Page 7 of Christmas with the Lumberjack

A hint of a smirk played on his lips. “Fair enough.” We stood in silence for a moment, the tension between us crackling. I remembered how guarded he was at the Market, how suspicious of my intentions. Now, he seemed calmer, but still watchful.

“I talked to Lucille today,” I said, trying to steer the conversation. “She believes the Wishing Tree’s magic is in how it inspires people.”

“That sounds like Lucille,” he said fondly. “She’s been at this a long time, designing landscapes that bring out the best in every season. She was a friend of my parents’ and I’ve known her practically my whole life. She knows a thing or two about cultivating beauty. Beauty, of course, comes in many forms.”

I studied him in the gentle glow of the lights. He was rugged, yes, and his skepticism toward me felt like a prickly shield. But there was more, wasn’t there? A respect for the land, for the people here. Maybe he just wanted to protect what mattered to them.

“Some people might say you’re all overly sentimental,” I ventured. “Clinging to a tradition that can’t be proven.”

Wyatt shrugged. “What’s proof?”

I opened my mouth to argue but couldn’t come up with a decent retort. Instead, I looked back at the tree. The soft hush of the evening settled around us. “It’s strange,” I admitted softly, “I expected to come here and find a silly tourist trap. But everyone seems so…genuine.”

He nodded, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “Springfield’s small. We rely on each other.”

I turned to face him fully. “You don’t believe the tree’s magic, though. Do you?”

He cocked his head to the side as he gazed at me quizzically. “It’s true—I’ve always been more practical. But I know it means something important to the people I care about, and that’s good enough for me.”

I found myself liking that answer. Before I could say anything more, he shifted his stance and said, “I’ve got some freetime now. If you want, I can show you around the farm. Give you the grand tour.”

Surprised, I hesitated. “It’s getting dark.” The idea of climbing around a farm in these boots wasn’t appealing, but a guided tour with Wyatt Lawson… That might give me insight into the man behind the stubborn façade. And I had to admit, the farm’s silhouettes were intriguing—long rows of evergreens, old fences, a distant pond reflecting the last threads of light.

He pointed toward a tractor parked near the barn. “We can ride my tractor through some of the fields. I’ll grab a blanket, so you don’t freeze. It’s a bit bumpy, but I’ll take it slow.”

I smirked. “You think I can’t handle a little bumpiness?”

His grin was matched by a wicked gleam in his eyes that immediately sent a rush of heat through my veins. I gulped.

“You handle yourself just fine,” he continued. “But these shoes…not so much.” He nodded at my heeled boots.

I rolled my eyes but smiled despite myself. “I didn’t come prepared for country life.”

“No kidding.” He sounded almost amused now. “Let me grab that blanket. Wait here.”

As he stepped into the barn, I exhaled slowly. A few days ago, I never would have imagined myself following a lumberjack farmer on a tractor ride to learn about a Christmas tradition I’d thought was bogus. Yet here I was, feeling a tug of curiosity—and something else. Something about Wyatt’s self-assuredness and the sincerity I’d encountered all day was wearing down my defenses.

Wyatt emerged from the barn a few minutes later carrying a thick woolen blanket. The light caught his features, and for a moment, I understood why Juniper had given me that knowing look at the boutique. He had undeniable sex appeal in a rugged,what-you-see-is-what-you-get way, in sharp contrast to the sleek men I’d dated in the city who wore suits like armor and smiled with calculated charm. Wyatt’s no-nonsense masculinity, on the other hand, was front and center.

“Ready?” he asked, voice low.

I nodded, stepping toward him. He guided me toward the tractor—an old, sturdy machine with a small trailer attached. I could ride on the trailer’s wooden seat, bundled in the blanket, while he took the driver’s seat. The idea felt oddly intimate, as if we were stepping out of the roles of reporter and reluctant source and entering some other territory. But I didn’t resist. I climbed up, settled myself, and pulled the blanket tight around my shoulders.

As he climbed onto the tractor and started the engine, the rumble vibrated through the wood planks. He looked back at me over his shoulder. “I’ll take it slow, show you how we grow and harvest the trees. Maybe then you’ll see that what we do here isn’t a gimmick.”

I inhaled the cold air, let it fill my lungs. “I’m willing to see,” I said softly, and to my surprise, I meant it. For the first time since arriving, I felt genuinely open. Maybe I wouldn’t believe in miracles and magic by the end of the night, but at least I’d let myself witness this world as it was, not as I assumed it must be.

The tractor rolled forward, creaking, and jostling gently. The stars overhead seemed brighter now that the last light of day had slipped away. The Wishing Tree disappeared behind us, but I knew my wish lingered there, tied securely among countless others. As we ventured into the quiet fields, I held the blanket tight and let Wyatt’s presence, the hush of the farm, and the distant scent of evergreens guide me forward into the unknown. I didn’t know what I’d find out here, but maybe I was ready todiscover it. And with that silent resolution, I settled in for the ride.

Chapter Four

Wyatt

I headed into the barn for the blanket, my heart still thumping from the moment Cassie agreed to the tour. The old wood floor creaked beneath my boots, and the scent of hay, tools, and pine resin wrapped around me like a familiar comfort. Outside, the twilight sky had deepened, the last pink and gold strands fading behind distant treetops. In that soft hush of evening, her voice had sounded different—less guarded, more open. I told myself not to read too much into it. She was here for a story, not for me. Still, the way she’d looked at me when I offered the tour…well, it stirred something I guess I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Grabbing a thick wool blanket from a hook on the wall, I stepped back outside. Cassie waited near the tractor; arms wrapped around herself to keep out the cold. The fairy lights strung around the barn cast a gentle glow, catching the shine of her dark hair and the subtle curve of her jawline. She looked both curious and a touch uncertain, as if unsure what this little expedition would bring.

“Here,” I said, unfolding the blanket and handing it to her. “It’ll be chilly once we get moving.”

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