Christmas In Snowflake Canyon

Yet another illusion shattered.

“Have a seat,” Pete said.

“Can you take these off now?” Dylan raised their joined arms.

The female officer seemed to find the whole situation highly amusing, for reasons Gen didn’t quite understand.

“I don’t know about that,” she said slowly. “We wouldn’t want the two of you starting any more fights. Maybe we should leave it on a few more minutes, until we give Chief McKnight time to assess the situation.”

Genevieve drew in a breath. The McKnights. She couldn’t escape them anywhere in this cursed town.

“What about our phone calls?” Dylan said. “I need to call my attorney, who also happens to be my brother Andrew. I’m sure Ms. Beaumont wants to call her father.”

“You don’t speak for me,” she said quickly. “I don’t need to call my father.”

“But you’re going to need an attorney.”

She was exhausted suddenly after the ordeal of the evening and the cut on her cheek burned. Her brain felt scrambled, but she said the first thing that came to her mind. “I’ll use yours. Andrew Caine is my attorney, too.”

Her father would find out about this, of course. She couldn’t hide it. For all she knew, somebody had already told him his only daughter had been scrapping in a bar like some kind of Roller Derby queen. But she couldn’t endure more of his disappointment tonight, the heavy, inescapable weight of her own failure.

“Seriously?” Officer Olivarez—now, there was a mouthful—looked skeptical. “You’re sure you don’t want to call Daddy to bail you out?”

“Positive.” She looked at the two officers and at Dylan. “I think we can all agree, the last thing any of us needs tonight is for my father to come down here. Am I right?”

“I doubt anything you do will stop that,” Dylan drawled.

He was right. Someone at the Lizard had probably already dropped a dime on her. Wasn’t that the appropriate lingo? William was probably already on his way over but she wasn’t going to be the one to call him.

“Andrew Caine is my attorney. End of story,” she declared. “Now will you please take these things off?”

After a pause, the female officer pulled out a key to the handcuffs and freed them. Instead of elation, Genevieve fought down an odd disappointment as she rubbed the achy hand that had been cuffed with her other one.

“You can call your brother over there.” Officer Olivarez gestured with a flip of her braid to a corded phone hanging on the wall.

Dylan headed over and picked up the phone receiver, and after an awkward moment where he tried to figure out what to do with it, he draped it over his shoulder so he could punch the numbers with his remaining hand.

Poor guy. Even something as simple as making a phone call must be a challenge with only one hand.

The two officers started talking about a sporting event Genevieve didn’t know or care anything about. She couldn’t hear Dylan’s conversation with his brother, but judging by the way his expression grew increasingly remote, it wasn’t pleasant. After a few minutes, he hung up.

“Well? Is he coming to get us out?”

“He’ll be here. He wanted to know if we had been booked yet.”

The two officers exchanged glances. “Chief McKnight wants us to hang on until he gets here. It’s kind of a sticky situation, what with the district attorney’s office being involved.”

“What does that mean?”

“Once we book you, you have to go into the system,” Pete Redmond explained, not unkindly, and she was a little sorry she hadn’t agreed to go out with him all those years ago. “That means your arrest will always be on record, even if you’re not charged.”

“The police chief is on the phone with the district attorney, trying to iron things out.”

“How long will that take?” she asked.

“Who knows?” Pete said.

He started to explain the judicial system to her but she tuned him out. He was saying something about bail hearings when she heard a commotion through the open doorway.

“Where the hell is my daughter?”

Merde. Any alcohol that hadn’t been absorbed into her system by now seemed to well up in her gut.

Dylan gave her a careful look and shoved a garbage can over with his foot. “You’re not going to puke on me now, are you?”

She willed down the gorge in her throat. “I’m fine. I won’t be sick.”

She was almost positive that was true, anyway.

“Good. Because I have to say, that would just about make this the perfect date.”

An inelegant snort escaped before she could help it. Again, she blamed the mojitos, but her father walked in just in time to catch it.

He stood in the doorway and glowered at her, and she was filled with such a tangle of emotions, she didn’t know what to do with them—anger and hurt and an aching sort of shame that she was always a disappointment.

“Genevieve Marie Beaumont. Look at you. You’ve been back in town less than forty-eight hours and where do I find you but in the police station, associating with all manner of disreputable characters.”

Beside her, Dylan gave a little wave. “Hey there, Mayor Beaumont.”

Some of her father’s stiff disapproval seemed to shift to an uncertain chagrin for a moment and it took her a moment to realize why. She had heard enough in her infrequent visits home to know that Dylan was considered a hero around town, someone who had sacrificed above and beyond for his country.

“I didn’t, er, necessarily mean you by that general statement.”

“I’m sure,” Dylan said coolly.

“Yes, well.” Her father cleared his throat and turned back to Genevieve. “I’m doing what I can to get you out of here. I’ve already been on the phone with the district attorney to see if we can work things out with his people before this goes any further. I’m quite outraged that no one called me first. That includes you, young lady. I realize you haven’t been in trouble with the law before but surely you know the first thing you should always do is call your attorney.”

“You’re not my attorney.” Her words came out small, and, as usual, her father didn’t pay her any mind.

He went on about his plan for extricating her from the mess as if she had said nothing.

“You’re not my attorney,” she said in a louder voice. “Andrew Caine is.”

Her father didn’t roll his eyes, but it was a close thing. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I’ll represent you.”

“I thought attorneys weren’t supposed to represent family members.”

“That’s people in the medical profession, my dear,” he said indulgently, as if she were five years old. “Attorneys have no such stricture. If you would prefer, I can call one of my associates to represent you. Either way, we’ll have these ridiculous charges thrown out and pretend this never happened.”