but then the intense stare was back. His shield.
“I didn’t stay for the party on purpose,” he said.
“I realized that when you came back after you thought everyone had gone home and scowled when you saw me.”
“I didn’t scowl,” he denied.
“You always scowl.” She wiggled the present in front of him, but he didn’t reach for it. “You do it to scare people off.”
The edges of his mouth almost turned up, but he caught himself. “How come it doesn’t work with you?”
“Because the only person who scares me is my mother and her plans to get me to move back home.” She flashed him another big grin. He merely continued to stare at her as if that hint of a smile had never happened.
Her grin faded.
“Your scowls don’t work on me,” she told him, “because I don’t give up on most people that easily. That amazing trait is why I’m in this line of work.”
She laid the box down at the side of his desk. “If you’re shy, you can take it home with you to open. I don’t mind. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t left out.”
He didn’t say anything. She wasn’t about to let his silence intimidate her, but she felt so awkward standing there. His total lack of response to her gift made her feel stupid for trying to be kind.
Turning, she walked back near her desk to get her coat from the rack. What she’d said was true—she didn’t give up on people easily. But in Shamus’s case, four weeks of invitations and being her usual sunny self hadn’t worked. It was time to quit. She knew from sad experience that there were some people who needed to wallow in their misery, and the last thing she was going to do was join him. Not her. She’d lived in a house of misery growing up, but she’d gotten out, discovered the Lord and joy in her life, and become happy.
She was determined to stay that way.
Great. Not only was he contented with being miserable, now he was dragging others into his pit. Shamus typed another sentence describing a probationer’s part-time job, but he was distracted. Mallory Larsen had a rep, at church and here, for doing good that came straight from her heart. Her eyes were practically begging him to be happy. She deserved a thank-you at the very least. The only thing holding him back was that he didn’t want to give her the impression her gift had made the least bit of difference in his life. It hadn’t.
But that wasn’t her fault. Nor was it the Christmas season making him like he was. It was just the total lack of joy in him since what felt like…forever, but had only been a year and six months, give or take.
He should have figured Mallory wouldn’t go home early. Not because she was a workaholic, but because she cared about her probationers and worked overtime for them. Him? He honestly had nothing else to do, and with each of the six probation officers in Shepherd County, Indiana, carrying almost two hundred cases, the department had an endless stream of work. He might as well get some of it done.
Sitting back in his chair, he watched Mallory shrug on a beige coat with a fur collar over her red sweater and white slacks. She pulled her long, chestnut-red hair free from her collar and let it fall over her shoulder. One lock fell near a sparkling Christmas-wreath pin to the right of the fur.
Funny how he’d stopped being able to concentrate on his work the second she’d pressed down on the Santa’s head and laughed, but he could focus just fine on her. Well enough to see every detail of her clothing, hair and face. And well enough to see how fast her cheerful smile had faded when he hadn’t laughed at her joke and refused to take her gift.
He asked God once more to help him change his attitude, right then and there. His faith made him keep praying, even though he didn’t think it would do any good. He’d come to believe after his wife’s murder that the Lord wanted him to suffer for a while.
God didn’t seem any more friendly, either, by the time Mallory left her desk, heading toward the front office door, which was kept locked to offer the officers some protection from the riffraff—uh, make that probationers—they served. The look on her delicate features was gloomy compared to her normal, smiling face, and he couldn’t stand it anymore. If God no longer cared about his life enough to answer his prayers and truly change his heart, then he would have to pretend.
“Mallory?” he said as she turned the dead bolt on their office door.
Her hand paused as she turned her head to look at him, hope lighting her eyes.
“Thanks,” he said with a nod. “For thinking of me.” He still didn’t care that she had, but acting was a valuable trait for a detective, and he’d learned it well.
Her lips curved upward, but her eyes dimmed with suspicion. She was seeing right through his insincerity, but at least he’d tried. It was the best he could do.
Opening the door, Mallory walked through and left it to shut on its own. Shamus barely had enough time to remind himself once again what a louse he was when he heard a startled shout and a grunt outside the door.
Mallory. No one should be in that hall. Muscles tightening, he drew his weapon and rose, just as Mallory was propelled through the almost closed door back into the room by a man who had a Smith & Wesson pointed at her head.
This couldn’t be happening. In less than three seconds, Mallory had gone from a tiny bit of progress with the icy Shamus Burke to being held hostage by…whom? She recovered enough to look sideways at the man who was holding her arm in his shaking fingers.
Her mouth dropped open. Bud Tripp? Meek, mild-mannered accountant Bud Tripp, who had stolen a thousand dollars from his employer to move so he could get his teenage daughter away from bad influences, and had even been paying it back when the theft was discovered? If the gun hadn’t been real, she would have thought someone was playing a really bad joke on her.
“Mr. Tripp, what on earth are you doing?” She yanked out of her probationer’s loose grasp and faced him. The man, in his early fifties, was flushed red, perspiring heavily and shaking with fear or maybe cold. His jacket was too thin for the icy air outside, and his awkwardly fitting ball cap didn’t look very warm, either. His dress slacks were soaked at the bottom, probably from snowdrifts. He had a backpack on his back that looked stuffed. If it contained his possessions, maybe he’d been evicted from his new rental home and was having a mental breakdown.
That would explain everything. Which would be nice, because she definitely had no clue what he was doing.
“Put down your weapon, Tripp!” Shamus ordered, moving out from behind his desk, his department-issued Glock pointed at the smaller man.
Mallory’s eyes darted to Shamus, whose hands were a whole lot steadier than Tripp’s. “The gun is unnecessary, Shamus. Mr. Tripp doesn’t want to hurt us.” Her voice was sharp, and she instantly regretted it. She wasn’t like that. She’d never be like that. Softening her tone, she added, “But you’re so sweet, trying to protect me.”
“I was a cop for ten years. It’s what I was trained to do,” Shamus told her between gritted teeth, his gaze never drifting from the gun Tripp held. “And I am not sweet.”
“Heroic, then,” Mallory said. She meant it. No man had ever tried to protect her like that. She liked it.
Shamus
