Page 3 of Christmas with the Lumberjack

“Hello,” I began, smoothing my dark hair. “I’m Cassie Monroe, a reporter from Chicago. I’m here to write a piece on the Wishing Tree. You must be Wyatt Lawson?”

He nodded curtly, but didn’t offer a hand. “That’s me.” His voice was low and steady, without the practiced friendliness I’d received elsewhere. “I wasn’t expecting any reporter today.”

I forced a smile. “I’m just doing a preliminary visit, getting a feel for the place. If you have a moment, maybe you could tell me about the tree’s history?”

Wyatt’s expression hardened. “The Wishing Tree’s history isn’t for cheap exploitation,” he said bluntly. “It’s part of this town’s tradition—something people here believe in. I don’t want to see it twisted into some city article mocking us.”

I blinked, taken aback by his immediate defensiveness. “I’m not here to mock anyone,” I said, struggling to keep my tone even. Okay, maybe I was a bit skeptical, but he didn’t have to know that. “I just want to get the facts.”

“Facts?” He snorted softly. “Facts are that people come here, make a wish, and sometimes miracles happen. Don’t know what else you want to hear.”

His suspicion annoyed me. I met his gaze steadily. “Maybe about the origins of the tradition, the kind of wishes people make, whether you’ve seen it bring more tourism in recent years…”

Wyatt’s jaw tightened. “Tourism. Right. That’s what you’re after. More proof it’s just a money-maker.”

I folded my arms, my patience wearing thin. “Look, I’m doing my job. Maybe I came at a bad time. If you’re not interested in talking right now, I can come back tomorrow. But I’ll find out what I need to know, with or without your help.”

A tense silence fell between us. The distant sound of wind ruffled the tree’s branches. Finally, Wyatt shrugged. “Suit yourself. Just don’t go poking around without permission. This is private property.”

“Noted,” I said crisply. I cast one last glance at the Wishing Tree, noting how the papers and ribbons caught the light. Part of me wanted to inspect the wishes, see what people actually wrote. But with Wyatt’s glare boring into me, I turned and headed back to my car.

As I drove off, my heart thumped faster than I cared to admit. His attitude had rubbed me the wrong way, and yet a rush of something electric ran through me. He was rugged, sure, and good-looking in a rough-edged way. And his protectiveness over the tradition, while irritating, hinted at a deep connection to this place. Still, I was here to do a job, not be charmed by a lumberjack with trust issues—even if I liked a good challenge.

Back in town, I swung by a little café that seemed to offer takeout—some kind of hearty soup and bread would do nicely. I carried my dinner back to Hollyhock House and climbed the stairs to my room. My plan: eat, take notes, maybe a hot bath, and then sleep. Tomorrow I’d start fresh, interview some residents in a more official capacity, and find a way to present the Wishing Tree story in a clear-eyed, realistic manner. Magic? Hah. More likely, it was a combination of coincidence, community closeness, and the placebo effect of hope.

Yet as I sat at the small writing desk, typing up my initial thoughts, a niggling doubt crept in. The Holly’s story about finally having a child. Candi’s tears when she spoke of Juniper returning home. Ginger’s love-at-first-sight encounter. Could they all just be coincidences and sentimentality? Probably. But the sincerity I’d witnessed today chipped away at my armor. Just a crack, barely noticeable, but I knew it was there all the same.

I shook my head. No, I wouldn’t let these folks get under my skin. I had a job to do. Debunk the myth or at least present it in a sensible light, earn my editor’s approval, and head back to the city. End of story.

After finishing my notes, I slipped into the bathroom. The hot water soothed the day’s tensions from my shoulders. When I finally climbed into bed, the thick quilt tucked around me, I stared at the shadows on the ceiling and thought of Wyatt Lawson’s scowl, of Juniper’s friendly smile, and that smallmoment of genuine mother-daughter affection I’d witnessed. It had been a long time since I’d seen anything like that firsthand.

Outside, the wind sighed against the window, and the faint scent of woodsmoke drifted up from the fireplace below. Springfield might believe in Christmas magic and wishing trees, but I was immune. Still, as I closed my eyes, a tiny voice whispered that maybe, just maybe, I was exactly where I needed to be this Christmas—even if I didn’t believe it yet.

Chapter Two

WYATT

I woke well before dawn, as I always did in the weeks before Christmas. Winter darkness shrouded Lawson’s Tree Farm, and the world outside my bedroom window was silent except for the faint crackle of the old radiator in the corner. I dressed quietly, layering a worn thermal shirt under a flannel and pulling on my thick work jeans. The air inside the farmhouse was pleasant enough—my mother had once joked that it smelled like “pine and purpose”—but I knew as soon as I opened the back door, a cold blast would greet me, sharp and bracing. Fine by me. I welcomed the rush of fresh air; it woke the blood and cleared the mind.

Downstairs, I took a moment to stoke the woodstove, coaxing embers to flame before I stepped outside. I flipped the porch light on and surveyed the rows of trees, their silhouettes faint in the predawn gloom. The stars overhead were still bright, spangling the vast sky. A few short hours from now, I’d be loading trees into my old truck, taking them into town for the Holiday Market. But first, I needed to do my rounds: check the cut trees, make sure they were in good shape and neatly bundled, inspect the seedlings in the greenhouse, and see that the twine and netting were ready for customers who would soon want their perfect Christmas fir.

My boots crunched softly over the packed snow as I crossed the yard. The barn door squeaked like it always did—I’d been meaning to fix that hinge for weeks. In the lamplight, the interior took shape: neat rows of saws, pruning shears hanging on nails, stacks of burlap and rope. To one side stood a rack of pre-cut trees waiting to be hauled into town. I ran a hand over one of them, feeling the soft, fragrant needles. These trees were the pride of my family. My grandparents had started this farm decades ago, and while the land had shifted hands and generations, the tradition of selling Christmas trees had never waned. Each year, families returned to buy their tree from us, trusting we’d have something just right to brighten their living rooms.

Beyond the barn, standing by itself in a small clearing, was the Wishing Tree. I could just make it out—a dark shape against slightly lighter darkness. By evening it would be illuminated by the soft glow of fairy lights, its branches laden with folded slips of paper and ribbon. People came at all hours to tie their wishes there. Some of those wishes, I knew, were nothing more than a child’s hope for a special toy. Others were heavier—pleas for healing, reconciliation, a return to love or prosperity.My grandparents had always treated the Wishing Tree with reverence, insisting it had brought miracles to Springfield for decades. Perhaps it had. The town’s lore was thick with stories of dreams fulfilled. The Hollys at the Hollyhock House had their baby after years of yearning. Candi McCall claimed it brought her daughter Juniper home.

Me? I’d never truly believed in magic. I respected the tree because it mattered to my family and my neighbors, not because I thought wishes whispered under starlight could shift fate. But I acknowledged its power in a different way: it brought people hope, and that hope shaped how they lived. Maybe that was magic enough. Who was I to say, after all.

I moved some of the bundled trees onto the truck bed, careful with their branches. The Holiday Market would be busy today. The stalls, the carolers, and the gingerbread-making station for kids—Springfield pulled out all the stops in December. And of course, the Wishing Tree drew more visitors each year, all wanting a story to take back home, a spark of seasonal enchantment. I found myself wondering if that reporter from last night—Cassie Monroe—would show up. That city girl with her glossy dark bob, fancy designer clothes, and heels that sank into the dirt like they didn’t belong here at all. She’d arrived unannounced yesterday at dusk, her tone sharp, questions pointed, eyes full of skepticism. She’d radiated a kind of cynical curiosity that irked me when I’d first laid eyes on her—even if she did happen to be a beautiful woman.

I yanked a tarp free from a hook and tossed it over a few wreaths stacked by the wall. The memory of her face, all cheekbones, and dark-lashed eyes, intruded uninvited. Why did I care what she thought? She was just some out-of-towner looking for a headline. Yet I worried that her article might turn the Wishing Tree into a target for mockery. I had read enough“take-down” pieces in online magazines, laughing at small-town customs, to know that Springfield’s beloved tradition could easily be spun as laughable folklore. Or worse. The idea made my jaw tense.

I lugged a fresh bundle of fir trees to the truck. The Wishing Tree wasn’t just ours; it belonged to the community. People who looked at those branches and in them saw hope and second chances. But how would Cassie Monroe portray it? I couldn’t let her tear down something so many folks treasured.

By the time the first light of dawn stained the sky, I had most of the trees loaded. I took a moment to head inside, brew some coffee, and scarf down a slice of leftover bread and honey.

The farmhouse kitchen was silent. My parents had retired to Florida recently, leaving me to run the farm alone. I didn’t mind; I’d grown up watching them work this land, and now the responsibility felt right. Still, I missed their voices in the morning, my mother’s gentle humming, my father’s off-key whistle. Running this place solo put all the pressure on my shoulders, and with the influx of tourists each season, I needed strong holiday sales to keep the farm thriving year-round. An unfavorable article could threaten that. If the Wishing Tree was made to look like a hoax, would visitors still come?

After finishing my coffee, I made my way back outside, intent on delivering these trees to the Market’s booth. But just as I was fastening the last rope on the truck, I spotted movement along the road. Sure enough, her car was rolling up the gravel drive. Cassie. She parked, stepped out carefully, and walked toward me, her heels clicking faintly on the packed gravel. I guess she decided to come earlier than I expected.

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