USA TODAY bestselling author Allison Leigh introduces readers to a reluctant hero—and the woman who just might heal his wounded heart—in this newest addition to her popular miniseries, Return to the Double C!

Small town deputy Sloan McCray was making amends for his past. They called him a hero but only he had to live with the difficult choices he’d made. And he certainly wasn’t prepared to fall in love again, not even with his beautiful—and innocent—new neighbor, whose very presence was a balm to his troubled soul.

There was no doubt in Abby Marcum’s mind that Sloan was the guy for her. Though she’d moved to Weaver, Wyoming, to make a better life for her little brother, she saw her future with Sloan. Now she had to convince the man who felt unworthy of love that she and her heart were his for the asking….

“He’s a real white hat,” he heard her brother whisper behind him. “Isn’t he?”

Sloan didn’t wait to hear Abby’s answer as he let himself out through the front door. Whatever the white hats were that the kid was talking about, Sloan knew that he’d never worn one.

Abby might be the first woman he’d felt any interest for in a long while.

But white hats were for the good guys.

They weren’t for the guys who’d only ever hurt the ones who least deserved it.

RETURN TO THE DOUBLE C:

Under the big blue Wyoming sky,

this family discovers true love

Dear Reader,

What occurs between two people when “that moment” hits? When they realize that this is the person they want to be with from here on out? Can it be linked to one specific moment? Or does it develop slowly, over time? Or is it all of that and something more?

For Abby and Sloan, that moment hits quickly. She’s not surprised, and he’s not ready. But he gets there and she’s waiting when he does.

How about you? Do you believe in love at first sight? Tell me about it at Allison@allisonleigh.com. I’d love to hear your stories. And if you’d like, I’ll share with you the recipe for Abby’s chocolate cookies. Because you never know…it may be the way to someone’s heart!

All my best,

Allison

A Weaver Beginning

Allison Leigh

www.millsandboon.co.uk

There is a saying that you can never be too rich or too thin. ALLISON LEIGH doesn’t believe that, but she does believe that you can never have enough books! When her stories find a way into the hearts—and bookshelves— of others, Allison says she feels she’s done something right. Making her home in Arizona with her husband, she enjoys hearing from her readers at allison@allisonleigh.com or PO Box 40772, Mesa, AZ 85274-0772, USA.

For Greg.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter One

The snow covered everything.

Everything except the clear strip down the middle of the street that had been plowed just that morning.

Looking out the front window of the house he’d been renting for the past six months, Sloan McCray studied that strip.

While the middle of the street was whistle clean, the displaced snow formed two-foot walls against the curb on both sides of the street, blocking driveways and parking spaces.

Generally speaking, Sloan didn’t worry about the snowplow job as long as it was done. It was his first winter in Weaver—the first snow had fallen in October and hadn’t stopped since. He’d had two months to get used to it.

There were five houses on his street. Some of the folks occupying the homes had snowblowers—ancient ones kept running by ingenuity and stubbornness, and new ones that cost as much as Sloan’s first motorcycle. He dealt with the annoying snow berm in front of his house the old-fashioned way—with a heavy-duty snow shovel and a lot of muscle.

Not a problem for him.

He’d been well used to being physically active, even before he’d signed on as a deputy sheriff here in Weaver. Pitching heavy snow out of his driveway was a welcome task.

Kept the muscles working.

Kept the mind occupied with the simple and mundane.

Two good things, as far as he was concerned.

He wasn’t sold on living in Weaver yet. His job was temporary; he had a one-year lease on the house. He needed to start thinking about what to do after the nine months he’d promised Max Scalise—the sheriff—were up. He should have been spending less time with the snow shovel and more time thinking about what the hell he was going to do with the rest of his life. But tackling that particular question was no more appealing than it ever was.

Standing inside the warmth of his living room, Sloan eyed the snow blocking the driveways. The small blue car had been sitting on the street in front of the house next door for nearly an hour. Footsteps in the snow trailed back and forth from the car to the house.

New neighbors. Moving in on the last day of the year.

He’d been watching them for a while. The woman was young, with shining brown hair that bounced around the shoulders of her red coat with every step. The little kid with her had the same dark hair.

He’d also noticed there wasn’t a man in the picture. Not to help them unpack, anyway. Nor to clear away the snow blocking the driveway, much less shovel a path to the door.

He turned away from the window, grabbed his down vest and headed out the back of his house to the small shed where he stored his bike and tools.

It was the last day of the year and he’d spent too much time thinking already.

Time to start shoveling instead.

* * *

“Abby. Abby.”

Balancing the heavy box in her hands, Abby Marcum glanced at her little brother. He was clutching the plastic bin containing his collection of video games against his chest, his wary gaze glued to the tall man striding toward them from the house next door. “Who’s that man?” Dillon was whispering, but his nervousness shouted loud and clear.

“I don’t know,” she said calmly. “We’ll meet lots of new people here in Weaver.”

“I don’t want new people.” His pale face was pinched. “I want our old people.”

She hid a sigh behind a smile. Her seven-year-old brother wasn’t the only one with misgivings about moving to Weaver. But she wasn’t going to show hers to him when he already had more than enough for them both. “We still have our old people,” she assured him. “Braden’s not so far away that we won’t visit.” Just not every day. Not anymore.

She hid another sigh at the thought.

Noticing that the man angling across the deep snow had nearly reached them, she looked at Dillon. “Take your box inside. You can think about where to put the television.”

He clutched the bin even closer as he retraced his path from the car to the house, not taking his wary attention away from the man for a second.

Abby adjusted her grip on the packing box. She hoped that moving to Weaver hadn’t been a huge mistake. Dillon had already endured so much. For two years, she’d tried to follow her grandfather’s wishes. He was gone, but she was still trying. She just didn’t know if moving Dillon away from the only place of stability he’d ever known had been the right thing to do or not.

The sound of crunching snow ceased when the man stopped a few yards away. “You’re the new nurse over at the elementary school.” His voice was deep. More matter-of-fact than welcoming.

She tightened her grip on the heavy box, trying not to stare too hard at him. Lines radiated from his dark brown eyes. His overlong brown hair was liberally flecked with grays. What should have been pretty normal features for a man who looked to be in his late thirties, but the sum of the parts made him ruthlessly attractive.

She’d grown up in Braden, which was the closest town of any size to Weaver. She knew how small-town grapevines worked, so she wasn’t particularly surprised that he knew about her before she so much as opened her mouth. “I am. But I’ll be splitting my time with the junior high.” The schools were next door to each other, sharing their facilities. “I’m Abby Marcum.” She smiled. “And you are...?”

“From next door.” He stabbed the shovel into the snow.

She’d assumed that, given that he’d come from the house next door. “So that answers where.” The muscles in her arms were starting to shake, so she started toward the house, her boots plowing fresh paths through the snow. “What about who?”

“That looks too heavy for you.”

“Does it?” She kept right on moving, passing him on her way toward the three steps that led up to the front door.

“Would have been easier if you’d cleared the driveway before you started unpacking.”

Her fingers dug into the cardboard. “Probably,” she agreed blithely and lifted her boot, cautiously feeling for the first porch step. She’d have needed a snow shovel for that, though, and that wasn’t something she’d bothered trying to cram into her small car along with everything else. Weaver had hardware stores, after all. And neighbors who had shovels to borrow, too.

The man gave a mighty sigh, his bare hands brushing hers as he lifted the box out of her grasp. “The bottom’s about to give way,” he said and walked past her into the house.

She hurried after him. “Um, thanks.” He was already setting the box on the narrow breakfast bar separating the small living room from the even smaller kitchen. One look at the cardboard told her he was right. The crystal inside could have crashed right through. She flipped open the box and pulled out a few of the glasses she’d wrapped so carefully in newspaper just to make certain they’d safely survived. “My grandmother’s crystal.”

“Mmm.” He didn’t sound particularly interested as he looked around the living room. She’d bought the house furnished. And while the furniture that occupied the room was dated, it was clean and in good condition. With the half-dozen boxes that they’d already carried in stacked on the floor against the wall next to the brick fireplace, the small room was almost full. “It’s freezing in here.”

“I know. Something’s wrong with the furnace. I’ll get a fire started, though, soon as I get the car emptied. And once the holiday is over, I’ll call someone in to get the furnace going.”

She smiled across at Dillon, who was perched nervously on the edge of the couch, watching them with big eyes. He still wore his coat. She’d bought it at a clearance sale last year expecting that he would have grown into it by now. But he still looked dwarfed in it. “A fire will have us toasty warm in no time,” she told her little brother brightly.

“And then we get popcorn like you promised?”

Dillon loved popcorn like almost nothing else. “Absolutely.”

“You’ve got wood?”

At the deep-voiced question, she focused on the man and felt something jolt inside her. Lordy. He really was handsome. And vaguely familiar. “Um...no. No wood. But I’ll get some.” Along with that snow shovel. Having one of her own was better than borrowing.

“Stores are closed today and tomorrow for New Year’s.” His voice was even. Unemotional. “I’ve got plenty, though. I’ll bring some over.” He turned on his boot heel and left the house.

“Who is he?” Dillon whispered once he was gone.

“The neighbor. You can put away your games in the television cabinet. Soon as I finish with everything, I’ll play a game of ‘White Hats 3’ with you.” She’d gotten the latest version of the video game for him for Christmas and it was already his favorite. “Okay?”

He nodded and she went back outside.

The man had left the snow shovel sticking out of the snow banked against the side of the porch. She looked from it to the house next door. It was two-storied and twice the size of hers.

Definitely large enough to hold a wife and kids if Tall-Dark-and-Nameless had any.

She trudged back to the car and pulled the box containing their new television from the backseat. Her girlfriends from Braden had pooled their money together to buy it as a going-away present. It was mercifully lightweight, and she was heading up the steps with it in her arms when the neighbor appeared again bearing a load of wood in his arms.

She quickly got out of his way as he carried it inside. He crouched next to the brick hearth and started stacking the wood. As he worked, he looked over at her brother. “What’s your name?”

Dillon shot Abby a nervous look. “Dillon.”

The man’s face finally showed a little warmth. He smiled slightly. Gently. And even though it was directed at her little brother, Abby still felt the effect.

She let out a careful breath and set the television on the floor. Her girlfriends had also given her a box of Godiva chocolates before she’d left, with instructions to indulge herself on New Year’s Eve—and share the chocolates with a male other than her little brother.

The chocolates were in her suitcase. She could give the box to her no-name neighbor and technically live up to the promise she’d made. Of course, he’d probably take the chocolates home to his wife. Which wasn’t exactly what her girlfriends had in mind.

She shook off the silly thoughts and tried to focus on the television, but her gaze kept slipping back to the man, who was still looking at her little brother.

“You want to bring me some of that newspaper from your mom’s crystal?”

“She’s not my mom,” Dillon said as he slid off the couch and retrieved the crumpled papers that Abby had tossed aside. He sidled over to the man, holding them out at arm’s length.

She almost missed the speculative glance the man gave her before he took the paper from Dillon. He wadded it up and stuck it in the fireplace, between a couple of angled logs. “Got a match, bud?”

“Here.” Abby quickly pulled a lighter out of her purse and carried it over.

“You smoke?” His tone was smooth, yet she still felt the accusation.

“You sound remarkably like my grandfather used to.”

A full beat passed before his lips quirked. “My sister keeps telling me I’m getting old before my time,” he said. “Must be true if I strike you as grandfatherly.” He took the lighter and set the small flame to the newspaper. When he was sure it took, he straightened and left the lighter on the wood mantel.

“Abby’s my sister,” Dillon said so suddenly that she shot him a surprised look.

The man didn’t look surprised. And he wasn’t the least bit grandfatherly, though Abby didn’t figure it would be appropriate to tell him so. He simply nodded at this additional information, not knowing how unusual it was for Dillon to offer anything where a stranger was concerned. He set the fireplace screen back in place. “What grade are you in?”

But her brother’s bravery only went so far. He ducked his chin into his puffy down collar. “Second,” he whispered and hurried back to the couch. He sat down on the edge of a cushion again and tucked his bare fingers under his legs.

Abby knew the best thing for Dillon was to keep things as normal as possible. So she ignored the way he was carefully looking away from them and focused on the tall man as he straightened. She was wearing flat-heeled snow boots, and he had at least a foot on her five-one. Probably a good eighty pounds, too, judging by the breadth of his shoulders. “Do you have kids?” Maybe a second-grader who’d become friends with Dillon.

“Nope.” Which didn’t really tell her whether there was a wife or not. “How much more do you need to unload?”

She followed him onto the porch. “A few boxes and our suitcases.”

He grabbed the shovel as he went down the steps and shoved it into the snow, pushing it ahead of him like a plow as he made his way to the car.

“You don’t have to do that,” Abby said quickly, following in his wake.

“Somebody needs to.”

Her defenses prickled. “I appreciate the gesture, but I’m perfectly capable of shoveling my own driveway.”

His dark gaze roved over her. “But you didn’t. And I’m guessing if you’d had a shovel in that little car of yours, you’d have already used it so you could get the car into the driveway.”

Since that was true, she didn’t really have a response. “My grandfather had a snowblower,” she said. “I didn’t really have a good way to move it here, so I sold it.” Along with most everything else that her grandparents had owned. Except the crystal. Ever since Abby had been a little girl, her grandmother had said that Abby would have it one day.

And now she did.

The reality of it all settled like a sad knot in her stomach.

She’d followed her grandfather’s wishes. But that didn’t mean it had been easy.

They’d lost him when he’d died of a heart attack two years earlier. But they’d been losing her grandmother by degrees for years before that. And in the past year, Minerva Marcum’s Alzheimer’s had become so advanced that she didn’t even recognize Abby anymore.

Even though Abby was now a qualified RN, she’d had no choice but to do what her grandfather had made her promise to do when the time came—place her grandmother into full-time residential care.

“So you’ll get another blower,” the man was saying. “Or a shovel. But for now—” he waggled the long handle “—this is it.” He set off again, pushing another long swath of snow clear from the driveway.

She trailed after him. “Mr., uh—”

“Sloan.”

At last. A name. “Mr. Sloan, if you don’t mind lending me the shovel, I can do that myself. I’m sure you’ve got better things to—”

“—just Sloan. And, no, I don’t have better things to do. So go back inside, check the fire and unpack that crystal of yours. Soon as you can pull your car up in the driveway, I’ll leave you to it.”

She flopped her hands. “I can’t stop you?”

“Evidently not.” He reached the end of the driveway, pitched the snow to the side with enviable ease and turned to make another pass in the opposite direction. At the rate he was going, the driveway would be clear of the snow that reached halfway up her calves in a matter of minutes.

She ought to be grateful. Instead, she just felt inadequate. And she hated feeling inadequate.

Short of trying to wrestle the shovel out of his hands—which was a shockingly intriguing idea—she could either stand there watching or do something productive.

Like checking the fire and unpacking.

She went back inside. The fire had already started warming the room. Dillon had shed his coat and was sitting on the beige carpet, setting his video games neatly inside the cabinet. “When’re we gonna visit Grandma?”

Abby stepped around his plastic crate and went to the fireplace. “I thought we’d go next weekend.” She moved the fire screen aside and took a piece of wood from the stack. She jabbed the end of it against the burning logs, sending up a blur of sparks before tossing it onto the top. Then she replaced the screen and straightened. “We can’t go every day like we used to.”

“I know.” He pushed out his lower lip, studying the cover of his video game. “Would she ’member us if Grandpa hadn’t died?”

Abby sat down on the floor next to him, pulled off her coat and put her arm around him. “No, honey. Losing Grandpa has nothing to do with it. But we remember her.” She ignored the tightening in her throat. “And we’ll visit her every chance we can, just like I’ve told you. Okay?”

She felt his nod against her cheek.

“Okay.” She pressed her lips to his forehead before pushing to her feet. “Why don’t we leave the rest of our unpacking until later and get the television hooked up. I’m finally going to beat you at ‘White Hats.’”

He snorted softly. “Yeah, right.”

Which just eased the tightness in her throat and made her smile instead. She turned away from him only to stop short at the sight of Sloan standing inside the door. She hadn’t even heard him open it.

“Driveway’s clear.”

She pulled at the hem of her long sweater. “Thank you. I’ll have to figure out a way to return the favor.”

His dark gaze seemed to sharpen. And maybe it was her imagination that his eyes flicked from her head to her toes, but then that would mean it was also her imagination that her stomach was swooping around. And she’d never been particularly prone to flights of imagination.

“That might be interesting.” Then he smiled faintly and went out the door again, silently closing it after him.

Abby blinked. Let out a long breath.

If Mr. Just-Sloan did have a wife, he had no business making new neighbors feel breathless like that.

“Come on, Abby,” Dillon said behind her. “I wanna play ‘White Hats.’”

“I know. I know.”

And if he doesn’t have a wife?

She ignored the voice inside her head and pulled the television out of the box.

Whether the man was married or not didn’t matter.

All she wanted to do was start her new job at the elementary school and raise Dillon with as much love as her grandparents had raised her.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

So she carried the new television over to the cabinet and began hooking it up. In minutes, the distinctive music from Dillon’s video game was blasting through the speakers. He handed her a controller and she sat cross-legged on the carpet next to him as she set about trying not to be bested yet again by a seven-year-old.

She was no more successful at that than she was at not thinking about the man next door.

Chapter Two

“Sloan, it’s New Year’s Eve. You shouldn’t be spending it alone,” his sister, the voice of reason, said through the phone at his ear.

“I’m not interested in crashing your evening with Axel.” Even though Tara had been married to the man for a few years now—had two kids with him, even—it was still hard for Sloan to say his brother-in-law’s name without feeling a healthy dose of dislike. Axel Clay was part of the darkest time of Sloan’s life. His sister being happily married to him made the situation tolerable. Barely. If not for that, Sloan could have gone the rest of his life hating the man. No more than he hated himself, though.

“You wouldn’t be crashing anything, Bean.” Tara laughed. “Most of the family’s going to be here. It’s not like Axel and I will have a chance to be romantic while there’s a half-dozen kids chasing each other around.”

Bean. The nickname she’d called him when they were kids. Considering everything that Sloan had put her through—the disruption he’d caused in her life by the choices he’d made in his—it was a wonder that she could even recall the days when he’d been her Bean and she’d been his Goober.

They were twins. And they’d grown up in a family that never stayed in one place for more than a few months at a time. As an adult, all Tara had ever wanted was a stable place to call her own. While Sloan had kept right on with the rootless lifestyle.

Which was why he was living here in Weaver at all. Trying to make up for the acts of his past. Trying to make things right with the only female left in his life that he loved.

“Fine,” he said. “I also don’t want to crash your evening with the entire Clay clan.” He looked out the front window of his house again. Abby had finally moved her car into the driveway. “Maybe I have plans of my own.”

He could almost hear Tara’s ears perk. “What plans would those be? Sitting in the dark, staring morosely into a beer while you dwell on the past?”

Almost guiltily, he set aside the frosted beer mug he was holding. “You don’t know everything, Goob.”

She sighed noisily. “Oh, all right. But you’re not getting off the hook tomorrow. Dinner at the big house. You’ve already agreed, and if you try to back out, I’ll call Max and sic him on you.”

“My boss may be your cousin-in-law, but that doesn’t mean he’s gonna let you tell him what to do.” In Sloan’s estimation, nobody told Max Scalise what to do, not even the voters who put him in office term after term.

“We’ll see,” Tara countered. “Squire’s expecting everyone for New Year’s dinner, and nobody wants to cross him. Not even the mighty sheriff.”

Squire Clay was Tara’s grandfather-in-law and the patriarch of the large Clay family. He was older than dirt. Cantankerous as hell. And one of a few people in Weaver that Sloan could say he genuinely liked.

“I said I’d be there tomorrow and I will.” A flash of red caught his eye, and he watched Abby bounce down the porch steps. But instead of heading toward her car, she started crossing the snow separating their houses.

“But tonight is mine,” he finished. Up close, Abby had looked even younger than he’d expected, but she’d also had the prettiest gray eyes he’d ever seen.

“Okay. Happy New Year, Sloan,” his sister said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. He wished he could say the same, but he didn’t know what he felt. If anything. “Happy New Year, kiddo.”

Then he hung up and watched Abby cross in front of the window where he was standing. A second later, she knocked on his front door.

He left his beer on the table and answered the door.

“Hi.” Those gray eyes of hers looked up at him, carrying the same cheerfulness that infused the smile on her soft, pink lips. “Sorry to bother you.”

“You’re not.” He leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb. He ought to feel like a letch, admiring her the way he was. But he didn’t. He felt...interested.

The first time he’d felt interested in longer than he cared to remember.

“What d’you need?”

“Wood, actually.”

The devil on his shoulder laughed at that one. No problem there. The angel on his other shoulder had him straightening away from the doorjamb. “It’s back behind the house.” He pushed the door open wide. “Come on in.”

The tip of her tongue peeked out to flick over her upper lip. “Thanks.” She stepped past him into the house, and he saw the way her gaze took in the sparsely furnished living room. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Nope.” He led the way through the room to the kitchen at the back of the house and outside again. He gestured at the woodpile stacked next to the back steps, protected from the weather by the overhang of the roof. “Help yourself.”

She went down the steps, her shiny hair swaying around her shoulders. He shoved his fingers into the pockets of his jeans and tried not to think how silky her hair would feel.

“Thanks again.” She stacked several pieces of wood in her arms. “I’ll restock as soon as I can.”

“No need.” Thanks to his connection to the Clay family and their gigantic cattle ranch, the Double-C, he had a ready supply of firewood, whether he wanted it or not. “House warming up okay over there?”

She nodded. Her hair bounced. Her eyes smiled.

She’d have the boys at the elementary and junior high schools sticking their fingers down their throats just to have a chance to visit her in the nurse’s office.

The devil on his shoulder laughed at him again. Wouldn’t you do the same?

“Your brother live with you all the time?” Sloan was betting the “brother” story was just that. The boy looked just like her. He was probably her son. Which would mean she’d had him very, very young.

“Yes.” She lifted the load in her arms and started backing away, making fresh tracks in the snow. “Thanks for this. Hope you and your wife enjoy the rest of your evening.”

Interesting. “Who said there’s a wife?”

Her gaze skipped away. “Just assuming.” She smiled again. Kept backing away. Right until she bumped into the side of her house. She laughed and began sidestepping instead.

“Assuming wrong.”

She hesitated. Just for a moment, before continuing right along. But it had been long enough for him to notice.

Definitely interesting.

“Ah. Well.” She clutched the logs to her chest. “Hope you enjoy the rest of your evening, then.” Her smile never faltered.

He wondered if it ever did. She had a face made for smiles.

“You, too.”

She reached the end of the fence and finally turned away, crossing into her front yard.

Her hair swayed and bounced.

Sloan shook his head and went back inside. Whether or not the boy was her brother or her son, a young woman like Abby Marcum didn’t need something temporary in her life.

And temporary was all he had to offer.

* * *

The car was unloaded. Most of the boxes unpacked.

Abby sat on the wooden barstool at her breakfast bar and looked at Dillon. He was sprawled on the couch, a fleecy blanket pulled up to his chin, sound asleep. He’d had his triumph at ‘White Hats.’ Had his popcorn. Had the casserole she’d managed to throw together.

It was nearly midnight. She could have gone to bed herself.

She sighed and poked through the box of chocolates, selected one and followed it up with a chaser of milk. She doubted her girlfriends would approve. They’d also sent her away with a bottle of champagne. It was sitting, unopened, in the refrigerator.

No champagne and no horizontal entertainment for her, both of which they’d insisted it was high time she finally experience.

She held up her grandmother’s delicate crystal flute and stared at the milk. “Happy New Year,” she murmured just as the lights flickered twice then went out completely.

With the television silent, all she could hear was the ticking of the clock that she’d hung on the kitchen wall and the faint hiss from the log burning in the fireplace.

By firelight, she leisurely finished her milk and waited for the electricity to come back on. When it didn’t, she retrieved the lighter from the mantel where Sloan had left it and lit several candles.

Then she headed back to the barstool and the chocolates.

There was a loud knock on her door as she picked up the gold box. And at that hour it was certainly unexpected. But it wasn’t alarm that had her hurrying to the door; it was the fact that she didn’t want Dillon waking up. He was sleeping so soundly, and she didn’t want to ruin it. It was a rare night that passed without him waking out of a bad dream.

She cracked open the door and looked out. Sloan stood there, a sturdy flashlight in his hand, and she opened the door wider. The air outside felt bracingly cold in comparison to the warmth slipping through her at the sight of him.

“Everything okay here?”

“Fine.” She poked her head out the door, looking up and down the darkened street. “Why?”

“Just making sure.”

“It’s only a power outage.” She smiled. “Did you think I’d be over here shaking in my boots?”

The beam of his flashlight shifted, moving across her bare feet. “You’re not wearing boots.”

She curled her toes against the carpet. “You caught me.” She realized she was still holding the gold box and extended it. “Care for one?”

“I don’t know.” His deep voice was amused. “There was a time when my mother told me not to take candy from strangers.”

Abby grinned. “Wise woman. But it’s your loss. These aren’t just ordinary chocolates.” She held the box up a little higher. In the glow from the flashlight, he couldn’t fail to notice the distinctive box. “You sure? I promised the friends who gave them to me that I’d share them with someone other than Dillon.”

“I see. Can’t have you breaking a promise, then.” He raised his flashlight and took one.

“No point in standing out in the cold. Come on in. I’ll get you something to drink.” And then she held her breath, because she was pretty sure that he wouldn’t accept her invitation.

But he stepped past her.

Her stomach swooped.

She noticed that Dillon still hadn’t moved as she quietly closed the door before crossing to the bar again. “Have a seat.” She waved at the second barstool and set the chocolates on the counter.

He shut off his flashlight and shrugged out of his jacket. “Looks like you’re putting your grandmother’s crystal to good use.”

“Trying.” She got a second flute from the cupboard then pulled open the refrigerator and snatched the champagne. She set the glass and the bottle in front of him. “You’ll need to open it, I’m afraid.” She didn’t even know how.

He tilted his head slightly as he picked up the crystal flute she’d been using. Candlelight danced over it. “Definitely doesn’t look like you’re drinking champagne.”

She felt silly. Grown women didn’t drink milk out of champagne glasses. “I’m not.”

He lifted her glass to his nose. The old crystal looked shockingly delicate in his long fingers. “You mind?” But he didn’t wait to see if she did; he simply took a sip. Right from her glass.

Her mouth suddenly felt very dry, and she sat down weakly on her own barstool. The width of the counter separated them, but she still felt dwarfed by him. It wasn’t just that he was tall. His shoulders were massive. And up close like this, she was pretty sure she could make out a tattoo of some sort on his neck, not quite hidden by the neckline of his long-sleeved T-shirt.

“Milk always goes well with chocolate,” he murmured. He set her glass down on the counter and slid it toward her. “That’s what I’ll have if you’ve got enough to share.”

She nodded, afraid that if she tried to speak, her voice would just come out as one long squeak. She went back to the fridge, blindly snatched the milk carton and filled his glass.

“Anything else your friends say you’re supposed to do besides share the chocolate?” He kept his voice low, and even though she knew it was because of Dillon, it still felt unbearably intimate.

She picked up her own glass. She couldn’t lie to save her soul, and there was no way she’d share what they’d told her about finally having sex, so she just grazed the side of her glass against his. “Cheers,” she whispered instead.

“Not exactly an answer, Abby.”

“I guess it isn’t. What’d you say your name was?”

His teeth flashed in the dim light. “Sloan McCray,” he finally offered.

And just like that, she realized why he’d seemed familiar. Because she’d seen his face before in the newspapers. On the television news. On the internet.

He looked different from the clean-cut man in the snapshots she remembered, but she was certain he was the undercover ATF agent who’d brought down the horrendous Deuce’s Cross gang a few years ago. She remembered watching the news stories on the television in her grandfather’s hospital room. Sloan had succeeded at something no one before him had been able to do. He was a hero.

And he was sitting right here, watching her with narrowed eyes, as if he were waiting for some reaction.

She got the sense that if she gave one, he’d bolt.

So she didn’t.

“So, Sloan McCray,” she said softly. “Why aren’t you out celebrating New Year’s Eve somewhere?”

“I am out celebrating.” He tilted the glass and drank down half of the milk.

She couldn’t help grinning, even though she was afraid it made her look like a cartoon character.

He set the glass down again and pulled the gold box closer so he could study the contents. He’d folded one arm on the counter and was leaning toward her. “Anything besides the job bringing you and Dillon to Weaver?”

“No.” She realized she’d mirrored his position when he looked up from the box and their heads were only inches apart. Her heart raced around fiendishly inside her chest. “We lived in Braden, but working at the school here was too good an opportunity to pass up. I’ll have essentially the same hours as Dillon.” Her grandfather had planned well, but that didn’t mean Abby could afford to spend money on after-school care if she didn’t need to.

“And you want to stay close to Braden,” Sloan concluded. “For your grandmother.”

“You did overhear that.”

He nodded once. Took another sip of milk, watching her over the rim of the flute.

“What about you? What brings you to Weaver?”

“Maybe I come from here.”

If she recalled correctly, the news stories had said he’d hailed from Chicago. “Do you?”

He didn’t answer immediately. He selected a chocolate. Studied it. “My sister lives here,” he finally said. Then he turned his back to her and stood.

Disappointment flooded her, but all he did was walk across to the fireplace and quietly place another piece of wood on the dying embers. Then he returned to his barstool. He held up his nearly empty glass. “Unless you’ve got more, we might need to open that champagne after all.”

“I have more,” she said quickly and retrieved the milk carton. She filled his glass, emptying the carton.

“You’re not going to have any left for Dillon in the morning.”

She curled her toes around the wooden ring near the base of her barstool. “He likes brown sugar and raisins on his oatmeal anyway.”

His lips twitched. “That’s the way my mother used to fix oatmeal for us. What else did you leave behind in Braden?”

Her mouth went dry all over again at the way he was looking at her, his eyes so dark and hooded. “I tried to bring everything that mattered.”

“Grandma’s crystal.” He held up his glass.

“And Grandpa’s shotgun.” She smiled. “Safely stowed away in a cabinet, well out of Dillon’s reach. Plus his video games. Dillon’s that is, not my grandfather’s.” She was babbling but couldn’t help herself. “Photographs. Clothes.”

“You’re not answering my real question. You have a boyfriend waiting for you in Braden? Some nice kid as fresh-faced and wet behind the ears as you?”

She didn’t know whether to be charmed or insulted. “I’m neither a kid nor wet behind the ears.”

He gave that slight half smile again. “How old are you?”

She moistened her lips. “Twenty-three.”

He made a face. “I’ve got ten years on you.”

She managed to hide her surprise. He was ungodly handsome, but his face held far more wear than any man in his early thirties should. She guessed that was the price for the kind of work he’d done. “In any case, no, there is no one waiting for me to come home to Braden.” She plucked a chocolate from the box and shoved it into her mouth with no regard for its fineness. “No boyfriend. No husband. No nothing,” she said around its melting sweetness. “Been too busy raising Dillon for the past two years. Even if there had been time, I’m still a package deal.”

His eyebrows rose. “Where are your parents?”

She lifted her shoulders. “Who knows? He’s my half brother. We share the same mother, but she was no more interested in raising him than she was me. Which is why—”

“The grandparents,” he concluded.

She nodded. “What about your parents?”

The devil laughed mockingly in Sloan’s ear. That was what he got for showing some curiosity about Abby. She naturally showed some curiosity in return. “They died when my sister and I were twenty,” he said abruptly. Tara had turned into a homebody after their childhood, and he had been the opposite. But he knew they shared the same distaste for talking about that childhood.

“That must have been hard.”

Not any harder than growing up without parents at all, which seemed to be the case for her. He folded his arms on the counter again, leaning closer. Close enough to smell the clean fragrance of her shining brown hair. “You start work when the holiday break is over?”

“In two days. At least it’ll be a short week.”

“Nervous?”

She shook her head. Made a face. “Guess it shows, huh?”

“You’ll be fine.”

She toyed with her glass for a moment. “What do you do?”

“Deputy sheriff. For the next few months, anyway.” He didn’t know what the hell had him offering that last bit. Maybe a thin attempt to lay some groundwork. Some temporary groundwork.

“What happens after that?”

He hesitated and wasn’t sure what he would have said if the electricity hadn’t kicked on just then. Light from the overhead fixture flooded the kitchen, and the television came to life.

“Look,” she whispered, leaning to the side to peer around him. “The ball in New York is nearly down.”

He glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, the TV showed the famed crystal ball inching its way down while a mass of people around it cheered and screamed.

“Three.” He turned back to watch Abby, whose gray gaze was focused on the countdown.

“Two,” she whispered on a smile.

“One,” he finished.

Her pretty eyes lifted to his. “Happy New Year, Sloan.”

Maybe it was the devil. Maybe it was the angel.

Maybe it was just him.

“It is now,” he murmured. And he leaned the last few inches across the counter and slowly pressed his mouth against hers.

Chapter Three

Shocked, Abby inhaled sharply.

He tasted like dark chocolate. Cold milk.

And things that she’d never experienced and suddenly wanted to, so very badly.

But just when she was adjusting to the notion that Sloan McCray’s lips were brushing across hers, he was lifting his head. “Next time you talk to your friends, you can tell them that you lived up to your promise.”

He meant sharing the chocolate, of course. But she couldn’t do a single thing except sit there and mutely nod.

The lines arrowing out from the corners of his dark eyes crinkled a little. “You pour a helluva cocktail,” he murmured before turning away and walking silently to the door.

A moment later, he was gone.

And Abby was still sitting there as mute as a stump of wood.

“Izzit New Year’s?” Dillon’s sleepy voice startled her so much she jumped off her stool as if she’d been stung. She rounded the counter and went over to the couch where he was knuckling his eyes.

“It is. And time for you to go to bed, Mr. Marcum.”

He giggled a little, the way he always did when she called him that. “I stayed awake the whole time, didn’t I,” he boasted as he slid off the couch, dragging his blanket after him.

“Sure thing, honey.”

He padded barefoot into the first bedroom. “I think Mr. Sloan is a White Hat,” he said.

She folded back the comforter for Dillon to climb into bed. It was noticeably cooler in his room than in the living room, but the comforter would keep him warm enough. “Why’s that?” The video game was the classic story of good against evil. White Hats against Black Hats. Of course in this instance, it was geared for children, so the hats were worn by animated dinosaurs. Dillon loved all things dinosaur.

Her little brother shrugged as he climbed onto his twin-size bed. “’Cause.”

“Sounds like a good reason to me.” She brushed his dark hair off his forehead and kissed him. “Go to sleep. Oatmeal with raisins in the morning.”

He threw his arms tightly around her neck. “You’re not gonna leave, too, are you, Abby?”

Her heart squeezed. He didn’t mean leave his bedroom.

He meant leave.

“I’m not ever going to leave,” she promised. She smacked a kiss on both of his cheeks and settled him against his pillow. “Ever,” she added.

He let out a long breath as if her answer had actually been in doubt then grabbed his fleece blanket up against his cheek and turned onto his side.

Abby left his room, pulling the door halfway closed so that he’d still be able to see the light from the bathroom next door.

Then she returned to the living room, blew out all the candles and cleaned up, washing and drying the crystal glasses carefully before putting them back in the cupboard.

Seeing that the fire was burning low and steadily, safely contained by the screen, she shut off the lights in preparation of going to bed herself.

Instead of going to her own room, though, she found herself at the front window, peering into the darkness.

She touched her fingertips to her lips.

Felt her stomach swoop around.

It was a first for her.

Oh, not the kiss. She’d been kissed before. Just never at midnight. Never on New Year’s Eve.

But she needed to remember that to Sloan McCray, the kiss was probably nothing more than a simple gesture.

She looked at the house next door. Wondered where his bedroom was. Wondered if he was thinking about her, too.

But then she shook her head. He’d called her “wet behind the ears.” And the way she was standing there, gazing at his house in the darkness, would only prove that she was. So she turned on her heels and went into her bedroom across the hall from Dillon’s.

Her bed wasn’t the narrow twin that Dillon’s was, but it was just as innocent. She peeled off her leggings and her sweater and pulled open her drawer. Her pj’s were about as seductive as Dillon’s, too. Soft cotton pants with pink-and-green polka dots and a matching T-shirt with a grinning skunk on the front of it.

She made a face as she changed and threw herself down on the middle of her full-size bed.

Her room was even chillier than Dillon’s, but she felt hot. Flushed. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why.

Even before learning that the man next door was a true-life American hero, he’d made her stomach swoop.

She stared into the darkness and pressed her fingertips to her lips again.

Then she groaned and flipped onto her side, hugging the pillow to her cheek.

* * *

The mattress springs squeaked slightly when Sloan flipped restlessly onto his back for the tenth time.

Dawn was finally relieving the darkness seeping around the blinds, and instead of lying there, tossing and turning pointlessly for another few hours, he pushed off the bed and went to the window. He tilted the blinds just enough so that he could look down on the house next door.

Did the window on the side of the house belong to her bedroom or Dillon’s?

He muttered a low oath. Kissing her had been stupid.

Sweet as all get-out.

But still stupid.

Abby Marcum was a nice girl. And, sweet lips or not, she was not what he needed in his life.

He didn’t know what he needed. But he knew it was not a girl like her. A girl with responsibilities. With ties. The kind of girl who’d expect ties.

As well she should.

If there was one thing Sloan was not good at, it was ties. He was trying where Tara was concerned, but even with his own sister he wasn’t winning any awards.

He turned away from the window, dragged on his running gear and went outside. The air was frozen, sending his breath into clouds around his head as he stretched. He usually ran in the middle of the night. Maybe that was crazy, but it was better than tossing and turning while sleeplessness drove him nuts.

Last night, though, he’d been busy looking into Abby’s open, innocent face.

He shut down those thoughts and set off down the street in the opposite direction from the one he usually went, just so he wouldn’t pass by her house.

Instead, he ended up passing the school where Dillon would be going in a few days, and where she’d be handing out bandages and ice packs, and he thought about her anyway.

He picked up his pace and headed around to Main Street. Light was already streaming from the windows of Ruby’s Café. New Year’s Day or not, Tabby Taggart was obviously already at work in the kitchen, probably making the fresh sweet rolls that people came for from miles away. He knew that she’d already have hot coffee brewing and if he knocked on the window, she’d let him in.

He kept running and passed the darkened windows of his sister’s shop, Classic Charms. Even though she’d taken on a partner now, he still thought of the shop as Tara’s. He finally slowed as he reached the sheriff’s office and went inside to the warmth and the smell of coffee there.

The dispatcher, Pam Rasmussen, gave him a look over the reading glasses perched on her nose. “Surprise, surprise. Some of us come into the office because we’re scheduled on duty. Others, namely you, come in because you have nothing better to do.”

“Happy New Year to you, too. And I’m not here to work. I was just out for a run.” He reached across her desk and flipped the book she was reading so he could see the cover. “Suppose that’s another one of those romances you like.”

“What if it is? Romance isn’t a dirty word. If you realized that, maybe you wouldn’t go around so grumpy all the time. I know plenty of women who’d—”

“No,” he cut her off bluntly. The last thing he needed was a setup by her. Or by his sister. Or by anyone.

The taste of dark, creamy chocolate on Abby’s lips taunted him, and he ruthlessly closed his mind to it. “Quiet night?”

“Except for a call out at the Pierce place.” She grimaced. “Neighbors called in the disturbance.”

Sloan filled his mug and glanced around the office. All of the desks were empty. “Who took the call?”

“Ruiz. Just before he got off shift. Report’s still on his desk if you want to read it.”

Dave Ruiz was one of the other deputies at the Weaver office. There were more than twenty of them in all, covering the county.

“Dawson’s out on an accident toward Braden, and Jerry’s checking an alarm that went off at the medical offices next to Shop-World,” Pam added, without looking up from her book.

Sloan picked up the report on the Pierce disturbance, read through it and tossed it back down again. “Lorraine Pierce needs to leave that bastard,” he said.

“Yup.” Pam turned a page in her book. “But she won’t. Not until he puts her in the hospital. Or worse.”

Sloan sighed. He figured Pam was probably right. And there wasn’t a damn thing they could do because Lorraine refused to admit that her husband, Bobby, had hurt or threatened her in any way. Every time they’d locked him up, she’d taken him home again. “She ought to put some thought into that kid of hers, then,” he muttered. Calvin Pierce was about Dillon’s age.

Which only had him thinking about Abby yet again.

He gulped down the coffee, scorching the lining of his mouth in the process. But not even that managed to eradicate the image of Abby’s soft eyes staring up at him over a crystal glass full of milk.

“When’re you gonna tell Max you’ll stay on for good?”

He looked over at Pam. She was still reading her book.

The sheriff had asked him to stay on permanently, but Sloan wasn’t ready to agree. “Guess that’s between me and Max.”

She tilted her head, eyeing him over the top of her reading glasses. She just smiled slightly. Pam was not only the department’s dispatcher, she was also one of the biggest gossips in town, and he didn’t want to provide the woman with any more fodder than necessary.

He took his coffee, went into the locker room and grabbed a shower. Then he dressed in jeans and an old ATF sweatshirt, signed out his usual cruiser and drove back home through the thin morning light.

Abby’s house was still dark when he turned into his driveway a few minutes later. No signs that they were up and about or that the oatmeal with raisins was in progress.

He went inside and started a pot of coffee and tried to pretend that the house next to him was still sitting empty and cold and unoccupied.

He was no more successful at that than he was trying to decide what to do with his life.

* * *

“Abby, come on.” Dillon was dancing around on his snow-booted feet, impatiently waiting for her to finish putting away the breakfast dishes. “You promised we’d make a snowman. With a carrot nose and everything.”

Her brother was a lot more enthusiastic about trudging around in the snow for a few hours than she was. But she’d promised, so she rounded the breakfast counter and tugged his stocking cap down over his eyes, making him giggle. “You can get started while I put on my coat.”

He pushed his hat back and raced out the front door, so anxious that he didn’t even pull it shut behind him. She followed and stuck her head out. “Stay in our yard,” she started to warn needlessly. Dillon was already crouching down next to the porch, balling up a handful of snow in his mittens to begin the snowman.

Her gaze shifted to the house next door.

It was completely still, not even showing a spiral of smoke from the chimney like most of the other houses on the block. She would have assumed he was gone, if not for the SUV emblazoned with Sheriff on the side parked in his driveway.

“Hurry up, Abby!”

Dragging her eyes away from the house next door, she noticed that Dillon’s snowball had already grown to the size of a pumpkin. She retrieved her own coat and boots and, when she was bundled up almost as much as her brother, went outside.

The pumpkin had nearly doubled in diameter by the time she joined Dillon in the middle of the yard. “How big are you planning to make that?”

He threw his arms wide. “This big.”

She couldn’t help laughing. “You want a fat snowman, then. All right.” She bent over and put her gloved hands against the big ball. “Let’s roll, bud.”

Even between the two of them, by the time they managed to push the growing ball across the yard twice more, they could barely manage to budge it. “This is big enough,” she told him breathlessly as she straightened. Her breath clouded around her head, but warm from their exertions, she pulled off her knit cap and shoved it into her pocket.

“No, it’s not,” Dillon argued. He threw his arms wide again. “This big.”

“Dillon—”

“Kid’s right,” a deep voice said behind them. “It’s nowhere near big enough.”

She whirled to see Sloan standing on his front porch watching them. Pleasure exploded in her veins.

He’d kissed her.

On New Year’s Eve at midnight, he’d kissed her.

Maybe it meant nothing to him, but it sure had meant something to her.

“Happy New Year,” she said brightly. Despite the frigid temperature, he was wearing only a long-sleeved black sweatshirt with his jeans. “Aren’t you cold?”

There was at least fifty feet separating their houses, but she could still see his wry smile from where she stood. “Watching all that work you’re doing’s keeping me warm enough.”

Not entirely sure what to make of that, she felt herself flush. Dillon was bouncing around his snowman base, and she focused on that. “We can’t make this any bigger,” she told them both. “It’s already too heavy to move.”

“Mr. Sloan’ll help,” Dillon said. He peered up at Sloan. “Wontcha?”

“Dillon,” Abby cautioned quickly. She was still surprised at Dillon’s unusual openness where their new neighbor was concerned. “Mr. McCray might have other things to do right now. It’s New Year’s Day, remember? It’s a holiday. People usually spend holidays with their families or friends.”

Dillon’s lower lip pushed out. “We’re not with our family. And maybe he’s a friend.”

She didn’t dare glance at Sloan. “We just met Mr. McCray yesterday.” Kiss or not, it was too early to tell just what Sloan McCray was to them, besides their neighbor.

“Every time you say Mr. McCray, I want to look around my shoulder for my old man.”

“I suppose it really should be Deputy McCray, anyway.”

“You’re a deputy?” Dillon’s voice went up a notch. “Do you got a gun and a badge?”

“I do, though I don’t much care for the gun part.” Sloan had come down his steps. He was carrying a silver thermal cup in one bare hand, and his eyes narrowed slightly as he took a drink of its contents while he crossed the yard. “And I think just calling me Sloan will do.”

Considering the heat rising inside her, Abby wanted to unwind the scarf from around her neck and ditch it, too, but she resisted the urge. Dillon would think he could do the same, and he was plagued with winter colds. “You need a coat,” she told Sloan. She also didn’t want Dillon thinking he could emulate the tall man from next door, either. “At least some gloves.”

“I didn’t get to come out without my coat,” Dillon said. With his stocking cap, his puffy down coat, his scarf and his mittens, his skinny little body was nearly round.

“And we’ve got to do as Nurse Marcum says,” Sloan drawled. He pulled a pair of black gloves from his back pocket. “Think these’ll do?”

She knew she was blushing. “Not unless they’re on your hands.”

His amusement turned to an outright smile, confirming what she already knew. Spectacular. Definitely spectacular.

And she felt entirely caught in the spell of his brown eyes.

“Hold this.” He handed her the thermal mug and pulled on his gloves, his gaze finally sliding away to focus on Dillon.

“Your sister needs to see what the men can do,” Sloan was saying to Dillon, who beamed in response. He crouched next to the boulder-sized snowball. Dillon did the same, and they began rolling the ball, not stopping until it was even more enormous.

Abby dragged her gaze from the view of Sloan’s backside before he straightened. “Good thing you finally stopped,” she offered. “Or there wouldn’t be enough snow left on the ground to make the other two parts of Mr. Frosty, here.” She held out the mug, but Sloan waved it off.

“Dillon, you start on the head,” he suggested. “Your sister and I will work on the middle.”

“He’s gotta have a fat belly,” Dillon warned.

“I think we can manage,” Sloan assured him. His gaze met Abby’s. “Or did you just want to sit on the porch looking pretty while the men slave away?”

“I was working hard enough on the base before you appeared.” She set the mug on one of the porch steps.

Did he really think she was pretty?

Embarrassed by her own thoughts, she scooped up a handful of snow, packing it down tightly to start the midsection. Sloan added to it until it was so large she needed both hands to hold it. Then they rolled it around on the ground until it was almost as big as the base and they had to wrestle it into place. Once they had it where they wanted it, Sloan lifted Dillon so he could put the head he’d formed on top.

When they were done, Abby stood back and laughed. Dillon’s snowman head was woefully small in proportion to the rest of the monster.

“I’m gonna get the carrot!” Dillon raced into the house.

Sloan moved next to Abby, and she went still when he unwound the scarf from her neck. “What are you doing?”

“Not trying to undress you in the middle of your front yard,” he murmured dryly.

Her cheeks went hot. “I didn’t—”

“Not that undressing you doesn’t hold plenty of appeal.”

Her lips snapped shut. She feared her face was as red as her coat.

He smiled slightly. “But a snowman needs a scarf, doesn’t he?” He finally turned away and wrapped the scarf around the snowman’s neck. The candy-cane-striped knit fluttered cheerfully against the enormously oversize midsection.

Dillon’s boots clomped on the porch as he returned. He clutched a long carrot in his fist and reached up to jab it squarely in the center of the snowman’s face. “What’re we gonna use for eyes?”

“When I was a kid, we always used buttons. But we don’t have any spares anymore.” Abby thought about the old jelly jar her grandmother had once used to store spare buttons.

Even though she looked away quickly, Sloan still caught the sudden shimmer in Abby’s eyes.

Fortunately, Dillon hadn’t noticed because he was too enamored of his snowy creation. Sloan gestured at his house. “I have a bag of cookies on my kitchen counter,” he told the boy. “Run over and grab a few. They’ll work for eyes.”

But the boy didn’t race off the way Sloan figured he would. He sidled next to Abby. “Should I?” he heard him ask under his breath.

She brushed her fingers over the cap on his head. “Do you want me to go with you?”

The boy ducked his chin into his coat and gave Sloan a look from the corner of his eye. “He’s really a deputy?”

Abby nodded. She smiled at Sloan, but it didn’t hold a fraction of the brilliance that he knew it could. That it should.

“Look at the truck in his driveway,” she told her brother. “It says Sheriff on the side and everything.”

Dillon looked. After a moment, his chin came out of his coat. “I can go myself,” he announced. Evidently, deputy and sheriff were the encouragement he needed.

“Bring a couple extra cookies,” Sloan suggested. “I think we need to eat a few after all this hard work.”

Dillon nodded and headed across the yard with the care of someone crossing a minefield.

“He’s pretty serious for a little kid.”

“You would be too if you’d had a mother like ours.” Abby didn’t look at him but fussed with the scarf around the snowman’s neck. “I was lucky. She dumped me off on her parents when I was a baby. She chose to hold on to Dillon until he was four.”

“And then she booked.”

Abby nodded. “Don’t know where. Don’t care why.” Her face was open. Honest.

“But you care about buttons.”

“Dillon’s too serious, and you’re too observant.”

“County pays me to be observant.”

Her lips curved sadly. “This is the first New Year’s that I haven’t spent with my grandmother. Every year before she got sick, she’d make black-eyed peas for good luck and roast a turkey with all the fixings.” She looked past him toward the door that Dillon had disappeared through. “She used to save her buttons in a jelly jar. When I was little, I’d string them into necklaces and bracelets.” She shrugged. “Probably sounds silly.”

“Sounds like good memories.”

Her expression softened. And he had a strong urge just to fall into the soft, gray warmth of her eyes. “They are good memories. Thanks for reminding me of that.”

He took a step toward her, not even sure what he was after, but Dillon returned with all of the speed that had been missing when he went into the house. He was holding up a handful of chocolate sandwich cookies. “We gotta put the eyes in! Otherwise, Deputy Frosty can’t see anything.”

Abby caught the corner of her lip between her teeth, and her eyes smiled into Sloan’s. “He’s been promoted to deputy already? What are we going to do for a badge?”

“I’ll draw him one.” Stretching, Dillon worked the cookies into the snow above the carrot nose. They were a little uneven but seemed to suit the small-headed, big-bellied guy.

“What about his mouth?” Abby asked.

“He don’t need a mouth.”

“Sure he does,” Sloan argued. “What if a pretty snowgirl came by and wanted to kiss him?” He enjoyed watching the pink color bloom in Abby’s cheeks.

Dillon, however, wrinkled his nose. “Kissing’s gross.”

Sloan hid a smile. “Depends on the snowgirl, kid.”

“Now I see why you’re not still hanging around the office on your day off.”

Sloan looked over his shoulder to see Pam Rasmussen sitting in her SUV, the window rolled down. She was grinning like the cat who’d gotten the cream. “Looks like y’all are having fun.”

He didn’t want to imagine the speculation going on inside the dispatcher’s busy mind as he started to provide the briefest of introductions.

But they turned out to be unnecessary when Abby crossed the lawn and shook Pam’s hand through the opened window. “I think we actually know each other through an old friend of mine from high school,” she told her. “Delia Templeton?”

Pam clapped her hands together. “Of course!” Her gaze went past Abby to Sloan. “Delia’s my cousin,” she told him. “Well, my husband Rob’s cousin, anyway. And now here you are, playing in the snow with one of our very own deputy sheriffs. What a small, small world.”

Sloan could practically see the wheels turning inside Pam’s head. “What’re you doing here, Pam?” She and Rob lived on the other side of town.

“Doing a favor for my mom. She’s been keeping an eye on her uncle’s house while he’s been gone.” She gestured toward the house on the other side of Abby’s where old Gilcrest lived. “He’s coming back tomorrow, and she wanted the heat turned up for him. Told her I’d take care of it when my shift ended. Never expected to find a little romance brewing right next door.” She smiled slyly as her SUV began slowly rolling forward. “Better get that heat going.”

Sloan managed not to groan. “Don’t pay her any attention,” he told Abby as Pam drove a little farther and stopped in front of her uncle’s house. “She’s always like that.”

“I know.” Her head bobbed quickly. “Delia has shared loads of stories about her family. Everyone is into everyone’s business.” She looked over at Dillon, who’d lost interest in what the adults were doing and was sitting on the porch steps holding two chocolate cookies in front of his face as though they were his eyes. She grinned at the sight and looked back at Sloan. “Do you have plans for dinner today? I’m not fixing anything fancy—nothing like a turkey or black-eyed peas, but—”

“I do have plans,” he cut her off abruptly then felt like a heel. He was aware of the way Pam was watching them as she walked up to the old man’s house. “I promised my sister. Family dinner.”

“Abby, I wanna make a badge for the snowman.”

Her gray gaze cut away from his face to look at her brother. “Sure thing, honey.” She glanced at Sloan again as she started toward the house. “Thanks for your help with the snowman. Hope you have a good time with your sister.”

Given a choice, he’d have been happy to stay right where he was, with or without Pam’s unwanted attention. There wasn’t a romance brewing for the simple reason that he didn’t do romance. No point.

But the heat? That was definitely already on.

Chapter Four

“Here.” A longneck bottle appeared over Sloan’s shoulder, and he looked back to see his brother-in-law standing there.

He wanted nothing from Axel, but he could see Tara watching them from across the living room of the Double-C’s main house, where they’d all congregated after the New Year’s Day feast. He accepted the bottle and clinked the bottom of it once against Axel’s and turned his attention back to the football game playing on the wall-mounted television.

His hope that the other man would move along was blown when Axel sat down on the couch, too.

“Tara’s worried you’re going to book when your stint with Max is up.”

He already knew that. But he was damned if he knew what to do about it when he couldn’t even figure out what he wanted to do. He thought a little longingly of Abby’s dinner. He wouldn’t be having this conversation if he’d canceled on his sister and stayed with Abby and Dillon. But if he’d canceled, he’d just have another thing to regret where Tara was concerned. “Whether I stay or not doesn’t have anything to do with Tara.”

Axel grimaced. “Right, ’cause it has to do with me.”

Sloan picked at the bottle label with his thumb. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Neither do I. But I love my wife. And she loves you.”

“I’ve told her she needs to stop worrying about me.”

Axel laughed shortly. “Yeah. That’s going to happen. She’s finally got you back. She doesn’t want to lose you again.”

“Whatever I decide, she’s not going to lose me.” He kept his focus on the television, even though the first half of the football game had just ended. “Undercover work for me is in the past.” He hadn’t merely worked undercover. He’d been deep undercover. So deep, and for so long, that the line between reality and fiction had gotten way too blurred.

Some days—most days—it still felt that way.

The record books would show a successful conclusion to the operation. A deadly gang had been dismantled. Murdering thieves had been imprisoned.

But in the end, Sloan’s ATF career had been toast and the woman he’d loved—whom Axel Clay had been brought in to protect—had been dead.

He knew he couldn’t lay the blame for Maria’s death at Axel’s door even if he wanted to. Sloan was the one who’d set that into motion when he’d told her the truth about what he was really doing. He hadn’t wanted to lose her. But he’d lost her anyway when she’d tried going back to her old life once he’d taken his years of evidence to his bosses. If she hadn’t known the truth about Sloan, they’d have left her alone. She wouldn’t have been a possible witness in their eyes; she’d have just been the cocktail waitress they’d never had reason to distrust.

All she’d wanted to do was keep her life intact, but she’d paid a fatal price for it. Then it all seemed to be repeating itself when Sloan’s sister suddenly found herself in the same sort of danger. It was Axel who’d succeeded in keeping Tara safe. Sloan was grateful for that, but he still knew it was his fault that she’d needed protecting in the first place.

He gave his brother-in-law a steady look. “Whether I stay or go doesn’t have anything to do with you, either,” he said evenly. “Or Maria,” he made himself add. For his sister’s sake. “Tara’s good at putting down roots. I’m not.”

“You’re good at it when there’s something that matters enough to you.” Axel’s tone was just as deliberate. “You spent a lot of years riding with Johnny Diablo and the Deuces.” He scooped up his two-year-old son, Aidan, who was chasing full tilt after one of his older cousins. “Seems to me the question is what does matter that much to you?”

Sloan caught his nephew’s wildly swinging foot before it connected with his face and tickled the bottom of it, making Aidan squeal. The little whirlwind managed to climb from his dad’s lap to Sloan’s back, where he clung like a monkey. “Ride! Ride!”

Glad for an excuse, Sloan rose from the couch. “Duty calls.” He turned on his heel to give Axel’s son his requested ride.

They went as far as the basement, which was as crowded as the upstairs living room. The main house was big, but so was the extensive Clay family. They had every age covered from babies to octogenarians.

“Gampa, Gampa, Gampa,” Aidan yelled when he spotted Squire sitting amid a trio of young teenagers.

The old man handed his video-game controller to the only girl in the trio. “Infernal game,” he groused. But considering the way his face was creased with a grin, there wasn’t a lot of bite to it.

Tristan Clay, who was the youngest and wealthiest of Squire’s sons—and as far as Sloan was concerned, the wiliest—roused himself from his napping sprawl nearby. “That infernal game’s putting a new wing on the hospital,” he pointed out without heat.

Squire harrumphed. “Folks have always been willin’ to throw good money away.”

Tristan just smiled faintly, letting the jab pass.

It wasn’t often that Sloan saw Tristan looking so relaxed. He ran his insanely successful video-gaming company, Cee-Vid, but he was also the number two man behind Hollins-Winword, an international firm that dealt in private security and covert intelligence. And it was in that role that Sloan had first dealt with the man and his nephew, Axel. Before he’d gone undercover with the Deuces, he’d asked Hollins-Winword to watch over Tara. She still hadn’t quite forgiven him for not informing her of that particular fact, but since she was as happy as a clam now with Axel, she didn’t beat him up with it too often.

“Give me my great-grandson,” Squire told Sloan, and he was happy enough to push aside the memories as he detached the kid’s fingers from his hair to set him on the floor. The kid immediately bulleted toward the gray-haired man, who scooped him up and blew a raspberry against his neck. Aidan’s laughter filled the spacious room and immediately, young cousins began appearing, clamoring for similar treatment from the old man.

“I thought he was bad with his grandchildren,” Tristan commented, leaving his spot that was no longer peaceful at all to follow Sloan back up the stairs. “He’s twice as bad with his great-grandkids. The man was hell on us when we were growing up, but given the chance, he’ll spoil the daylights out of them.”

Sloan wondered if Abby’s grandfather had been similarly inclined, or if her grandparents had been stricter because they’d taken on a parental role.

They made it to the top of the stairs and turned into the kitchen. The enormous table there was covered with a dozen desserts in varying stages of demolition, sidetracking both of them. Tristan studied his choices while Sloan helped himself to a hefty wedge of the chocolate cake he knew his sister had brought. It was the same cake his mother used to make for their birthdays when they were kids.

The cake was incredible. The memories that came with it weren’t.

“Max sending you to that conference coming up in Cheyenne?”

Max had tried working on him to attend, but he couldn’t see the point. Not when he wasn’t even sure he was going to be around in a few months. “Dawson and Ruiz are going.”

His sister entered the kitchen. “There you are.” She was carrying Hank on her hip.

“Wasn’t exactly hiding,” he pointed out and watched the way his nephew eyed the cake on his fork. He knew better than to give the boy any, though. He’d made that mistake once already and quickly learned that Tara didn’t want him having anything sugary until he was older.

Not that Hank the Tank was looking particularly deprived. The kid wasn’t a year old yet, but he was already showing signs that he’d inherited the Clay genes when it came to size. He sure hadn’t gotten his height from his petite mama. Tara was nearly a foot shorter than Sloan, and he and her husband were pretty much eye to eye.

“This is the first time I’ve had a chance to talk to you,” she returned.

“Could’ve come talk to me earlier instead of sending your husband.”

Tara’s brown eyes flashed. “I didn’t send Axel to do anything! As if the man ever does something he doesn’t choose to do in the first place.” Tristan made a noise and buried his attention in his pecan pie as he escaped. So much for the big-shot secret agent.

Sloan wished he could follow. He pushed his fork into the cake again and ignored the hopeful gleam in Hank’s eyes. “He’d take a bullet for you.”

She rubbed her cheek against Hank’s bald head. “You’re the one who took a bullet,” she reminded him.

A graze. And it had been more than two years ago. She’d been pregnant with Aidan and on the verge of marrying Axel.

“But he has walked through fire for me,” she allowed. “Literally.”

“Which was my fault, too.”

She shook her head. “I’ve never blamed you for what happened at the church that day when Maria’s brother set that fire. He wanted to get back at you for her death by getting to me. He was insane with grief.”

“You have more pity for him than I do.” And more pity than the courts had. The lunatic had been convicted and would be locked away for a good long time.

“It’s all water under the bridge, anyway,” she dismissed. “If you really want a fresh start, don’t you think that should include letting go of the past?”

He wished he could give her the answers she wanted to hear. “I don’t want to promise something I’m not sure I can deliver.”

She studied him for a moment. “Would you go back to the ATF if you could?”

He let out a humorless laugh. “Goob, they don’t want me back.” They’d made that plain enough when he’d been fired after the Deuce’s trial had finally ended. They hadn’t taken kindly to him drawing in anyone from Hollins-Winword to protect Maria or Tara. They’d told him it had shown a strong lack of faith in his own agency and conveniently ignored the fact that they hadn’t been willing to provide any sort of protection themselves.

“But if you could?”

Would he? Nearly his entire adult life had been wrapped up in his ATF career. “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Well,” she said after a moment, “that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about, anyway.” She shifted Hank onto her other hip. “What’s this I hear about you and your new neighbor? She’s the new school nurse, right?”

He stared. “What do you know about her?”

“She was your mysterious plan last night, wasn’t she?”

“She, who?” Max and his wife, Sarah, chose that moment to wander into the kitchen, and her blue gaze bounced from Sloan to Tara and back again. “Pretty little Abby Marcum?”

Sloan eyed his boss, but Max just shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I might be the sheriff, but I don’t know anything.”

Sarah poked him in the side, and he jerked away, grinning. Then he frowned. “No more pecan pie?”

“Tristan finished it off.”

“Figures.” He took the last slice of chocolate cake. “This’ll do just as well.”

“Even after all these years together I do not know how you can eat the way you do and never gain a pound,” Sarah complained. “You had a piece of Gloria’s cheesecake an hour ago.”

Max swatted her lightly on the butt. “My wife keeps me well exercised.”

She rolled her eyes. “Here I thought you were going to help me get started on some of these dishes. Go on, then. Go back to your football game. I know that’s what you really want to do.”

“Always figure it’s smart to get while the gettin’s good.” Max looked at Sloan. “You coming? Half time’s over.”

Sloan finished off his cake in a single bite and tossed the paper plate in the trash. “Just like Mom’s,” he told his twin, and then he did what any smart man would do and escaped while the escaping was good.

* * *

The house was cold again when Abby waked early the next morning. She pulled on a thick sweatshirt over her flannel pajamas and checked on Dillon, who was still sound asleep, before starting a pot of coffee. With the water gurgling and the scent of coffee beginning to fill the kitchen, she pushed her feet into her boots and let herself quietly out the door. She didn’t like having to take more wood from Sloan’s pile, but they’d burned through the last of what she had during the night, and she didn’t want Dillon getting up to such a cold house.

Deputy Frosty’s fat belly was just as fat as it had been the day before, but the striped scarf had fallen onto the ground. She stopped long enough to wind it around the snowman’s neck, making sure the cardboard badge pinned to the knit was visible. Dillon had spent considerable time making the thing, and he’d certainly want to see it there today.

When she was finished, she balled her cold hands in the pockets of her sweatshirt and hurried across the yard.

“You’re an early riser.”

She nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of Sloan’s voice. The sky was gray and heavy, but it was still light enough to see him standing on his front porch.

And it was more than a little alarming the way pleasure engulfed her at the sight of him. Particularly considering the way he’d bolted the day before, after Pam Rasmussen had come by.

“So are you.” Her voice sounded breathless but she couldn’t help it. Seeing him made her feel breathless. “You’re looking very official.” He was coatless, too. But whereas she’d been caught in her flannel jammies and an oversize sweatshirt, he looked downright glorious in his uniform. He wore sharply creased khaki-colored pants with a dark green, long-sleeved shirt and black tie, complete with badge pinned to his insanely wide chest. She also noticed that, with a collared shirt, there was no hint that he had that intriguing tattoo that started on his neck and dipped beneath his clothing. “On duty today?” She cringed since it was pretty unlikely he would wear his uniform if he weren’t.

“In a while.” He lifted the mug he was holding. “Want some coffee?”

Even though she had her own pot brewing, she very nearly nodded. She pushed her fists deeper into her pockets, hoping to stretch the sweatshirt a little lower over her stupid pajama pants. “No, thanks. I was just going to grab some more wood. Dillon’s still sleeping.”

He straightened away from the post he’d been leaning against, set his mug on the rail and came down the steps toward her.

Her ability to breathe normally evaporated entirely.

All she could think of was the way he’d kissed her.

And the way he’d bolted.

Admittedly, he had been headed for a family dinner, but it still had felt as if he couldn’t wait to escape.

He kept going when he reached her, though, angling toward the back of the house. “Half expected to see another snowman keeping Frosty company in your front yard.”

She skipped to catch up with him and wished again that she’d taken the time to change into jeans. “If we get more snow out of those clouds, I expect he’ll have company soon enough.” She pulled one hand out of her pocket to tuck her hair behind her ear, only to realize she hadn’t taken the time to brush her hair yet, either.

Lovely. Plaid pajamas, morning breath and a rat’s nest of hair.

She ducked her chin into the collar of her sweatshirt and twitched the hood up over her hair.

“Cold?”

She smiled and shrugged, even though she was sure he was the cause of her shivering rather than the cold morning.

When they reached the back of the house, she quickly gathered several pieces of firewood. When he started to help her, she protested. “You’re going to get your shirt dirty.”

“Sweetheart, I’ve gotten worse things on my uniform before than a few wood slivers.”

Sweetheart.

She shivered again and headed back around the side of the house, crossing diagonally to her front door.

Sloan followed her inside, and they stacked the wood next to the fireplace. “Looks like you did some more unpacking. Are they your grandparents?”

She glanced at the framed photographs he’d noticed on the mantel. “Yes.”

“This you?” He tapped one in particular of Abby and her grandparents.

“We were pheasant hunting.” She added a split log to the fire and jabbed the embers before adjusting the screen.

“How old were you?”

She didn’t have to look at the photo to remind herself. “Seventeen.” She and her grandfather had gone out hunting only one more time after that. It hadn’t been the same without her grandmother coming along, but she hadn’t been healthy enough at that point to accompany them.

“You look about thirteen.”

And even more wet behind the ears, no doubt.

She pressed her hands against her flannel-covered thighs and straightened. “Maybe so,” she said, “but he taught me to shoot almost as well as he could.” She headed into the kitchen.

“You like hunting?”

“I liked going out with my grandparents. Without them?” She shrugged and filled a coffee cup. “I can’t really see myself going out again. I don’t think I have the heart for it.” She took a sip, watching him over the brim of the cup. Not even the width of the living room was enough to dim the sheer wattage of him. “I’ll get enough wood today to replace what I’ve used.”