Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
AARON
I've made a terrible mistake.
The quiet of my cabin feels different now, three days after Leah Jones breezed into my life, disrupted my peace, and left with my reluctant permission to use the access road.
Her scent still lingers on the blanket she'd wrapped around herself.
Something warm and spiced, like cinnamon and vanilla.
I should wash it. Instead, I find myself sitting in the same spot on the sofa, coffee in hand, staring at the place where she'd sat, her green eyes bright with passion as she told me about her sister.
Damn it. That's what did it. The sister. The cancer. The Christmas spent in hospital beds.
I know something about that. More than I'd ever tell her.
I take a long sip of my coffee, grimacing at the bitterness.
I've been making it stronger each morning, trying to shock myself out of whatever the hell this is.
This... awareness. This curiosity about a woman who represents everything I've been avoiding for the past two years—connection, community, Christmas.
The rumble of engines in the distance tells me they've arrived. Setup day. Just as we agreed.
I stand and move to the windows facing the access road. A caravan of vehicles moves slowly along my property boundary—trucks pulling trailers, vans loaded with supplies, volunteers in cars decorated with holiday garland. All carefully staying on the road, just as Leah promised.
Her red SUV leads the procession. Even from this distance, I can make out her animated gestures as she directs the convoy toward the meadow, her dark hair spilling from beneath the same knitted hat she'd worn during our standoff.
I shouldn't be watching. I should be in my workshop, losing myself in the furniture commission I need to finish before the new year. Or hiking deeper into my property, away from the noise and chaos that's about to descend on the neighboring meadow.
Instead, I grab my coat and step onto the porch.
The cold December air bites at my face as I survey the activity. More vehicles arrive, and people begin unloading equipment. I can hear faint laughter, calls back and forth as they begin setting up what looks like large tents and structures. Christmas music drifts on the wind.
I tell myself I'm just making sure they're keeping to our agreement. No encroachment. No disturbance. That's all.
A flash of red catches my eye again. Leah stands at the edge of the meadow, clipboard in hand, directing a truck hauling what appears to be parts of a carousel.
She's everywhere at once—checking a delivery manifest, helping unload boxes, stopping to greet each volunteer with a smile that lights up her entire face.
Her energy is magnetic, even from a distance. Every person she interacts with seems to stand taller afterward, moving with renewed purpose.
Growling at my own foolishness, I turn to go back inside when I see her break away from the group and start heading in my direction. Toward my cabin. My private space.
My body tenses as she approaches. She's already violated one of our conditions, and they haven't even finished unloading.
She stops at the property line, exactly where I'd told her to place the markers, and waves up at me. She doesn't cross the boundary, just stands there until I acknowledge her with a reluctant nod.
"Good morning!" she calls, her voice carrying in the clear air. "Just wanted to make sure we're not disturbing you too much!"
I don't respond immediately, struck by the simple consideration of the gesture. She could have ignored me completely, gotten what she wanted and carried on.
"It's fine," I finally call back, the words feeling rusty in my throat.
She smiles, and even from this distance, it's like a punch to the gut. "We're setting up the lights today, but we won't turn them on until tomorrow! I didn't want you to think we were having the event today!"
I nod again, unsure why she's telling me this, why she cares what I think at all.
"I brought you something!" She holds up a paper bag. "A thank you!"
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I find myself walking down the steps of the porch, across the yard, until I'm standing at the property line opposite her. Close enough now to see the flush of cold on her cheeks, the bright sparkle in her green eyes.
She extends the bag across the invisible boundary between us. I take it, careful not to let our fingers touch.
"Cranberry orange muffins," she explains. "I baked them this morning."
The bag is still warm. "You didn't have to do that."
"I wanted to." She tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "You didn't have to let us use the road, but you did. Even grumpy mountain men deserve muffins for good deeds."
I should be irritated at being called grumpy, but the teasing light in her eyes takes the sting from the words.
"Thanks," I say, the word coming out gruffer than intended.
She studies me for a moment, head tilted slightly. "You know, you're welcome to come see the event tomorrow. Free admission for property owners who save Christmas."
"I don't do crowds."
"I noticed." Her lips curve into a smile that does uncomfortable things to my insides. "But the offer stands. We have hot cider, holiday treats, local crafts. The carousel should be pretty spectacular once it's set up."
"I'll pass."
She shrugs, unperturbed by my rejection. "Fair enough. Just thought I'd offer." She glances over her shoulder at the activity in the meadow. "I should get back. Enjoy the muffins, Aaron."
It's the first time she's used my first name, and something about the way it sounds in her voice makes my chest tighten.
I watch her walk away, red coat bright against the winter landscape, and find myself calling after her before I can stop myself. "Leah."
She turns, eyebrows raised in question.
"Make sure they don't block the access road with their vehicles. I need to be able to get out in case of emergency."
She nods seriously. "I'll make sure. Will you be going somewhere?"
"No. But I need the option."
The hint of a smile plays at her lips. "Always good to have options."
With that, she turns and heads back to the meadow, leaving me standing at the property line holding a bag of muffins that smell like Christmas morning.
I retreat to my cabin, annoyed at myself for engaging at all. Opening the bag, the sweet citrus scent fills my kitchen. The muffins are still warm, the tops glistening with sugar crystals. I break one apart, steam rising from the tender orange crumb studded with bright cranberries.
Against my better judgment, I take a bite. The flavors explode on my tongue—tart berries, bright citrus, buttery sweetness. For a moment, I'm transported back to my mother's kitchen, Christmas music playing softly as she baked cookies and muffins for the neighbors.
Before everything went to hell. Before Afghanistan. Before the IED that took my team and left me with scars both visible and hidden.
I force the memory away and wrap the remaining muffins, shoving them in the refrigerator. I need distance from the meadow, from the Christmas preparations, from Leah Jones and her green eyes and warm smile.
I grab my coat again and head to my workshop, a separate building tucked behind the cabin. Inside, the scent of sawdust and varnish replaces cranberries and oranges. My current project waits on the workbench—a hand-carved cradle commissioned by a couple in Billings for their first grandchild.
Work. That's what I need. Lose myself in the grain of the wood, in the precision of measurements, in the transformation of raw material into something useful.
But even as I pick up my tools, my mind drifts back to the meadow, to the red coat and dark hair, to the woman who bakes muffins for grumpy strangers and fights for sick children.
I've spent two years building walls around myself, creating a fortress of solitude where nothing and no one could touch the raw wounds left by my past. Two years of carefully constructed isolation.
And somehow, in the span of three days, Leah Jones has found a crack in those walls.
Hours pass as I sand and shape the cradle components. The repetitive motion is soothing, demanding enough concentration to keep intrusive thoughts at bay. This is why I build things. Control. Creation. Purpose.
When I finally straighten up, my back aching from bending over the workbench, I realize the daylight is fading. Through the workshop windows, I can see lights glowing in the meadow—not the full display, but work lights as the volunteers continue setting up even as darkness falls.
Dedication. I can respect that, even if I want nothing to do with their event.
I clean my tools meticulously, sweep the wood shavings into a neat pile, and cover the cradle components with a cloth. Tomorrow, I'll start the finishing process—layers of oil rubbed into the wood to bring out the natural beauty of the grain, to protect and preserve.
The walk back to my cabin takes me past a view of the meadow. They've erected a large central tent, surrounded by smaller structures. The frame of the carousel stands at the center, partially assembled. Even unfinished, there's a magic to it, silhouetted against the twilight sky.
In the distance, I spot the now familiar red coat. Leah stands with a group of workers, hands gesturing as she gives instructions. Even after a full day of physical labor, she radiates energy.
As if sensing my gaze, she turns suddenly, looking in my direction. I step back into the shadows of the trees, but not before she raises a hand in a small wave.
Seen.
The thought follows me back to the cabin, where I build up the fire against the deepening cold. Outside, the first flakes of snow begin to fall, large and soft, settling on the pines surrounding my property.
Tomorrow, the meadow will be transformed. Filled with lights, music, laughter, families. All the things I've been running from.
All I need to do is stay in my cabin. Ignore it. Wait for Sunday when they'll pack up and leave, and everything will return to blessed quiet.
That's the logical plan. The safe plan.
So why am I pulling the refrigerator door open, taking out one of Leah's muffins, and eating it slowly by the fire? Why am I standing at my window, watching the snow fall on the distant lights of the meadow?
And why, despite all my determination to remain uninvolved, am I already knowing that tomorrow, I won't be able to stay away?