Merry’d to the Mountain Man (Log Cabin Christmas)

Chapter 1

Cole

Thanksgiving dinner for one. At least that’s what the box advertised when I picked it up in the freezer section at Harper’s Grocery. But it looks a lot more like regret in a plastic tray.

I stab my fork in the pale slab of turkey swimming in congealed gravy, the kind that claimed to be homestyle but tasted more like cardboard and salt.

The mashed potatoes are gluey, the cranberry sauce has more sugar than fruit, and the green beans look suspiciously gray.

I’m not even sure if they’d always been that color or if the microwave had done something unnatural to them.

At least I remembered to stock up on beer.

I grab the bottle off the table and drain it in one swig.

The cool, amber liquid numbing some of the ache of loneliness in my chest. The cabin is quiet except for the wind pushing against the windows and the occasional pop from the woodstove.

It’s been quiet since Gramps passed last month. Too quiet.

The memory of Gramps sitting across from me at this table, laughing and telling stories of his time growing up on this mountain, hurts more than I’m willing to admit even to myself.

The way he’d look at Grams across the table like he was seeing her for the first time and falling in love all over again.

No one gets a love like theirs—especially me.

I’ve tried relationships before but nothing ever lasted.

Either they couldn’t handle my sullen moods, the scratch of my beard, or couldn’t imagine spending the rest of their life on this mountain.

So, I gave up. I’d come to the realization that I was never going to find the right person for me, and on most days, I was okay with that.

But holidays were always the hardest—even more so without Gramps to keep me company.

My gaze drifts across the scarred tabletop to the manila envelope sitting there like a dark shadow hanging over my head. Wentworth, Kent & Powell, Attorneys at Law.

I’d been ignoring it since it arrived earlier this week, telling myself it could wait until after the holiday. But without a Thanksgiving feast to distract me, it was time to bite the bullet.

I sigh as I reach for it and tear it open.

Law Offices of Wentworth, Kent & Powell

Dear Mr. Cole Whitaker,

Following the passing of your late grandfather, Thomas Frederick Whitaker, the final review of his estate and holdings have been completed.

Per the stipulations outlined in his Last Will and Testament, the Whitaker Mountain property—comprising the main cabin, surrounding forest acreage, and all associated rights—will transfer to you under the following condition:

You must be legally married by December 31st of this calendar year.

Failure to meet this requirement will result in forfeiture of all rights and ownership to your cousin, Ryan Witaker, who shall inherit the property in your stead. Please note, this condition is non-negotiable and must be verified by legal documentation of marriage submitted before the above date.

I trust you take the necessary steps to ensure compliance with your grandfather’s wishes.

Respectfully,

Gordon Wentworth, Esq.

Wentworth, Kent & Powell

I stare at the page in disbelief. Reading it over and over again, waiting for it make sense. But it doesn’t.

“Married?” I say outloud. Needing to hear the word for it to actually sink in.

How could he do this? Take such a careless risk with the mountain and our family’s legacy like this.

He and Grams had always preached “family first.” Repeating it any chance he’d get like it was the cure for everything that could go wrong in life. I guess Gramps’s idea of family came with fine print.

I’m the only living relative still living on the mountain, the one who cared for him and Grams in their golden years, but Ryan could get all on a technicality? It’s kind of surprising that Ryan hasn’t already shown up on the mountain and to start taking measurements of the place.

I look around the cabin—just me, the empty table, and plastic tray of sludge masquerading as a Thanksgiving dinner.

This is not how I imagined spending my holiday.

I glance at the picture on the mantle, the one I took of Gram and Gramps on their fiftieth anniversary, looking more in love than a couple of teenagers.

“Family first, huh?” I rub my hand over my jaw, the bristles scraping against my palm. “Guess you forgot to mention the part where you bribe me into it.”

I shove the tray away, my appetite gone. I grab another beer, twist off the cap, and take a long pull as my phone buzzes on the table. Normally there’s hardly any signal up here, but sometimes a call will slip through.

I grab the phone and see that there is a voice message—from Ryan. Of course. It really was only a matter of time before he was going to gloat.

The urge to open the back door and toss my phone into the river is strong, but something tells me I’m going to need to hear what he has to say.

Ryan’s voice comes through sounding smooth and smug.

Well, by now you should have gotten the letter from the lawyer about the will.

Can’t say I’m surprised the old man didn’t trust you to take care of the property without a leash.

Anyway, if you can’t find a Mrs. Whitaker by New Year’s Eve, I’ll make sure those trees go to good use.

I’ve already lined up a buyer who’s drooling over that timber.

Maybe I’ll even name the new resort I plan on building Whitaker Ridge, you know, to honor the old man.

Best of luck finding a wife. You’ll need it.

Ryan’s laughter as the message ends makes my blood boil and the phone in my hand crack from my grip.

I stare out the window at the dark stretch of pine trees, their branches heavy with snow from this morning.

This land has been in this family for five generations. Nearly 150 years of Whitakers have taken care of this mountain. I grew up learning every trail, every creek, every sound of the mountain while breathing in the crisp winter air. It wasn’t just a property to me—it’s my home.

And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let Ryan turn my home into some playground for the rich.

I take another pull from my beer and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Pushing back in my seat, the wood chair scrapes across the floor. I stand and walk over to the small desk near the window. The old laptop sits there, a thin layer of dust from disuse. I flip it open and power it on.

I don’t have a plan, but I do have an idea. It may not be a good one, but it’s the best I’ve got in the countdown clock already ticking to December 31st.

The cursor blinks back at me expectantly in the posting box. I take a deep breath and start typing.

It’s just a few lines, but that’s all it really needs to be. I read it over once, shaking my head and laughing under my breath but there’s no humor in it. And then I click Post.

Outside, the snow begins to fall again. Thick flakes drift down, adding a new layer to the already white covered ground. I lean back in my seat, the old wood creaking in protest, and look over at the photo of my grandparents.

“Well, Gramps. Guess we’ll see how far “family first” gets me this time.”