Page 14 of Mountain Man in my Stockings
I hesitated, suddenly aware I was talking to someone who'd left a career saving lives. "Sometimes. But lately, it feels... I don't know. Like I'm crafting perfection no one can actually live up to."
"Including yourself?"
His comment hit home. "Especially myself."
He nodded, understanding in his eyes. "There's a gap between what we show and who we are."
"What about you?" I asked, eager to shift attention away from me. "How does a Denver detective end up owning a bar in a town with one stoplight?"
A shadow crossed his face. "Not a short story."
"I've got time."
He went quiet, tracing a pattern in the condensation on his water glass. "I was working undercover. Drug trafficking case. My cover got blown."
I waited, sensing there was more.
"I took two bullets. One grazed my arm, but the other..." His hand moved unconsciously to his lower back. "Spinal cord damage. Not permanent, but enough that returning to active duty wasn't an option. And a desk job..." He trailed off with a slight shake of his head.
"I'm so sorry."
He shrugged, but I caught the shadows of memory darkening his eyes. "Six months in rehab learning to walk properly again. Had plenty of time to reconsider my priorities. This town had always been my escape—hiked up here whenever I could get away. When I heard Spence was selling the bar, it felt like the universe offering a detour."
"That explains the limp," I said softly, having noticed the slight unevenness in his gait.
"Only acts up in cold weather or when I'm tired." His smile returned, chasing the darkness from his expression. "Small price for a second chance."
My perception of him shifted—the quiet strength, the resilience, the way he'd rebuilt his life after trauma.
"Ready for tree hunting?" he asked, signaling for the check.
Outside, snow was falling in earnest, transforming the market tents and town square into a snow globe scene. We made our way to Fred's Christmas Tree lot, where Deacon insisted on finding me the right tree.
"What about this one?" I pointed to a modest fir.
Deacon circled it critically. "Too scraggly on the north side."
I moved to another. "This one seems nice."
"If you want a tree that's balding worse than Walt." He gestured to a fuller specimen.
"Too tall for the cabin," I countered.
"Good point." He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "This whole section is too large."
"It doesn't need to be perfect," I protested after the seventh rejection, stamping my feet against the cold. "It's just for a few days."
Deacon turned to me, snow catching in his dark hair and beard. "That's exactly why it should be just right. Make those days count."
A flutter moved through me that had nothing to do with the cold. When was the last time anyone had cared this much about my happiness? Not for show, not for likes, just... for me?
We finally settled on a five-foot Fraser fir that Deacon declared "had character." Fred secured it to the roof of Deacon's truck while we picked out a simple tree stand and a string of white lights.
At the cabin, getting the tree inside became a slapstick comedy. First, Deacon misjudged the door width, jamming the tree halfway through. Then, once inside, we discovered the living room ceiling was lower than we'd estimated, forcing us to relocate to a different corner than planned. Finally, the stand proved treacherously complicated, requiring us both to lie on the floor, shoulders pressed together as we wrestled with screws and bolts.
"Hold it straight!" Deacon commanded from beneath the tree.
"I am holding it straight!"
