—well, as normal as it ever was around him—to a racing, pounding beat she could feel in her chest. His lips were firm but not demanding, not that he had to demand.
No, she’d apparently been wanting this more than she’d ever admitted, even to herself.
And it was more, so much more than the little peck on the cheek she’d given him, that had so rattled her.
When he broke away—too soon, far too soon—it took her a moment to remember she needed to breathe. And when she did it came quickly, as if she had run the two blocks from Valencia’s to here.
She stared up at him, the only thing saving her from embarrassment the fact that his chest was rising and falling almost as quickly as her own. And that his hands were now on her shoulders, as if he didn’t want her to pull away.
Then he lowered his head until their foreheads were touching. And she heard him whisper, “Wow.”
At least he didn’t say whoa.
But maybe she should.
She almost laughed out loud at herself, standing here wishing it had lasted longer and at the same time wondering if she should call a halt to…whatever this might become.
You’re losing it, Riley. Or you already have.
She didn’t know which, and in this moment, as she stood with his hands still holding her close, she decided she didn’t care.