Free The Kid Who Stole Christmas by Linda Stevens Page A

retrieved their coats, holding hers open for her. “Drink isn’t responsible for my troubles, though there was a time when it could have been a contender, I suppose.”
    “Then what is responsible?”
    “Three people,” Rick replied.
    “Nathan Bayer and Angela I can guess. Who’s the third?”
    “Me.”

Chapter Seven
    S hannon didn’t find the walk back toward the nearest pub nearly as cold, dark and scary, with Rick by her side. In fact, there was something cozy about the night now. She tentatively touched her gloved hand to his, and he surprised her by taking it. This was different from holding her hand while leading her through a dark warehouse. This was a gesture of warmth and companionship. When she glanced at his face, the small smile she saw there confirmed that he felt the same way.
    The place Shannon had in mind was a boisterous watering hole directly across from Union Station called the Wynkoop Brewing Company. It had been among the first of what was now a wave of brew pubs sweeping the nation, so named because the proprietors brewed and served their own fresh beer right on the premises. Shannon liked the stout she could get there, which reminded her of a trip she’d taken to Ireland in her college days.
    At this hour and particularly during this season, the pub was packed, loud and deliciously festive. Just the ticket to drive the chill from their bones and ease the telling of what Shannon thought might be a painful story for Rick.
    It was also a great spot to lose oneself in the crowd, which they quickly did. After flagging down a server, they managed to squeeze themselves into a cranny far enough away from the main bar to allow a relatively quiet conversation. As Shannon had expected, Rick did seem more at ease here than he had in his little place at the warehouse.
    So did she. For all its unusual ambience, it had been too intimate there by half. She sipped her stout, which looked and tasted more like sweet, black coffee than beer.
    Rick had ordered the same. “Good,” he said after a sip.
    “So,” Shannon prompted, “I believe you were about to tell me the story of your life?”
    “That would only bore both of us to tears. I was born, raised and attended school in Arizona. It’s a nice place, if you like sun, the desert and lots of quiet. But for the most part, the only people who find any of it truly fascinating are anthropologists, New Agers and white folks pretending to be Native Americans.”
    Shannon laughed. “A cynic. I like that in a man.”
    “Don’t get me started,” Rick warned. “I can do an hour on Elvis impersonators alone. But seriously, there isn’t much to tell on that end. How about you? Colorado girl?”
    “Sort of,” she replied. “I was born in Nebraska. But after my parents divorced, my mother moved us here.”
    “How old were you?” he asked thoughtfully.
    “Eight, the same as Leo.”
    Rick drank his beer, mulling over this fact. “And about the same as Chelsea was when Angela divorced me.”
    “I thought so,” Shannon told him, nodding. “That seemed to be the age of the little girl who was the hardest for you to be around today. But also the one who seemed to have helped you the most.”
    He studied her face. “And so that’s why you decided you might be able to help me?” he asked, obviously doubtful.
    “Well, I don’t know, Rick,” Shannon replied, unable to keep an edge of sarcasm from her tone. “I was yanked away from my father at about the same age as your little girl, and grew up hearing a daily tirade about him and his evil ways. That might just give me some insight into your situation, don’t you suppose?”
    Rick realized that he had been so caught up in his own problems that he hadn’t seen what was right in front of him. Shannon had been offering her help almost from the moment they met. She was right, of course. He didn’t have a corner on the pain market.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know.”
    Shannon blew out a deep