The lifestyle is great in the spring, planning and planting a garden. The summer is tending crops and chopping wood. The fall is nice, harvesting and canning.
But then winter comes.
And it’s lonely as fuck.
And long.
Really fucking long.
I put down the photograph and open and close the cupboard doors. There are no Christmas cookies or toffee. My mom always made that stuff. I have her old recipe book, but every time I think about making a dozen cookies to eat alone I get sad as fuck.
Now look, I’m not some depressed dude in the woods -- I love this life, I honestly do.
But Christmas makes me sentimental. Makes me think about years past when there were lights on a tree and stockings hung and presents wrapped.
Not one to sit and wallow, I grab my coat and pull on my boots. I may be alone, but I can still make it a memorable Christmas.
Stepping outside, I grab a saw, holler for my chocolate lab, Johnny Walker, and shut the door.
The snow has gotten worse over the past few hours, and I’m surprised at how heavy it’s falling. The sky is still bright, and the freshly fallen snow shines. My feet sink in the inches that have already accumulated, and I head toward the edge of my property. The Northstar Forest surrounds my homestead.
I’m trying to think of any good Christmas-sized trees I may have seen, and Johnny Walker runs ahead, yapping at something he must see or smell. Can’t imagine too many forest animals would be out right now in this weather. Seems like I’m the only beast crazy enough to come out today.
I follow the old boy, knowing he must be on to something. I cut across the snow-covered garden, beyond the livestock barn that houses the animals for the winter. We cross into the forest, and immediately things are darker, hushed. The sky is covered by the tree branches laden with snow.
It’s gorgeous out here, beyond the cleared space of my cabin. The nearest city is over an hour away, in this forest, there is nothing to distract you, nothing to do but clear your mind. It’s calm and peaceful.
Except that today there is a cry for help.
Johnny’s off like a shot and I follow close behind, my ax still firmly gripped in my hand.
And there she is. A woman with bright blonde hair and eyes frozen with worry. A woman beneath a tree, shaking, arms crossed.
Lost and alone.
“Hey, there,” I call out, running as quickly as I can through the snow.
Her eyes meet mine, relief flooding her face as a flurry of snow whips between us.
Johnny is barking, jumping between us.
“You did good, Johnny,” I tell him, patting his head as I come up to the woman who looks frightened.
She’s standing under a pine tree, and I smile, seeing the bough growing from a branch above her head.
“Mistletoe,” I tell her, pointing.
She looks slightly stunned. “Where did you come from, wielding a saw like you know what to do with it?” Her voice is textured, both light and low at the same time.
“Over yonder,” I tell her, jutting my chin to the east.
“Yonder?” Her question is more of a laugh. Her laugh is more of a song.
I nod, and then swing my ax over my shoulder, eyeing her loppers, not quite figuring her out. “And where did you come from?”
“Over the river and through the woods.”
I smile, liking how easily her words slide off her tongue. I also liked the way her reddened cheeks rounded as she smiled. Liking the way her lips part as she speaks.
“There are no grandmas at my house, but I do have a fireplace. And I think you could use some warming up.”
“My car’s out on the main road.”
“Honey,” I tell her, a flurry of snow nearly blinding our vision. “You aren’t getting out of here in a car tonight. Besides, you’re three miles from the main road, you know that, right?”
She covers her face, clearly lost. “I’m such an idiot.”
“Nah, at least you’re prepared. You got loppers to cut off the head of anything that got too close.”
She lowers her head, smiling. “You have anything stronger than a fire at your place?” Her words surprise me; I had supposed something as sweet-looking as her would want sugar and spice and everything nice.
“I got Fireball whiskey.”
“Perfect.” She leans down and pats Johnny as if instantly relaxed with this plan in place.
“But on our way,” I tell her, “We need to chop down a Christmas tree.”
Chapter Three
When this big, burly, dark-haired mountain man comes through the snowstorm carrying an ax and a frown, I don’t know what to think.
I’d say run, but I’m already lost.
And then he leans down to pat his barking dog and I realize he’s not an ax murderer –– not even sorta. He’s tall and broad-shouldered and handsome as all get out. His eyes are bright, deep pools of blue, and his beard is thick and just looking at him gets me all hot.
Which is saying something considering it’s near freezing out here.
I don’t even know what I said to him. Something about whiskey and fireplaces and he said Christmas trees and I was in a daze. Because the frozen toes and fingers and the way he spoke, slow and steady, and in control. He wasn’t in a rush. Like he knew it would all happen in its own sweet time.
And the next thing I know my gloved hand is in his gloved hand, and he’s leading me across a snow bank, his dog running beside us. He points to a tree, and I smile encouragingly, mostly because what is even happening right now? It’s a scene out of a romance novel -- a handsome man finding me lost in the woods standing under some mistletoe.
“This one is perfect, don’t you think?” he asks.
The tree isn’t massive, maybe four feet tall, a size that he could carry on his own.
Though truth be told I wouldn’t mind him carrying me home on his own.
“It has potential,” I tell him, assessing the branches.
“You’re pretty tough on trees, then?”
“You asked my opinion.”
He crosses his arms playfully, watching me circle around the tree.
“If you turned it, so that side was in the back, where it’s kinda bare, and cut off these low hanging branches, it could work.”
He smiles, and damn that smile is more than I was expecting. “My mom always went for the Charlie Brown trees, guess I take after her.”
“So you always root for the underdog?” I ask, crouching down to lift the branches so he can access the trunk easier.
“Yes, ma’am.” He begins sawing at the stump, the snow still falling as he moves, his saw against the grain.
The trunk is only six inches across, and he saws it down in a few swift strokes. When he stands, he lifts the tree easily.
“You can’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel old,” I tell him as we begin walking to the cabin that is now within view.
“What should I call you, then?” he asks.
“Genevieve, but everyone calls me Evie.”
“I’m Everett.”
“Evie and Everett. That’s....” I stop short of saying cute because that would be more awkward than this already is.
“Similar,” he finishes, in a much more matter-of-fact matter, continuing to drag the tree behind him. We’re crossing a wide expanse of cleared land complete with a workshop and a large red barn. The cabin is one-story, with a stone fireplace, and a wide front porch.