Page 13 of Christmas with the Lumberjack

Instead, I stood apart, a mere observer in the celebration going on around me. I tried to mingle, drifting between groups, complimenting someone’s vintage brooch, admiring the candy cane martinis at the bar, chuckling politely at a joke one of the vendors made. But everything felt hollow, like I was just playing a part. My mind kept replaying Wyatt’s face—his guarded eyes and the hurt in his voice when he accused me of using him. He’d been wrong, but not entirely unreasonable. Had I given him enough reason to trust me? Probably not.

After an hour of circulating, nibbling at a canape here, sipping water there, and nodding at stories I could barely follow, I realized I wasn’t enjoying this one bit. The gala was beautiful, yes, and the people kind. Still, I felt out of place—my heart was elsewhere, back at the farmhouse where we’d cooked dinner and laughed over spaghetti. Back to the Wishing Tree, whose quiet presence I’d scoffed at but now felt in the marrow of my bones. Back to Wyatt, who embodied this tradition more deeply than he knew.

My heels clicked softly on the boutique’s polished floor as I slipped toward the exit. No one stopped me from leaving. Candi was busy comforting someone who’d lost a loved one that year; Juniper and Ginger were laughing with old friends, their partners by their sides. I didn’t want to spoil their holiday by appearing sullen or lost. I quietly stepped through the door.

Cold air greeted me, and the night sky stretched overhead, scattered with stars. I pulled my coat tight and hurried down thestreet. The Christmas decorations on Springfield’s main square glowed with gentle radiance, and carols drifted from somewhere distant, as if the town itself was humming a lullaby. I turned the corner, heading back to Hollyhock House. I’d planned to write my article earlier, but after the fight with Wyatt, I’d been too churned up to focus. Now, I knew exactly what I needed to say. No more delaying. If I wanted to show Wyatt and this town that I meant no harm—that I believed in them—then I’d have to put it into words. Honest, heartfelt words that told the truth of what I’d found here.

Hollyhock House stood warmly lit at the end of the block, wreaths hanging in the windows, smoke curling from the chimney. Inside, Fred and Martha Holly were probably sitting by the fire, enjoying a quiet Christmas Eve. I’d told Martha I’d be late tonight, so I wasn’t surprised when the front parlor was empty and the cat, Marmalade, slept soundly in a basket near the hearth. I climbed the stairs to my room, flicking on the bedside lamp, and took a moment to unpin my hair.

Slipping out of my gala dress, I folded it carefully over the back of a chair, then pulled on flannel pajamas—soft and warm against my skin. I brewed a cup of peppermint tea from the small assortment provided by the inn, inhaling its comforting scent as I opened my laptop. The clock on my screen read 11:05 pm. I cracked my knuckles, took a sip of tea, and began to type.

When I finally hit “Print” on my portable mini-printer, the clock read 11:58 pm. My tea had gone cold, and I sat silently, listening to the soft whir as the pages emerged, warm and smelling faintly of toner. I set the printed article on the small writing desk and closed my laptop. Exhausted emotionally and physically, I slipped under the quilted bedspread. The inn was quiet, only the soft ticking of a distant clock and the hush of winter night beyond the window. I imagined the orange catdownstairs dozing by the fire and the Hollies already asleep, waiting for Christmas morning’s peaceful dawn.

As I drifted toward sleep, the faint outline of the article’s words lingered behind my closed eyelids. I pictured the Wishing Tree at Lawson’s farm, branches heavy with paper wishes. If I were to write a wish right now, I’d simply say: “I wish Wyatt would read my heart.”

With that silent wish pulsing in my mind, I surrendered to the darkness, hoping I wouldn’t be too late. Hoping that by tomorrow, the magic I’d once doubted would guide me toward a second chance.

Chapter Eight

WYATT

On Christmas morning, I woke to a quiet hush settling over the farmhouse. The thin winter light slipped through the curtains, painting the wooden floor in pale stripes. My breath clouded in the cooler air of my room—I'd forgotten to stoke the fire properly last night—and I forced myself out of bed, heart heavy with lingering regret. The emptiness of the house pressed in, reminding me that I'd driven Cassie away with my own fears. Yet here I was, on the most hopeful morning of the year, determined not to let that be the last word.

I dressed quickly in a warm flannel, heavy coat, and wool cap, then stepped outside. The world lay wrapped in a pristineblanket of snow, the sky a delicate watercolor of soft blues and pinks as the sun stretched over the horizon. My boots crunched over the snow as I headed straight toward the Wishing Tree, that old sentinel near the barn, the one I’d grown up knowing but never truly embraced with faith. Until now.

The Wishing Tree’s branches bowed slightly under the weight of ribbon-tied wishes, scraps of paper trembling in the gentle breeze. The air smelled of pine and promise. For all my life, I’d never made a wish on this tree. I’d guarded myself from believing too deeply in its magic. But this morning, I knew what I wanted: Cassie’s forgiveness, a chance to make things right.

My fingers fumbled for the paper and ribbon in the small box at the tree’s base. I tugged off my glove and quickly scribbled the words, ink freezing slightly in the winter chill:

I wish Cassie could forgive me and give me another chance to show her how I feel.I want to learn how to trust again.

The words felt stark and honest. I folded the paper and tied it to a low branch with my heart pounding. For a moment, I closed my eyes and let the quiet wash over me.

When I opened them, I noticed something unusual among the branches—an ornament I hadn’t placed there. It was a delicate glass sphere, catching the early sunlight, refracting it into tiny sparks. A small tag dangled from a ribbon:For Wyatt.My name in neat, careful handwriting.

I reached up and gently lifted the ornament from its perch. The glass was cool to the touch, and inside I could see folded pages of paper. Curiosity spurred me on. Very carefully, I eased off the top of the ornament, letting the folded papers slide into my palm. There were several pages, printed text on crisp white sheets. At the top:By Cassie Monroe. My breath caught.

This must be her article—the one she’d been working on. The one I’d feared would mock the tree, mockme. Hands trembling slightly, I unfolded the pages and began to read.

Her words were humble, honest, and beautifully woven. She admitted how she’d come to Springfield ready to strip away the myth of the Wishing Tree, to expose it as a marketing gimmick. Yet as I read on, I saw how her perspective had shifted, each paragraph revealing how her heart had softened in the presence of our traditions, our kindness, our quiet faith in the power of hope and good things to come. She wrote about Lucille’s unshakable belief, about the Hollies’ miracle baby, about the McCall family finding healing, painting a portrait of Springfield as a place that fostered genuine connection.

And then she spoke of me. She wrote with admiration and affection, capturing the care I put into the farm, the legacy I tried to uphold, and the way I’d shown her the heart of Lawson’s. She acknowledged how she’d misunderstood at first, how fear and skepticism had clouded her judgment, but how she’d learned to see the small wonders embedded in each community tradition. She honored the Wishing Tree not as magic conjured from thin air, but as a vessel for new beginnings. Her words embraced the idea that miracles often come in the form of trust, forgiveness, and people daring to open their hearts.

By the time I finished, I had to dash away tears with the back of my hand. I could hardly believe she’d gone to such lengths to show me, and everyone else, that she understood, that she believed.

A soft sound from behind made me turn. The snow crunched underfoot as Cassie stepped out from behind the broad trunk of the Wishing Tree. She wore a long winter coat, her dark hair tucked into a warm hat, cheeks flushed pink with cold. Her eyes met mine, tentative and hopeful.

“You found it,” she said softly, nodding at the ornament and the article in my hand.

I tried to speak, but the words caught in my throat. Finally, I managed, “Thank you. You…you wrote something beautiful. I…I was so wrong to doubt you.”

She bit her lip, blinking as if holding back tears. “I’m sorry I didn’t explain everything better before. I should have told you exactly what I wanted to write, how I felt.”

Her gaze flicked to the branch where I’d tied my wish. A breeze stirred the papers. I took a shaky breath, stepping closer. The snow muffled our steps, making the world feel smaller, more intimate.

“I let my pride get the better of me,” I admitted, voice rough with emotion. “I’ve seen people treat my family’s tradition like a joke. I didn’t know if you really cared, or if I was just another story angle. But reading your words…Cassie, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for hurting you, for accusing you.”

She looked up, eyes shining. “I forgive you,” she whispered, voice trembling. “I understand your fears now. And I know I didn’t make it easy for you to trust me. But I meant what I wrote. I see the heart of this town, and yours too. I’m not going anywhere.”

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