Aaron shakes his head. "Your electrician miscalculated. You need at least one more generator to distribute the load, especially with these temperatures. Batteries drain faster in the cold."
"It's too late to get another generator. We open in an hour."
He's quiet for a moment, surveying the setup with a critical eye. "I have one. A backup for my workshop. Industrial grade."
Hope flares in my chest. "Would you consider..."
"I'll get it," he says before I can finish asking. "But I'm setting it up myself. Don't want your electrician blowing it up."
"Thank you. Seriously, Aaron. You're saving us."
Something flickers across his face at my words. Something almost vulnerable before the stoic mask returns.
"I'll be back in twenty minutes," he says, turning away.
"Wait!" I call after him. When he pauses, I add, "The offer still stands. Free admission. Hot cider. Holiday cookies."
A corner of his mouth twitches. "I'll think about it."
I watch him stride away, his tall figure moving with the fluid grace of someone completely at home in this rugged environment. For the first time, I wonder if maybe the grumpy exterior is just that—an exterior, a protective shell around something softer.
No time to dwell on that now. With the lights working again, I need to finish a dozen other tasks before we open to the public.
The next hour passes in a blur of activity. Vendors arrive to set up their booths, volunteers take their positions, and Wren delivers her final pep talk to the team. I'm checking the schedule at the welcome booth when I spot Aaron returning, pulling a generator on a small trailer behind an ATV.
True to his word, he installs it himself, efficiently connecting it to relieve our overloaded electrical system. He works methodically, ignoring the curious stares from volunteers who've heard rumors about the reclusive mountain man who nearly derailed our event.
When he finishes, I approach with two steaming cups.
"Hot cider," I offer, extending one to him. "Non alcoholic, but I have a flask in my coat if you want to make it more interesting."
He actually smiles at that—a brief, reluctant quirk of his lips that transforms his face, making him look younger, less burdened.
"Just cider is fine," he says, accepting the cup. His fingers brush mine in the exchange, sending a completely inappropriate tingle up my arm.
"You should see the carousel," I tell him, nodding toward the center of the meadow where our star attraction stands. "The restoration team finished it this morning. It's from the 1920s, on loan from a collector in Helena."
To my surprise, he follows me toward it. The carousel is truly magnificent—hand carved horses with flowing manes, painted in vibrant colors restored to their original glory. Gold and silver accents catch the winter sunlight, and the traditional organ music fills the air as the operator tests the mechanism.
"Beautiful craftsmanship," Aaron observes, running a hand over the intricate carving on one of the wooden horses. "You don't see work like this anymore."
"The collector told me it took three years to restore," I say, watching him examine the details with an artisan's appreciation."Each horse is different—look, this one has tiny bluebells painted on its saddle, and that one has eagles carved into its mane."
For a few minutes, we walk around the carousel together, Aaron pointing out details of the woodwork that I hadn't even noticed. His knowledge of construction and design is impressive, and I find myself wondering again about the man behind the gruff exterior.
"The gates are opening," I say, noticing the first families arriving at the entrance. "I should get back to the welcome booth."
He nods, already retreating. "I'll make sure the generator keeps running."
"You don't have to stay?—"
"I want to make sure my equipment works properly." He glances at the growing crowd with poorly concealed discomfort. "I'll stay out of the way."
Before I can respond, he's moving toward the perimeter, keeping his distance from the incoming visitors. I have no time to analyze his behavior as the event kicks into full swing.
The next few hours are a whirlwind of activity. Children race from attraction to attraction, their laughter carrying on the cold air. Parents sip hot drinks and browse the craft vendors selling holiday decorations and gifts. The carousel spins continuously, its music mixing with the Christmas songs playing through our sound system.
Every time I look up from a task, I find myself searching for Aaron's tall figure among the crowd. Sometimes I spot him checking the generator, other times examining the structure of one of our display tents, always keeping to himself.
