Page 9 of Christmas with the Lumberjack

I nodded, considering her slender hands. “I might have a spare pair that could fit if we find the right size.” I held out my hand. “Let me see.”

She hesitated, then placed her hand in mine. Her fingers were cool, but I could sense the softness of her skin. My hand dwarfed hers, and I imagined how small gloves would have to be. Before I knew what I was doing, I leaned down and pressed my lips to her knuckles. The gesture felt old-fashioned, maybe too bold, but it was instinctive—a quiet thank you for trusting me, for being willing to enter my world.

She drew a shaky breath, eyes wide. Realizing what I’d done, I released her hand. “I’m sorry,” I said, voice low. “I shouldn’t have done that. I just…wanted to show my appreciation. It means something that you’re willing to step outside your comfort zone.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she glanced down, a hint of a smile curving her lips. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “I understand.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, looking nervous but not upset. “I should probably go. It’s getting late.”

I stepped aside as she made her way to the barn door. Outside, the moon had risen higher, silvering the snow and trees. She paused, turning back to me. “I’ll stop by the boutique tomorrow morning, pick up better clothes, and then come here. Does that work?”

I nodded, my heart warm at the thought of her return. “I’ll be here. I look forward to it.”

She smiled, and it reached her eyes this time. “Me too.”

I followed her outside, watching as she climbed into her car. I raised a hand in farewell, and she waved before driving off. The red glow of her taillights vanished down the lane.

For a long moment, I stood in the barn’s doorway, the winter air crisp on my face. Something had shifted tonight. We’d started from opposite ends—her skepticism and my pride—but somehow, in the quiet darkness and among the trees, we’d managed to build a bridge. I couldn’t predict where this would lead. Maybe nowhere. Maybe just a fleeting connection during her stay in Springfield. But part of me dared to hope for more.

Closing the barn door behind me, I banked the fire and headed back to the farmhouse with lighter steps. The Wishing Tree stood silent and watchful outside, its ribbons stirring gently. I still wasn’t sure I believed in miracles, but I knew this: the night’s quiet revelations felt like a gift. Tomorrow would come soon enough, bringing Cassie Monroe back here, to my world. And I wanted to see where this unexpected path might lead.

Chapter Five

CASSIE

That night in the quiet privacy of my room at Hollyhock House, I stared at the blank page on my laptop screen and tried to summon words that refused to come. I’d come to Springfield prepared to write a scathing little holiday piece, a neat and cynical exposé about how a small town uses its quaint Wishing Tree legend to rake in tourist dollars. I wanted to tug away at the pretty ribbon and find the cheap, crinkled paper beneath. But after everything I’d witnessed—the joy in Martha Holly’s voice, the careful devotion Wyatt showed to his trees, the heartfelt stories told by Lucille Winter and others—I couldn’t twist the narrative into something mocking and cold.

The cursor blinked at me, unyielding, as if waiting to see what I’d make of all this. I tried to tap out a few lines—took them back, started again. Each time I tried to frame Springfield’s traditions as a manipulative marketing ploy, the words sounded hollow and dishonest. Had I allowed my past to shape my assumptions too rigidly? Perhaps I’d been so determined to see holiday cheer as fake because I’d never truly known the real thing. Growing up where Christmas meant a string of babysitters while my parents attended elegant cocktail parties instead of enjoying midnight storytelling sessions by the fire, and where love was measured in successful deals closed before the year’s end, had left me cynical and suspicious of anything that felt too genuine.

Yet here I was in Springfield, where holiday magic didn’t seem to be a scripted performance. Instead, it felt like a current running beneath the surface of everyday life—an energy binding people together through hope and kindness. Maybe my own pain had blinded me, made me too quick to scorn. Now, something inside me cracked open. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d let myself simply believe in the goodness of community and the sincerity of a tradition.

And then there was Wyatt. He had started as a hurdle, a proud and stubborn man with wary eyes and clipped words. But he’d allowed me to see what lay beneath his gruff exterior: the honest labor behind each evergreen, the history of his ancestry stitched into the Wishing Tree’s roots, the quiet pride and tenderness he felt for this land. The memory of my body pressed close to his resurfaced, that startling moment when he caught me as I slipped on ice. His arm around my waist, the warmth of his frame, the firmness of his muscles beneath flannel. Later, the brush of his lips over my knuckles—a gesture so simple and old-fashioned it left me breathless. My skin still tingled where he’d kissed it. What would his mouth feel like on the rest of me?

Heat rose in my cheeks as I closed the laptop, admitting temporary defeat. I wasn’t ready to write this article yet. I needed to let these new truths settle. I turned off the lights and slid beneath the old patchwork quilt. Drowsiness tugged at me, and I surrendered, drifting off to sleep with Wyatt’s face floating in my mind and the whisper of his voice still warming my thoughts.

The next morning, I woke with a sense of purpose I hadn’t felt in a long time. After breakfast—a plate of warm biscuits and honey courtesy of Martha—I headed out to find more appropriate attire for farm work. A few blocks away, on the far side of the square, I stepped into Candi Couture. Inside, Candi greeted me with a broad grin, delighted that I’d returned. I scanned the racks, looking for clothes that could handle sap and soil, eventually picking out a pair of dark blue jeans, a soft red flannel shirt, and sturdy work boots. As I carried my selections toward the counter, the door jingled and Juniper strolled in, freckles and strawberry-blonde curls aglow in the morning light.

She wore jeans and a sweater, casual and comfortable. Spotting me, she grinned knowingly. “I heard rumors that Wyatt Lawson’s got you helping on the farm. My fiancé, Mason Knight, is an auto mechanic, and takes care of the farm equipment for Wyatt. Is he making you break a sweat?”

I laughed, feeling an unexpected flush of happiness at the teasing. “I offered,” I corrected. “He didn’t force me.”

Candi stepped behind the counter, busy ringing up my purchases. “Wyatt’s a good man,” she said, eyeing me with analmost maternal pride. “He’ll appreciate the help. And these clothes will serve you far better than those heels and skirts you had before.”

Juniper caught my gaze, head tilted. “So, what do you think of him?” There was mischief in her eyes.

I felt heat climb my neck. “He’s…different than I expected,” I managed carefully. “Hardworking, honest. Not just some gruff lumberjack.” The memory of his lips on my hand threatened to tug a smile onto my face.

Juniper and Candi exchanged a grin, as if they’d uncovered a delightful secret. Juniper cocked an eyebrow and said to Candi, “We should invite Cassie to the Christmas Eve Charity Gala.”

Candi clapped her hands. “Of course! Cassie, you must come. It’s the highlight of the year—everyone in Springfield attends. We hold it at the boutique, and the proceeds support the local children’s hospital. It’s festive and elegant. Maybe you can bring Wyatt.” She winked, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I invite him every year, but he never shows. Perhaps your influence can change that?”

The thought of attending a gala here, in this town, made my heart twist with a strange excitement. “I’d love to come,” I said, smiling. “Thank you.”

“Fantastic!” said Juniper. “Mason and I will be there, of course.”

Candi wrapped my purchases in crisp tissue paper. “Wonderful, darling! I’ll make sure to send a formal invitation to the inn. And Wyatt…well, if anyone can lure him out of his flannel cave, it might be you.” She and Juniper giggled, and I joined their laughter, feeling lighter than I had in days.

Armed with my new work clothes, I drove out to the tree farm. Wyatt greeted me near the barn, and his entire face lit up when he saw my attire. “You actually got proper boots,” he teased, crossing his arms over a thick, forest-green flannel. His dark eyes sparkled with approval.

I held up my hands, clad in the cashmere gloves I’d brought from home. “I’m taking this seriously. Better gloves would help, though.”

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