Chapter Five
CASSIE
That night in the quiet privacy of my room at Hollyhock House, I stared at the blank page on my laptop screen and tried to summon words that refused to come. I’d come to Springfield prepared to write a scathing little holiday piece, a neat and cynical exposé about how a small town uses its quaint Wishing Tree legend to rake in tourist dollars. I wanted to tug away at the pretty ribbon and find the cheap, crinkled paper beneath. But after everything I’d witnessed—the joy in Martha Holly’s voice, the careful devotion Wyatt showed to his trees, the heartfelt stories told by Lucille Winter and others—I couldn’t twist the narrative into something mocking and cold.
The cursor blinked at me, unyielding, as if waiting to see what I’d make of all this. I tried to tap out a few lines—took them back, started again. Each time I tried to frame Springfield’s traditions as a manipulative marketing ploy, the words sounded hollow and dishonest. Had I allowed my past to shape my assumptions too rigidly? Perhaps I’d been so determined to see holiday cheer as fake because I’d never truly known the real thing. Growing up where Christmas meant a string of babysitters while my parents attended elegant cocktail parties instead of enjoying midnight storytelling sessions by the fire, and where love was measured in successful deals closed before the year’s end, had left me cynical and suspicious of anything that felt too genuine.
Yet here I was in Springfield, where holiday magic didn’t seem to be a scripted performance. Instead, it felt like a current running beneath the surface of everyday life—an energy binding people together through hope and kindness. Maybe my own pain had blinded me, made me too quick to scorn. Now, something inside me cracked open. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d let myself simply believe in the goodness of community and the sincerity of a tradition.
And then there was Wyatt. He had started as a hurdle, a proud and stubborn man with wary eyes and clipped words. But he’d allowed me to see what lay beneath his gruff exterior: the honest labor behind each evergreen, the history of his ancestry stitched into the Wishing Tree’s roots, the quiet pride and tenderness he felt for this land. The memory of my body pressed close to his resurfaced, that startling moment when he caught me as I slipped on ice. His arm around my waist, the warmth of his frame, the firmness of his muscles beneath flannel. Later, the brush of his lips over my knuckles—a gesture so simple and old- fashioned it left me breathless. My skin still tingled where he’d kissed it. What would his mouth feel like on the rest of me?
Heat rose in my cheeks as I closed the laptop, admitting temporary defeat. I wasn’t ready to write this article yet. I needed to let these new truths settle. I turned off the lights and slid beneath the old patchwork quilt. Drowsiness tugged at me, and I surrendered, drifting off to sleep with Wyatt’s face floating in my mind and the whisper of his voice still warming my thoughts.
The next morning, I woke with a sense of purpose I hadn’t felt in a long time. After breakfast—a plate of warm biscuits and honey courtesy of Martha—I headed out to find more appropriate attire for farm work. A few blocks away, on the far side of the square, I stepped into Candi Couture. Inside, Candi greeted me with a broad grin, delighted that I’d returned. I scanned the racks, looking for clothes that could handle sap and soil, eventually picking out a pair of dark blue jeans, a soft red flannel shirt, and sturdy work boots. As I carried my selections toward the counter, the door jingled and Juniper strolled in, freckles and strawberry-blonde curls aglow in the morning light.
She wore jeans and a sweater, casual and comfortable. Spotting me, she grinned knowingly. “I heard rumors that Wyatt Lawson’s got you helping on the farm. My fiancé, Mason Knight, is an auto mechanic, and takes care of the farm equipment for Wyatt. Is he making you break a sweat?”
I laughed, feeling an unexpected flush of happiness at the teasing. “I offered,” I corrected. “He didn’t force me.”
Candi stepped behind the counter, busy ringing up my purchases. “Wyatt’s a good man,” she said, eyeing me with an almost maternal pride. “He’ll appreciate the help. And these clothes will serve you far better than those heels and skirts you had before.”
Juniper caught my gaze, head tilted. “So, what do you think of him?” There was mischief in her eyes.
I felt heat climb my neck. “He’s…different than I expected,” I managed carefully. “Hardworking, honest. Not just some gruff lumberjack.” The memory of his lips on my hand threatened to tug a smile onto my face.
Juniper and Candi exchanged a grin, as if they’d uncovered a delightful secret. Juniper cocked an eyebrow and said to Candi, “We should invite Cassie to the Christmas Eve Charity Gala.”
Candi clapped her hands. “Of course! Cassie, you must come. It’s the highlight of the year—everyone in Springfield attends. We hold it at the boutique, and the proceeds support the local children’s hospital. It’s festive and elegant. Maybe you can bring Wyatt.” She winked, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I invite him every year, but he never shows. Perhaps your influence can change that?”
The thought of attending a gala here, in this town, made my heart twist with a strange excitement. “I’d love to come,” I said, smiling. “Thank you.”
“Fantastic!” said Juniper. “Mason and I will be there, of course.”
Candi wrapped my purchases in crisp tissue paper. “Wonderful, darling! I’ll make sure to send a formal invitation to the inn. And Wyatt…well, if anyone can lure him out of his flannel cave, it might be you.” She and Juniper giggled, and I joined their laughter, feeling lighter than I had in days.
Armed with my new work clothes, I drove out to the tree farm. Wyatt greeted me near the barn, and his entire face lit up when he saw my attire. “You actually got proper boots,” he teased, crossing his arms over a thick, forest-green flannel. His dark eyes sparkled with approval.
I held up my hands, clad in the cashmere gloves I’d brought from home. “I’m taking this seriously. Better gloves would help, though.”
With a half-smile, he pulled a pair of thick work gloves from his back pocket and offered them. “I washed these just for you. Might still be a bit big, but they’re the smallest pair I had.” He took one of my hands, slipping the glove on, frowning slightly at the extra space. “Not perfect, but definitely better than what you had on.”
His touch sent a flutter through my stomach. “I appreciate the effort,” I said softly. He met my gaze, and for a second, the rest of the world faded. There was that hush again, that slow current of electricity that flowed between us. We didn’t need to name it; it hummed quietly in the space we shared.
Before the silence stretched too long, he gestured to a worktable. “Today we’re making wreaths for the Holiday Market. I’ll show you how to weave the branches and secure the decorations. Ready?”
I nodded, following him. The wreath-making was fiddly work, involving fresh evergreen boughs, sprigs of holly, pinecones, and bright red bows. Wyatt’s hands were sure and steady. I tried to imitate his technique, feeling clumsy at first, but soon caught the rhythm. We worked side-by-side, shoulders occasionally brushing. Each accidental touch felt charged with unspoken possibility, making me shiver.
After we’d made a decent stack of wreaths, Wyatt loaded them onto his truck. “Time to take these to the Market,” he said, and I climbed in beside him, eager to see how he managed his booth. The Market bustled as usual—carolers singing old Christmas tunes, kids decorating gingerbread houses, couples walking arm-in-arm. The booth was manned by a few of Wyatt’s farmhands, friendly folks who greeted him with easy smiles and teased him about bringing decent-looking help this time.
Sales were strong, the wreaths disappearing into eager hands. Wyatt observed the scene with pride, leaning against the truck bed, arms folded. There wasn’t much for him to do now that the workers were handling sales, and after a while, he turned to me, eyes bright.
“We’re not needed here,” he said over the cheerful hum of the crowd. “Want to do something else?”
“Like what?” I asked.
He tipped his chin toward a path leading out of the square. “There’s ice-skating nearby. Locals skate there every winter.” He shrugged, looking almost shy. “Care to join me?”
I grinned. “Ice-skating, huh? I haven’t done that since I was a kid. But I’m game.”
We trudged through the market and along a snowy trail until the trees parted to reveal a pristine, frozen lake. The surface glittered under the pale afternoon sun. After picking up skates from the rental booth, we changed into them, me tying the laces as best I could, since the last time I’d been skating was sometime in grade school. When I stood, wobbling slightly, Wyatt took my hand. “Easy,” he murmured, guiding me onto the ice.
For the first few minutes, I slipped and laughed nervously, clinging to his hand. He steadied me, patient and amused. Soon, we found a rhythm, gliding slowly, our breaths frosting in the air. The world felt pure here, amidst the sounds of laughter and the distant cry of winter birds. I couldn’t recall feeling so light, so free from worry.
As the sky began to blush with late-afternoon colors, Wyatt and I stepped off the ice, cheeks flushed, hearts thumping. “Thanks for that,” I said, meaning more than just the skating.
He nodded. “It was my pleasure. You caught on fast.”
We walked back toward his truck side by side, sneaking furtive glances at each other with smiles on our faces. Back at the farm, he offered me a hand down from the cab. “I appreciate all your help today,” he said in a gentle voice. “You didn’t have to make wreaths or haul them around with me. I know that’s not what you signed up to do when you took the assignment out here.”
My heart fluttered. “I wanted to,” I said simply. “I like feeling useful. And I can’t deny I’m enjoying seeing this town through your eyes.”
He studied me, lips curving into a half-smile. “If you’re not sick of my company yet, I’d like to invite you to dinner. I can’t promise a gourmet meal, but I make a mean spaghetti. What do you say?”
A quiet thrill raced through me. Dinner at Wyatt’s farmhouse, just the two of us. “I’d love that,” I replied softly.
His smile broadened, lighting up his face. “Great. Give me an hour or so. Take your time at the inn. I’ll have everything ready when you get back.”
My heart sang at the promise of an evening in his company. “I’ll see you soon,” I said, stepping back into my car. As I drove away, I caught him watching me, one hand raised in a casual wave. The image of him standing there—a tall, strong figure framed by pines and sky—seared into my mind.
Back at Hollyhock House, I climbed the stairs to my room, the old floorboards creaking companionably under my feet. In the bathroom, I took a long, hot shower, letting the steam curl around me as I washed away the dust, sap, and sweat of the day. My reflection in the mirror looked different somehow—eyes brighter, cheeks rosier. The woman who had arrived in Springfield a cynic was changing. I toweled off, dressed in something simple yet flattering, my heart fluttering at the thought of Wyatt’s invitation.
I’d come here to find a story. Instead, I’d found something else: a gentle unraveling of old wounds, and a man who made me question every guarded stance I’d ever taken.
As I gazed at my reflection in the mirror, I thought of Wyatt’s steady hands and thoughtful eyes. What would happen next? I didn’t know, but for the first time in a long while, I was excited to find out.