Chapter Two
WYATT
I woke well before dawn, as I always did in the weeks before Christmas. Winter darkness shrouded Lawson’s Tree Farm, and the world outside my bedroom window was silent except for the faint crackle of the old radiator in the corner. I dressed quietly, layering a worn thermal shirt under a flannel and pulling on my thick work jeans. The air inside the farmhouse was pleasant enough—my mother had once joked that it smelled like “pine and purpose”—but I knew as soon as I opened the back door, a cold blast would greet me, sharp and bracing. Fine by me. I welcomed the rush of fresh air; it woke the blood and cleared the mind.
Downstairs, I took a moment to stoke the woodstove, coaxing embers to flame before I stepped outside. I flipped the porch light on and surveyed the rows of trees, their silhouettes faint in the predawn gloom. The stars overhead were still bright, spangling the vast sky. A few short hours from now, I’d be loading trees into my old truck, taking them into town for the Holiday Market. But first, I needed to do my rounds: check the cut trees, make sure they were in good shape and neatly bundled, inspect the seedlings in the greenhouse, and see that the twine and netting were ready for customers who would soon want their perfect Christmas fir.
My boots crunched softly over the packed snow as I crossed the yard. The barn door squeaked like it always did—I’d been meaning to fix that hinge for weeks. In the lamplight, the interior took shape: neat rows of saws, pruning shears hanging on nails, stacks of burlap and rope. To one side stood a rack of pre-cut trees waiting to be hauled into town. I ran a hand over one of them, feeling the soft, fragrant needles. These trees were the pride of my family. My grandparents had started this farm decades ago, and while the land had shifted hands and generations, the tradition of selling Christmas trees had never waned. Each year, families returned to buy their tree from us, trusting we’d have something just right to brighten their living rooms.
Beyond the barn, standing by itself in a small clearing, was the Wishing Tree. I could just make it out—a dark shape against slightly lighter darkness. By evening it would be illuminated by the soft glow of fairy lights, its branches laden with folded slips of paper and ribbon. People came at all hours to tie their wishes there. Some of those wishes, I knew, were nothing more than a child’s hope for a special toy. Others were heavier—pleas for healing, reconciliation, a return to love or prosperity. My grandparents had always treated the Wishing Tree with reverence, insisting it had brought miracles to Springfield for decades. Perhaps it had. The town’s lore was thick with stories of dreams fulfilled. The Hollys at the Hollyhock House had their baby after years of yearning. Candi McCall claimed it brought her daughter Juniper home.
Me? I’d never truly believed in magic. I respected the tree because it mattered to my family and my neighbors, not because I thought wishes whispered under starlight could shift fate. But I acknowledged its power in a different way: it brought people hope, and that hope shaped how they lived. Maybe that was magic enough. Who was I to say, after all.
I moved some of the bundled trees onto the truck bed, careful with their branches. The Holiday Market would be busy today. The stalls, the carolers, and the gingerbread-making station for kids—Springfield pulled out all the stops in December. And of course, the Wishing Tree drew more visitors each year, all wanting a story to take back home, a spark of seasonal enchantment. I found myself wondering if that reporter from last night—Cassie Monroe—would show up. That city girl with her glossy dark bob, fancy designer clothes, and heels that sank into the dirt like they didn’t belong here at all. She’d arrived unannounced yesterday at dusk, her tone sharp, questions pointed, eyes full of skepticism. She’d radiated a kind of cynical curiosity that irked me when I’d first laid eyes on her—even if she did happen to be a beautiful woman.
I yanked a tarp free from a hook and tossed it over a few wreaths stacked by the wall. The memory of her face, all cheekbones, and dark-lashed eyes, intruded uninvited. Why did I care what she thought? She was just some out-of-towner looking for a headline. Yet I worried that her article might turn the Wishing Tree into a target for mockery. I had read enough “take-down” pieces in online magazines, laughing at small-town customs, to know that Springfield’s beloved tradition could easily be spun as laughable folklore. Or worse. The idea made my jaw tense.
I lugged a fresh bundle of fir trees to the truck. The Wishing Tree wasn’t just ours; it belonged to the community. People who looked at those branches and in them saw hope and second chances. But how would Cassie Monroe portray it? I couldn’t let her tear down something so many folks treasured.
By the time the first light of dawn stained the sky, I had most of the trees loaded. I took a moment to head inside, brew some coffee, and scarf down a slice of leftover bread and honey.
The farmhouse kitchen was silent. My parents had retired to Florida recently, leaving me to run the farm alone. I didn’t mind; I’d grown up watching them work this land, and now the responsibility felt right. Still, I missed their voices in the morning, my mother’s gentle humming, my father’s off-key whistle. Running this place solo put all the pressure on my shoulders, and with the influx of tourists each season, I needed strong holiday sales to keep the farm thriving year-round. An unfavorable article could threaten that. If the Wishing Tree was made to look like a hoax, would visitors still come?
After finishing my coffee, I made my way back outside, intent on delivering these trees to the Market’s booth. But just as I was fastening the last rope on the truck, I spotted movement along the road. Sure enough, her car was rolling up the gravel drive. Cassie. She parked, stepped out carefully, and walked toward me, her heels clicking faintly on the packed gravel. I guess she decided to come earlier than I expected.
I drew myself up, trying to look unbothered. The morning light revealed her clearly: petite frame, delicate features, and that perfect dark hair framing her face. Despite the cold, she held herself with a poised confidence that made me think of steel in silk wrapping. I brushed off the fleeting thought that she looked beautiful. Annoying, yes. A nuisance, sure. But also…undeniably lovely. She had that kind of femininity that made a man notice, and I was a hot-blooded man to the core.
“Morning,” she said, her tone polite but not exactly warm. “I was hoping we could talk now that it’s daylight. Maybe you’ll be more willing to answer my questions.”
I rested a forearm on the truck bed. “I’m busy,” I replied, voice even. “Holiday Market’s waiting. If you want to ask questions, you’ll have to do it on my terms.”
Her eyebrows rose slightly. “On your terms?”
I nodded. “You can observe me working. You can watch how I run things, maybe even talk to a few customers if they agree. But I don’t want you messing up my busiest season. I rely on these sales, and I won’t have you scaring off people or suggesting the Wishing Tree is some tourist trap.” The words sounded harsh, but better to set boundaries now. If she was going to write something, I wanted it controlled, at least a little.
She gave a short laugh, clearly not pleased. “I’m not here to sabotage your business, Mr. Lawson. I’m just here for a story.”
“A balanced story?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. “Or one that’ll paint us as gullible hicks who believe in fairy tales?”
Cassie shook her head, the silky bob swaying elegantly. “Come on, that’s unfair. I haven’t written anything yet. Give me a chance.”
I studied her face. It was composed, but her eyes held a hint of exasperation. Maybe I was being too hard. Maybe. But I’d rather be cautious. “All right,” I said, relenting a bit. “You can come to the Market with me, see how we sell the trees, talk to a few folks. But don’t get in my way. And after that, I have work to do here. No pushing.”
She nodded, and I thought I saw relief flicker across her features. “Deal.”
I climbed into the truck, and she hesitated before following me around to the passenger side. My truck wasn’t exactly polished—mud on the tires, a slight sag in the passenger seat springs—but it worked fine. I watched her frown slightly at the mess of papers, gloves, and old receipts stuffed in the glove box. If she thought I’d tidy up for her sake, she was sorely mistaken.
We drove in silence down the narrow lane, the engine’s rumble filling the quiet. The landscape unfurled: frosted fields, clusters of trees, smoke curling from chimneys in the distance. The Holiday Market set up each December in the heart of Springfield’s town square. By the time we arrived, carolers were warming their voices, and vendors were arranging crafts and treats. I parked near my assigned space and hopped out, Cassie following suit. She wobbled slightly on the uneven ground—her fancy boots not meant for winter markets—and I had to bite back a smirk.
“So how does this work?” she asked, hugging herself against the cold. Her breath formed a small cloud.
I stepped to the back of the truck and began unloading a few trees. “Families come to pick out a wreath or a tree. I’ll have a price list and tags. I help them choose, net it up if they want to take it home right away. Sometimes kids ask about the Wishing Tree, or tourists want to know how it started.” I shrugged. “I tell them what I know. People pay, I load their tree, and they’re off.”
She pulled out a small notebook from her coat pocket. “Mind if I take notes?”
“Just don’t interrupt my sales,” I said, hefting a medium-sized fir and propping it against a wooden stand I’d set up last week. The scent of fresh pine filled the air. Already, shoppers were drifting into the square, drawn by the smell of candied nuts and hot cocoa from the neighboring booth. I nodded at a couple I recognized—locals who’d been buying trees from us for years. They waved back, smiling, clearly delighted that the season had truly begun.
Cassie stood off to the side, pen poised, eyes scanning everything. She scribbled something after I greeted another customer. I wondered what she was writing. Probably noting every detail, trying to find something amiss. The tension between us simmered beneath the surface.
About an hour in, a woman approached, looking uncertain. She was a tourist—her accent suggested she was from the south. She asked me about the Wishing Tree, her voice low as if revealing a secret. “Does it really grant wishes?” She looked at the trees with reverence, as if I might have an answer.
I was honest. “I can’t say for sure. Some believe it does. People have gotten what they wished for, or so they claim. I know it matters a lot to folks around here.”
She nodded slowly, smiling. “In that case, I think I’ll take a wreath, and I might head up to the farm to see the tree myself.” We settled on a price, and she left hugging the wreath close. I glanced at Cassie. She’d been listening, her pen still.
“Why not just tell her it’s nonsense?” she asked quietly when the customer was out of earshot.
I snorted. “Because maybe it’s not nonsense to her. Who am I to take that from her?”
She studied me. “You really don’t believe it’s magic, though, do you?”
I straightened a tree stand, avoiding her gaze. “I believe it’s important to this town. I believe it gives hope. That’s enough.”
A silence stretched. For a moment, I wondered if I’d said too much. She nodded, lips pressed into a thin line and went back to her notebook. Customers trickled by, and I sold a few more trees. The morning wore on, and I caught sight of Lucille Winter at her booth, Winter Wonderlands , the landscape designer Juniper worked for. She waved enthusiastically—her cheeks rosy, her white curls framing her face like balls of cotton. Juniper McCall passed by too, nodding hello, giving me a knowing glance when she spotted Cassie. Probably wondering what I made of this city reporter.
A young family came by next—parents with two kids, a boy and a girl, both under ten. They searched through the trees with excited giggles, finally choosing a full, fragrant Douglas fir. While I netted it up, the mother talked about how they’d visited the Wishing Tree every year since their eldest was born. She said it brought them closer as a family, encouraging them to make small wishes—nothing grand, just hopes for health and happiness. Cassie watched, her pen still, as if absorbing the scene.
I couldn’t shake the sensation that she was looking for holes in our stories, a way to prove it all hokey. But at the same time, she seemed quieter, more contemplative now. Maybe she was just gathering her thoughts before blasting us in her article though.
By midday, sales had slowed. Cassie approached me again. “I have enough observations for now,” she said, tucking her notebook away. “I’ll get out of your hair.”
“Is that all?” I asked, relieved but also oddly disappointed. I supposed I’d gotten used to her hovering. “I figured you’d have more questions.”
She shrugged. “I’m sure I’ll have more later. You said I can talk to people but not get in your way. I think I’ve done enough for today.” Her tone was neutral. “I might head back to the inn, write up some notes. Maybe I’ll swing by the farm tomorrow or the next day.”
“Just remember what I said,” I warned, my voice low. “Don’t twist our story into something cheap.”
She met my eyes. Her gaze was steady, not flinching. “I’ll write what I see. I can’t promise I’ll believe everything everyone says—but I’m not here to tear it down for the sake of it. I have a job too, Lawson.”
My last name on her lips was a surprise. She’d said it without malice, just matter-of-fact, but it pulled at something inside me. I nodded, not trusting myself to say more.
I watched her leave, her pretty purple coat cinched at the waist, her heels clicking on the brick pathway around the square. She looked so out of place yet so certain of her direction. She paused to admire a display of handmade ornaments, tilting her head as if curious, then continued on. Her petite figure weaved through the crowd with a self-assured grace. There was a softness in her appearance—delicate frame, dark shiny hair—that contrasted with the toughness in her voice and stance. She irritated me with her skepticism, her prying questions, and her refusal to just accept things as they were. Yet I couldn’t deny that she stirred something more primal in me. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t appreciate how her clothes skimmed her slim shape, or how her boots highlighted her slender legs, or how her lips curved into a perfect Cupid’s bow.
The thought made me chuckle under my breath. What was I doing, noticing such things about a reporter who was already causing trouble? I shook my head, hoisted another tree onto a stand, and tried to focus on my work.
Throughout the afternoon, I sold more trees and wreaths, spoke to regulars who teased me about the seasonal rush, and nodded to acquaintances who drifted by. The Holiday Market hummed with life—excited shoppers going from booth to booth in search of gifts for loved ones, kids in colorful coats and scarves with reddened cheeks laughing over bags of popcorn, smiling shopkeepers chatting with old and new faces. Everywhere, the cheer of Christmas wove through the stalls like a bright ribbon.
In quieter moments, I caught myself glancing toward the direction Cassie had gone. She was long gone now, probably holed up at Hollyhock House tapping away on her laptop. I knew the Hollys would welcome her kindly, probably feed her cocoa and tell her stories. Would that soften her heart any? Would she see this town’s earnest spirit, or would she just spin our traditions into a puff piece about silly rural folk?
I tried to push the worry aside. I had done what I could—set boundaries, limited her interference. If she wanted to poke around, let her. Springfield’s truth spoke for itself. If she was determined to put a negative spin on her piece, I wouldn’t be able to stop her. But something made me want to try anyway.
By late afternoon, the shadows stretched long, and it was time to pack up. I sold the last of the day’s trees, said my goodnights to my fellow shopkeepers and familiar neighbors on my way out of the market, then climbed back into my truck in the lot. The scent of pine clung to my clothes. I drove home as the sky turned a deep indigo, stars pricking through once more. The farm awaited me, calm and quiet. I parked near the barn, hopped out, and took a moment to stand before the Wishing Tree. It was lit now, and a few flakes of snow had started to fall. I could see the slips of paper fluttering in the slight wind. I imagined all those hopes and dreams rustling in the silence.
I leaned a shoulder against the barn’s rough boards and sighed. Cassie Monroe might poke at this tradition, question its authenticity. She might try to reduce it to a marketing ploy. But the tree had stood here long before she arrived and would remain after she left. It wasn’t my job to convert her—heck, I’d never tied a wish on the thing myself—but it was my job to protect my family legacy and uphold an important tradition.
I closed my eyes, thinking about the coming days. Christmas wasn’t far off. Cassie would probably appear again, pen and notebook at the ready, trying to pry into my business. If she kept pressing, I’d stand firm. If she ridiculed us, I’d defend us. But maybe I could show her what this place was really about.
The thought of her long-lashed eyes and that skeptical twist of her lips surfaced again. Beautiful, yes, but also prickly. I allowed a small grin. She probably thought I was a stubborn brute. Maybe I was. Either way, I’d have to maintain my composure. The last thing I needed was to get tangled up in some flirtation with a reporter who’d leave town once her story was done. The farm was my priority.
I turned away from the barn and headed inside, the warmth of the farmhouse enveloping me. I stoked the fire, fixed a simple supper of leftover stew, and let the quiet of the evening settle over me. Outside, snow was falling softly, silver flakes drifting past the window. I cracked open a beer and stared at the dancing flames, thinking about the busy days ahead.
Finishing my beer, I cleaned up and turned out the lights. The house creaked softly, as old houses do, settling into the night. Upstairs, I undressed and changed into comfortable flannel pajama bottoms, stretching the tension from my shoulders. I thought again of Cassie’s clipped voice and the faint scent of her expensive perfume lingering in the truck after she’d left. Damn. I shook my head. Keep it together, Lawson. This woman was trouble, indeed.