Page 4 of Christmas with the Lumberjack

I drew myself up, trying to look unbothered. The morning light revealed her clearly: petite frame, delicate features, and that perfect dark hair framing her face. Despite the cold, sheheld herself with a poised confidence that made me think of steel in silk wrapping. I brushed off the fleeting thought that she looked beautiful. Annoying, yes. A nuisance, sure. But also…undeniably lovely. She had that kind of femininity that made a man notice, and I was a hot-blooded man to the core.

“Morning,” she said, her tone polite but not exactly warm. “I was hoping we could talk now that it’s daylight. Maybe you’ll be more willing to answer my questions.”

I rested a forearm on the truck bed. “I’m busy,” I replied, voice even. “Holiday Market’s waiting. If you want to ask questions, you’ll have to do it on my terms.”

Her eyebrows rose slightly. “On your terms?”

I nodded. “You can observe me working. You can watch how I run things, maybe even talk to a few customers if they agree. But I don’t want you messing up my busiest season. I rely on these sales, and I won’t have you scaring off people or suggesting the Wishing Tree is some tourist trap.” The words sounded harsh, but better to set boundaries now. If she was going to write something, I wanted it controlled, at least a little.

She gave a short laugh, clearly not pleased. “I’m not here to sabotage your business, Mr. Lawson. I’m just here for a story.”

“A balanced story?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. “Or one that’ll paint us as gullible hicks who believe in fairy tales?”

Cassie shook her head, the silky bob swaying elegantly. “Come on, that’s unfair. I haven’t written anything yet. Give me a chance.”

I studied her face. It was composed, but her eyes held a hint of exasperation. Maybe I was being too hard. Maybe. But I’d rather be cautious. “All right,” I said, relenting a bit. “You can come to the Market with me, see how we sell the trees, talk to afew folks. But don’t get in my way. And after that, I have work to do here. No pushing.”

She nodded, and I thought I saw relief flicker across her features. “Deal.”

I climbed into the truck, and she hesitated before following me around to the passenger side. My truck wasn’t exactly polished—mud on the tires, a slight sag in the passenger seat springs—but it worked fine. I watched her frown slightly at the mess of papers, gloves, and old receipts stuffed in the glove box. If she thought I’d tidy up for her sake, she was sorely mistaken.

We drove in silence down the narrow lane, the engine’s rumble filling the quiet. The landscape unfurled: frosted fields, clusters of trees, smoke curling from chimneys in the distance. The Holiday Market set up each December in the heart of Springfield’s town square. By the time we arrived, carolers were warming their voices, and vendors were arranging crafts and treats. I parked near my assigned space and hopped out, Cassie following suit. She wobbled slightly on the uneven ground—her fancy boots not meant for winter markets—and I had to bite back a smirk.

“So how does this work?” she asked, hugging herself against the cold. Her breath formed a small cloud.

I stepped to the back of the truck and began unloading a few trees. “Families come to pick out a wreath or a tree. I’ll have a price list and tags. I help them choose, net it up if they want to take it home right away. Sometimes kids ask about the Wishing Tree, or tourists want to know how it started.” I shrugged. “I tell them what I know. People pay, I load their tree, and they’re off.”

She pulled out a small notebook from her coat pocket. “Mind if I take notes?”

“Just don’t interrupt my sales,” I said, hefting a medium-sized fir and propping it against a wooden stand I’d set up last week. The scent of fresh pine filled the air. Already, shoppers were drifting into the square, drawn by the smell of candied nuts and hot cocoa from the neighboring booth. I nodded at a couple I recognized—locals who’d been buying trees from us for years. They waved back, smiling, clearly delighted that the season had truly begun.

Cassie stood off to the side, pen poised, eyes scanning everything. She scribbled something after I greeted another customer. I wondered what she was writing. Probably noting every detail, trying to find something amiss. The tension between us simmered beneath the surface.

About an hour in, a woman approached, looking uncertain. She was a tourist—her accent suggested she was from the south. She asked me about the Wishing Tree, her voice low as if revealing a secret. “Does it really grant wishes?” She looked at the trees with reverence, as if I might have an answer.

I was honest. “I can’t say for sure. Some believe it does. People have gotten what they wished for, or so they claim. I know it matters a lot to folks around here.”

She nodded slowly, smiling. “In that case, I think I’ll take a wreath, and I might head up to the farm to see the tree myself.” We settled on a price, and she left hugging the wreath close. I glanced at Cassie. She’d been listening, her pen still.

“Why not just tell her it’s nonsense?” she asked quietly when the customer was out of earshot.

I snorted. “Because maybe it’s not nonsense to her. Who am I to take that from her?”

She studied me. “You really don’t believe it’s magic, though, do you?”

I straightened a tree stand, avoiding her gaze. “I believe it’s important to this town. I believe it gives hope. That’s enough.”

A silence stretched. For a moment, I wondered if I’d said too much. She nodded, lips pressed into a thin line and went back to her notebook. Customers trickled by, and I sold a few more trees. The morning wore on, and I caught sight of Lucille Winter at her booth,Winter Wonderlands, the landscape designer Juniper worked for. She waved enthusiastically—her cheeks rosy, her white curls framing her face like balls of cotton. Juniper McCall passed by too, nodding hello, giving me a knowing glance when she spotted Cassie. Probably wondering what I made of this city reporter.

A young family came by next—parents with two kids, a boy and a girl, both under ten. They searched through the trees with excited giggles, finally choosing a full, fragrant Douglas fir. While I netted it up, the mother talked about how they’d visited the Wishing Tree every year since their eldest was born. She said it brought them closer as a family, encouraging them to make small wishes—nothing grand, just hopes for health and happiness. Cassie watched, her pen still, as if absorbing the scene.

I couldn’t shake the sensation that she was looking for holes in our stories, a way to prove it all hokey. But at the same time, she seemed quieter, more contemplative now. Maybe she was just gathering her thoughts before blasting us in her article though.

By midday, sales had slowed. Cassie approached me again. “I have enough observations for now,” she said, tucking her notebook away. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Is that all?” I asked, relieved but also oddly disappointed. I supposed I’d gotten used to her hovering. “I figured you’d have more questions.”

She shrugged. “I’m sure I’ll have more later. You said I can talk to people but not get in your way. I think I’ve done enough for today.” Her tone was neutral. “I might head back to the inn, write up some notes. Maybe I’ll swing by the farm tomorrow or the next day.”

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