Page 5 of Christmas with the Lumberjack

“Just remember what I said,” I warned, my voice low. “Don’t twist our story into something cheap.”

She met my eyes. Her gaze was steady, not flinching. “I’ll write what I see. I can’t promise I’ll believe everything everyone says—but I’m not here to tear it down for the sake of it. I have a job too, Lawson.”

My last name on her lips was a surprise. She’d said it without malice, just matter-of-fact, but it pulled at something inside me. I nodded, not trusting myself to say more.

I watched her leave, her pretty purple coat cinched at the waist, her heels clicking on the brick pathway around the square. She looked so out of place yet so certain of her direction. She paused to admire a display of handmade ornaments, tilting her head as if curious, then continued on. Her petite figure weaved through the crowd with a self-assured grace. There was a softness in her appearance—delicate frame, dark shiny hair—that contrasted with the toughness in her voice and stance. She irritated me with her skepticism, her prying questions, and her refusal to just accept things as they were. Yet I couldn’t deny that she stirred something more primal in me. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t appreciate how her clothes skimmed her slim shape, or how her boots highlighted her slender legs, or how her lips curved into a perfect Cupid’s bow.

The thought made me chuckle under my breath. What was I doing, noticing such things about a reporter who was already causing trouble? I shook my head, hoisted another tree onto a stand, and tried to focus on my work.

Throughout the afternoon, I sold more trees and wreaths, spoke to regulars who teased me about the seasonal rush, and nodded to acquaintances who drifted by. The Holiday Market hummed with life—excited shoppers going from booth to booth in search of gifts for loved ones, kids in colorful coats and scarves with reddened cheeks laughing over bags of popcorn, smiling shopkeepers chatting with old and new faces. Everywhere, the cheer of Christmas wove through the stalls like a bright ribbon.

In quieter moments, I caught myself glancing toward the direction Cassie had gone. She was long gone now, probably holed up at Hollyhock House tapping away on her laptop. I knew the Hollys would welcome her kindly, probably feed her cocoa and tell her stories. Would that soften her heart any? Would she see this town’s earnest spirit, or would she just spin our traditions into a puff piece about silly rural folk?

I tried to push the worry aside. I had done what I could—set boundaries, limited her interference. If she wanted to poke around, let her. Springfield’s truth spoke for itself. If she was determined to put a negative spin on her piece, I wouldn’t be able to stop her. But something made me want to try anyway.

By late afternoon, the shadows stretched long, and it was time to pack up. I sold the last of the day’s trees, said my goodnights to my fellow shopkeepers and familiar neighbors on my way out of the market, then climbed back into my truck in the lot. The scent of pine clung to my clothes. I drove home as the sky turned a deep indigo, stars pricking through once more. The farm awaited me, calm and quiet. I parked near the barn, hopped out, and took a moment to stand before the WishingTree. It was lit now, and a few flakes of snow had started to fall. I could see the slips of paper fluttering in the slight wind. I imagined all those hopes and dreams rustling in the silence.

I leaned a shoulder against the barn’s rough boards and sighed. Cassie Monroe might poke at this tradition, question its authenticity. She might try to reduce it to a marketing ploy. But the tree had stood here long before she arrived and would remain after she left. It wasn’t my job to convert her—heck, I’d never tied a wish on the thing myself—but it was my job to protect my family legacy and uphold an important tradition.

I closed my eyes, thinking about the coming days. Christmas wasn’t far off. Cassie would probably appear again, pen and notebook at the ready, trying to pry into my business. If she kept pressing, I’d stand firm. If she ridiculed us, I’d defend us. But maybe I could show her what this place was really about.

The thought of her long-lashed eyes and that skeptical twist of her lips surfaced again. Beautiful, yes, but also prickly. I allowed a small grin. She probably thought I was a stubborn brute. Maybe I was. Either way, I’d have to maintain my composure. The last thing I needed was to get tangled up in some flirtation with a reporter who’d leave town once her story was done. The farm was my priority.

I turned away from the barn and headed inside, the warmth of the farmhouse enveloping me. I stoked the fire, fixed a simple supper of leftover stew, and let the quiet of the evening settle over me. Outside, snow was falling softly, silver flakes drifting past the window. I cracked open a beer and stared at the dancing flames, thinking about the busy days ahead.

Finishing my beer, I cleaned up and turned out the lights. The house creaked softly, as old houses do, settling into the night. Upstairs, I undressed and changed into comfortable flannel pajama bottoms, stretching the tension from myshoulders. I thought again of Cassie’s clipped voice and the faint scent of her expensive perfume lingering in the truck after she’d left. Damn. I shook my head. Keep it together, Lawson. This woman was trouble, indeed.

Chapter Three

Cassie

I arrived at Springfield’s town square just after midday, following the faint hum of holiday music and laughter that drifted along the sidewalks. The Hollyhock House had been warm and welcoming that morning—Martha offering me a slice of cranberry bread, Fred nodding his approval of the winter sun—and I’d left with a sense that maybe not everyone in this town was out to stage a Christmas charade. Still, my skeptical mind remained in place. I had a job to do, after all, and I had to remain objective and determined not to let cozy inns and friendly faces distract me from my assignment to uncover the truth.

The market occupied the center of Springfield’s historic square. A large gazebo stood at the heart of it, draped with garlands and tiny white lights that winked like stars against the green. Vendor booths clustered around the edges, their striped awnings providing shelter for craftsmen, bakers, and artisans selling handmade goods. The smell of roasted chestnuts mingled with hot cocoa and peppermint.

I took my time weaving through the crowd. Everyone seemed dressed for the occasion: thick scarves, knitted hats, mittens with reindeer patterns. The mood was buoyant, as if the entire town had decided that Christmas was the ideal time to shine. Carolers strolled between booths, singing softly. One wore jingle bells tied to her wrist, and the gentle chime merrily punctuated every step.

My editor had told me to paint a vivid picture of this place, and I could see why: the Holiday Market was enchanting, even for someone like me. I still believed Springfield was banking on the Wishing Tree’s legend to rake in tourist dollars, but I had to admire their thoroughness. If you wanted a nostalgic holiday experience, they served it up with a bow on top.

A sudden craving for something warm led me to a booth selling hot cider. The vendor, a cheerful man with ruddy cheeks and bulbous red nose that made me think of Rudolph, offered me a paper cup. “Spiced apple cider, miss, with a real cinnamon stick. Perfect for a cold day.”

I took a sip, and my eyebrows shot up. The cider was sweet and tart, and the cinnamon stick infused it with a woody sweetness that complemented the apple perfectly. “This is delicious,” I said, and meant it.

He grinned. “Glad you like it. We press the apples locally.” There it was again—that pride in local tradition. I paid him, thanked him, and moved on.

A booth next to his displayed a basket of something that smelled heavenly: small, intricately shaped cookies dusted with powdered sugar. A woman in an apron embroidered with edelweiss blossoms smiled at me over the display. “Care to try some traditional Christmas cookies, dear? They’re called Zimtsterne—cinnamon stars, a German specialty.”

I hesitated for half a second before curiosity won out. The cookies were star-shaped, covered in a thin glaze that shimmered in the light. I bit into one, and a burst of cinnamon, almond, and sugar spread across my tongue. The texture was soft and slightly chewy, the flavors layered with subtlety. I’d never tasted anything quite like it. “Wow,” I said through a mouthful, “these are incredible.”

Her eyes sparkled. “I learned the recipe from my grandmother. She was Swiss, actually, and she made these every Christmas. Baking them now makes me feel like she’s still with me.”

I nodded, unexpectedly moved. Here again, I found tradition and memory woven into something as simple as a cookie. I finished the Zimtstern and bought a small bag for later. It couldn’t hurt to indulge a little, right?

With my cider in one hand and my cookies tucked under my arm, I wandered deeper into the market. A booth displaying handmade ornaments caught my eye. Tiny glass globes painted with snowy scenes, carved wooden angels, and crocheted snowflakes dangled in neat rows. Each piece looked like it had a story. I chatted with a few locals—an older couple who collected an ornament each year to commemorate their marriage anniversaries, a young mother who chose a special decoration for her baby’s first Christmas. All of them seemed sincere, as if these tokens held genuine meaning.

I made notes in my small reporter’s notebook as I went, jotting down the details of the people I met, the things they said. I wanted to capture both sides: the overwhelming sentiment and the commercial angle. I still suspected Springfield leveraged these traditions for profit, but that didn’t mean the locals didn’t believe sincerely in what they offered. People often buy into marketing because it strikes an emotional chord.

Eventually, I came upon a booth adorned with twinkling lights and evergreen garlands. A sign proclaimed:Winter Wonderlands – Landscape Designs by Lucille Winter. At the center stood a woman who looked as if she’d stepped out of a storybook. She had a round, rosy face with kind eyes and wisps of white curls peeking under a knitted red cap. Her coat was forest green, and she wore boots sturdy enough for tramping through gardens. The air around her booth smelled of fresh pine and something floral, perhaps potpourri.

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