Home for the Holidays Read online

  Melissa narrowed her eyes. "You are a totally unreasonable bastard, a cowardly small-town bully, and a complete asshole," she said. Melissa had always been a believer in speaking her mind, and damn the painful consequences. The problem was that she had no idea exactly how damned painful the consequences were about to become.

  The sheriff was very matter-of-fact about it. He simply sat down on the edge of his desk, pulled Melissa over his lap and calmly pushed her jeans down to her knees—before she could begin arguing her case. When she felt the sheriff's strong fingers under the waistband of her panties, though, she thought of a lot to say.

  "What the bloody hell do you ... O-OW-WWW!" That's all Melissa managed to say before the sheriff's large, callused hand came down fast and very hard across the two plumpest parts of her newly bare buttocks. She was too busy squirming and kicking to keep careful track of precisely how many whacks there were, because after the first few, the sheriff fell into a kind of relentless rhythm that made it impossible to concentrate on anything other than the throbbing in her scorched hindquarters. Between gasps and yelps, though, she counted well more than three-dozen, after which she stopped counting at all and began swearing and threatening legal action. Then she moved on to simply begging him to stop. But mostly, Melissa just howled—and howled.

  At six-feet four inches tall, Sheriff Harris probably weighed around 190 pounds. Melissa, on the other hand, even when she was standing up very straight, measured barely five foot one. (We will not mention, here, Melissa's own weight, since it tended to be somewhat higher than what is considered ideal. Suffice it to say that the sheriff weighed a good deal more, and that she had about as much chance of getting away as she had of beating him at wrestling or basketball.) She had never actually sat down on a kitchen burner—any more than she'd had her bare behind branded with a red-hot iron, but that was how her tender buttocks felt when the sheriff finally stopped spanking. Melissa was prone to exaggeration, but since it was her bare behind that had just been set on fire, she granted herself the right to describe it any way she pleased. The splotchy red handprints that proved her point were still visible that night, and the sting remained until the next morning—after her first night in jail.

  "This place is disgusting," Melissa complained, when the sheriff arrived the next morning.

  "Yes, it is," he agreed, affably. "The town council tried raising taxes for a new jail, but it was voted down. All we ever get in here is an occasional drunk. You’re about the first hardened criminal we've had to deal with."

  "Very funny," she groused, rubbing her behind carefully. "How long do I have to stay here?"

  "I called Homer this morning. He'll settle for six hundred. He and his cousin Earl will do the work themselves. If I were you, I'd take the deal. I brought a big old wooden hairbrush with me this morning, just in case you still need a little convincing. It belonged to my maternal grandmother."

  Melissa groaned. "I keep telling you, I haven't got that kind of money. Can't I sign a note or something?"

  "We may be hicks here," he said, with a knowing wink. "But we're not idiots. If you can’t raise the cash, I guess you'll have to get yourself a job. Unless there's someone you can call for the money."

  "No," she said quickly. Melissa would rather rot in jail than call Jonathan, and her brother was still in college, as poor as a church-mouse. Even poorer that she was, if that were possible.

  The sheriff turned around and walked off, returning a few moments later with a newspaper that he pushed through the bars. "Let me know if you need a phone," he said, grinning. "Or a reference." Melissa was about to stick out her tongue, but thought better of it.

  She found only one ad that seemed possible. It read, "Average people wanted for local promotion. Good pay, pleasant working conditions."

  "Where the hell is Hooper City?" she called out.

  "Next town over," the sheriff called back. "Around four miles." He came in and looked at the ad. "Okay, I'll drive you there and pick you up every day after work. You can sleep here at night and eat your meals at Alma's. I'll take it out of your wages every week."

  "Thank you," she said sullenly.

  "You’re welcome. And if you've still got in your head to skip out, you might want to rethink the idea. What happened last night should give you a rough idea of what could happen when I'm really upset."

  "More threats?"

  "Nope. Call this one a promise."

  "You’re a real sonovabitch, Harris, you know that?" Melissa shrieked. Unfortunately, she concluded her remarks by throwing her coffee mug at the sheriff's head. It missed but struck the doorjamb, and shattered.

  It wasn't the smartest thing Melissa had ever done, but the sheriff took it well. He got a broom from his office and swept up the mess. After he'd finished sweeping and put away the broom, however, he returned to the cell with his grandmother's hairbrush and proved that he was just as efficient with an antique hairbrush as he'd been bare-handed. Ninety seconds, two-dozen or so bare-assed swats, and a lot of agonized wailing later, Melissa apologized, very sincerely.

  * * *

  And so, accompanied by her jailor, Melissa went in search of gainful employment at the Hooper City Valu-Mart. After sleeping in her clothes for two nights, she apparently looked sufficiently average, and that, along with a good word from the sheriff, secured her the job. Her position required that she stand in a grocery aisle, dressed as a female Pilgrim, and hand out chunks of a processed poultry product called Tasty Turkey Tots.

  Each rubbery, artificially colored chunk was impaled on a plastic toothpick and tasted, she discovered, very much like old tennis shoes. She went to work that very afternoon, with her welted rear-end still pulsating.

  The days did not pass quickly, but after ten days, working thirty-six hours a week at minimum wage, Melissa had earned three hundred and twenty four dollars—before taxes. She had not been happy in her work, of course. By the time she doffed her Priscilla Mullins outfit each day, her feet were so sore she had to walk on the sides of them to reach the sheriff's waiting car, and no matter how often she washed her hands, they still smelled like rancid turkey gravy. But she had made more than enough to get to Los Angeles—if she could give the sheriff the slip.

  Her opportunity arrived on the day before Thanksgiving, with the announcement that her coworker, Ted, had called in sick on the busiest day of the month. Ted worked in costume as well—in a garish turkey outfit—and Melissa wasn't especially sorry to hear that he was ill, since he had the IQ of a table lamp and a bad habit of sneaking up behind her to rub his feathered private parts against her—while gobbling like the real-life turkey he was. On the average day, she usually stuck so many plastic toothpicks in Ted's skinny arms that he looked more like a porcupine than a turkey, but that never cooled his ardor. Only the day before, he had waggled up to her and gobbled in her ear, "Hey Priscilla—baby, you wanna try a little taste of my big old turkey sausage?" To add to his general repulsiveness, he pressed against her and whispered into her ear the product logo Melissa was forced to repeat thousands of times every day: "A Tempting, Tasty Treat, And All White Meat!"

  Melissa had grabbed a handful of toothpicks for defense. "Get lost, creep, and if you touch my ass again, I'm going to rip out your fucking groin feathers out and stick a couple of plastic toothpicks up that teeny-weeny little turkey sausage of yours!"

  With Ted absent, the manager decided that the "turkey" was probably more appealing to customers than a lady pilgrim, so Melissa was instructed to go into the back room and change her costume. "Great," she groaned, "from Puritan to Poultry!" It was while she was slipping the enormous turkey head over her own head, however, that it occurred to her that at the end of the day, the waiting sheriff would be looking for pretty, perky Priscilla Mullins—not a stupid giant turkey with a red plastic wattle and enormous yellow feet.

  * * *

  Complaining of a headache, Melissa left the store a half-hour early—by the rear entrance, just to be sure. The sheriff's blue and wh
ite patrol car was nowhere in sight, as she headed off in the direction of the Hooper City bus station. The turkey costume was cumbersome and heavy and stiflingly hot inside, but the station was only two blocks away, so her spirits were high as she wobbled unsteadily down the alley, lifting each floppy foot high as she walked. She had gotten only halfway down the alleyway when a panel of red and blue lights flickered behind her. She turned with a groan. Ben Harris was leaning against a wall, smiling at her. His patrol car was just behind him, with the engine running.

  "Nice evening for a turkey trot," he said. "Or maybe to fly the coop?"

  "We turkeys have an expression," she said, sweetly. "Get stuffed."

  "And we police officers have an expression of our own," he replied, pleasantly. "It goes like this—Assume the position." Only he didn’t wait for her to assume anything. As Melissa gulped, he began unbuckling his wide, black leather belt.

  "You can’t spank a turkey," she cried, as he pushed her face down across the hood of the patrol car. "I'll report you to the damned SPCA!"

  "Only the top half's turkey," he said, pulling down her brown- and orange-striped tights to just below her knees. "The bottom half's one hundred percent naked woman. Fair game. That's a little turkey-hunting joke, by the way."

  Melissa tried kicking him with one of the gigantic yellow turkey feet, but it flew off and landed in a mud puddle.

  "I guess I'd better get this done," he said, folding the belt in one hand. "Before someone comes along. It's against the law in Texas for turkeys to moon Thanksgiving shoppers."

  "You're really enjoying this, aren't you?" she wailed.

  "You bet I am, but I'm guessin' you won’t."

  He was absolutely right, of course. She didn't enjoy one second of it, but having never been spanked with anything before she arrived in Dodgeville, Melissa eventually concluded that the sheriff's belt wasn't quite as painful as his antique hairbrush. It was hard to judge accurately, though, since this latest spanking was on the brief side. After the last blazing blow, he pulled her back onto her feet, turned her around, and landed two hard swats on her rear end with his open hand. "All this was just a down payment, by the way. You'll get the rest later, when I figure out the penalty for trying to jump bail. Any way you look at it, though, you’re in for one hell of a walloping. But, I'm going to need time to rest up first and a little nourishment to keep up my energy. Let's go get some dinner. You can leave the turkey head in the car."

  "You're asking me out to dinner?"

  "I'm not asking. I figure if I let you out of my sight, you'll try skipping town again, and with tomorrow being Thanksgiving, I haven't got the time or the inclination to chase you down and whale the tar out of you again. Which means you eat on the county tonight, and at my Mom's tomorrow."

  "I can't do that," she said. "Have Thanksgiving at your mother's, I mean. I'll be intruding."

  "Ma doesn't think it’s Thanksgiving if there's not forty people milling around in her kitchen. Besides, you can help me with the dishes." He grinned. "The after-supper entertainment's on me, though—back at the office."

  "What kind of entertainment?" she asked, suspiciously.

  He grinned. "Take a guess. Anyway, right now, you and I are headed for Merle's Barbecue Pit, then over to the Methodist church for the big Thanksgiving extravaganza."

  Melissa made a face. "It all sounds so decadent and fascinating."

  "Well, it’s not ready for Broadway yet, but the kids have fun, and the money they raise is donated to a different charity every year."

  She groaned. "Why do I feel like I've been dropped down into a Norman Rockwell painting?"

  "This year, my boy Michael is playing Squanto, and his little sister's a dancing pumpkin. She does this kind of vegetable ballet number with a couple of singing squash and a third-grade ear of corn who recites a poem about autumn that he wrote himself."

  "You never told me you had children!" she exclaimed.

  "I try not expose them to the usual criminal element I have to deal with. Before this last little escape attempt, I thought you were on the way to reform and rehabilitation."

  "Will your wife be there?" she inquired hesitantly.

  Ben shook his head. "My wife died two years ago."

  "Oh, God," Melissa cried. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to …"

  "It's all right. It's been long enough so I don’t mind talking about her. I like it, actually."

  Melissa sighed. "And she was perfect, of course."

  He smiled. "Not perfect, but about as close as it gets."

  * * *

  The next day, dressed in a mismatched skirt and sweater she'd found at an establishment called BobbieSue's Consignment Shoppe, Melissa had Thanksgiving dinner with Sheriff Harris and his family at the home of his mother. And as she said goodnight, carrying an armful of fragrant leftovers, she couldn't remember when she'd had a better dinner, or a more pleasant day.

  "Your mother is wonderful," she said, as she walked back to the office with Ben Harris. "And you've got two absolutely terrific kids."

  "Agreed. There are days when I’d probably sell 'em cheap, but mostly…"

  "Oh," Melissa said. "That reminds me." She pulled a folded envelope from her pocket and handed it to him. "The next installment on Homer's house. I'm halfway there, and Ed says he can give me extra hours during Christmas."

  He handed the envelope back. "I already took care of it," he said. "A couple of weeks back."

  "You paid him? All of it?"

  He grinned. "After the couple of weeks you've had, I figured you needed a little something to be thankful for today."

  Melissa smiled. "It'll take me a while to pay you back, but I swear to you, I will."

  "You bet you will," he agreed, laughing. "You know what part-time small-town sheriffs get paid?"

  "I had a very nice time today," she said, softly. "One of the best ever."

  "I'm glad. But, here’s the real question: did you get enough to eat?"

  She laughed. "Are you kidding? I may explode!"

  "Ma always says it's a damned poor hostess who sends her company home still able to zip up their britches."

  "Why don't the women around here get fat?" she asked.

  "Some do, but mostly they work it off. Besides, a little extra in the right places looks good on a woman. Just my opinion, of course, but our winters here can get bitter, and on a cold night, it's a real nice feelin' to be in a wide, warm bed with a plump bottom to rub up against."

  Melissa sighed. "Sometimes, Sheriff Harris, I believe you're a gentleman and a poet. Not often, of course, but …"

  She didn't get the finish the sentence, because at that moment, the sheriff pulled her against his chest and kissed her—long, hard, and deep. And maybe because she'd had a little too much of his mother's homemade cranberry wine, she kissed him back.

  * * *

  Three months later, Melissa was still in Dodgeville, and still working at the Valu-Mart. And every day, after work, Sheriff Harris picked her up and drove her back to the one-room apartment she rented over the Dodgeville barbershop.

  "Your feet hurt?" he asked, rubbing her neck as they walked. "You look bushed."

  "A little. I think I'll look around for something a little more creative. I used to be an artist—a long time ago."

  "Well, one thing's for sure," Ben remarked. "If you decide to marry me, you may have to get a job of some sort of work—'til roundup's over, anyway."

  "Marry you?"

  "Well, with two kids in the house, continuing to live in sin might get kind a' complicated, and that dinky little twin bed of yours is getting damned hard on my back. It doesn't have to be right away, if you don’t want to. I was thinking maybe next month. Which reminds me, I talked to your fiancé today."

  "Jonathan?"

  Ben grinned. "You have more than one?"

  "I wrote and told him I wasn't coming back and to put my stuff in storage." She shrugged her shoulders. "He's probably burned it all by now. How did he know where to find
me?"

  "I called him."

  She grimaced." And what did he have to say?"

  "He wanted me to, and I quote, 'send you home immediately'. I'm supposed to tell you he's willing to forgive you."

  "Asshole!"

  "Him, or me?"

  "Both of you, actually—in different ways."

  He chuckled. "We men are all pretty much alike. You'll like us better if you just give up and get used to it."

  "At least Jonathan never spanked me," Melissa observed, dryly.

  "Well, then, he'll never know what he missed."

  "What?" she shrieked. "You said all of that spanking stuff was about getting me to take responsibility for what I did! You swore to me you didn't … You didn't enjoy it—that way!"

  Ben smiled. "I lied. Men do that, sometimes. Kind a' like women."

  "I'll never lie to you again," she said quietly. "Not ever."

  "No?"

  "Never."

  "Well, in that case, when were you planning on telling me about the baby?"

  Melissa stopped walking and closed her eyes. "How did you know?"

  "I told you what it was like in small towns. Besides, Will Edwards is my second cousin—on my dad's side."

  "You talked to my gynecologist?" she cried. "Without my permission?"

  "Of course not. That would be unethical. Will mentioned to Ma that you were a patient, and she was on the phone to me before… well, pretty quick, anyway. Don't get your feathers ruffled at poor Will. He didn't know you and I were …"

  "Were what?" she demanded.

  "Getting married next week?" he suggested with a smile. "Or tomorrow, if I can get Judge Carter to wrangle us a wedding license that soon."

  "Your Great Uncle Hal, you mean?"

  He grinned. "That's the one. Tomorrow, then? Of course, you're still going to get your butt blistered for keeping this from me for so long, but that'll keep for a while. 'Til after the honeymoon, anyway."

  Melissa smiled to herself, marveling again at the way life sometimes works.