"I wanted to." She tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "You didn't have to let us use the road, but you did. Even grumpy mountain men deserve muffins for good deeds."
I should be irritated at being called grumpy, but the teasing light in her eyes takes the sting from the words.
"Thanks," I say, the word coming out gruffer than intended.
She studies me for a moment, head tilted slightly. "You know, you're welcome to come see the event tomorrow. Free admission for property owners who save Christmas."
"I don't do crowds."
"I noticed." Her lips curve into a smile that does uncomfortable things to my insides. "But the offer stands. We have hot cider, holiday treats, local crafts. The carousel should be pretty spectacular once it's set up."
"I'll pass."
She shrugs, unperturbed by my rejection. "Fair enough. Just thought I'd offer." She glances over her shoulder at the activity in the meadow. "I should get back. Enjoy the muffins, Aaron."
It's the first time she's used my first name, and something about the way it sounds in her voice makes my chest tighten.
I watch her walk away, red coat bright against the winter landscape, and find myself calling after her before I can stop myself. "Leah."
She turns, eyebrows raised in question.
"Make sure they don't block the access road with their vehicles. I need to be able to get out in case of emergency."
She nods seriously. "I'll make sure. Will you be going somewhere?"
"No. But I need the option."
The hint of a smile plays at her lips. "Always good to have options."
With that, she turns and heads back to the meadow, leaving me standing at the property line holding a bag of muffins that smell like Christmas morning.
I retreat to my cabin, annoyed at myself for engaging at all. Opening the bag, the sweet citrus scent fills my kitchen. The muffins are still warm, the tops glistening with sugar crystals. I break one apart, steam rising from the tender orange crumb studded with bright cranberries.
Against my better judgment, I take a bite. The flavors explode on my tongue—tart berries, bright citrus, buttery sweetness. For a moment, I'm transported back to my mother's kitchen, Christmas music playing softly as she baked cookies and muffins for the neighbors.
Before everything went to hell. Before Afghanistan. Before the IED that took my team and left me with scars both visible and hidden.
I force the memory away and wrap the remaining muffins, shoving them in the refrigerator. I need distance from the meadow, from the Christmas preparations, from Leah Jones and her green eyes and warm smile.
I grab my coat again and head to my workshop, a separate building tucked behind the cabin. Inside, the scent of sawdust and varnish replaces cranberries and oranges. My current project waits on the workbench—a hand-carved cradle commissioned by a couple in Billings for their first grandchild.
Work. That's what I need. Lose myself in the grain of the wood, in the precision of measurements, in the transformation of raw material into something useful.
But even as I pick up my tools, my mind drifts back to the meadow, to the red coat and dark hair, to the woman who bakes muffins for grumpy strangers and fights for sick children.
I've spent two years building walls around myself, creating a fortress of solitude where nothing and no one could touch theraw wounds left by my past. Two years of carefully constructed isolation.
And somehow, in the span of three days, Leah Jones has found a crack in those walls.
Hours pass as I sand and shape the cradle components. The repetitive motion is soothing, demanding enough concentration to keep intrusive thoughts at bay. This is why I build things. Control. Creation. Purpose.
When I finally straighten up, my back aching from bending over the workbench, I realize the daylight is fading. Through the workshop windows, I can see lights glowing in the meadow—not the full display, but work lights as the volunteers continue setting up even as darkness falls.
Dedication. I can respect that, even if I want nothing to do with their event.
I clean my tools meticulously, sweep the wood shavings into a neat pile, and cover the cradle components with a cloth. Tomorrow, I'll start the finishing process—layers of oil rubbed into the wood to bring out the natural beauty of the grain, to protect and preserve.
The walk back to my cabin takes me past a view of the meadow. They've erected a large central tent, surrounded by smaller structures. The frame of the carousel stands at the center, partially assembled. Even unfinished, there's a magic to it, silhouetted against the twilight sky.
