Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
LEAH
"The lights on the north side aren't working!"
I suppress a groan, rubbing my temples where a headache has been threatening all morning. Of course the lights aren't working. Why would anything be easy on the most important day of the Winter Wonderland event?
"I'll check it!" I call back to Mike, our overworked electrician who's already dealing with a power issue at the hot chocolate station.
Snow crunches beneath my boots as I make my way across the transformed meadow. Overnight, six inches of pristine powder has turned our Winter Wonderland into a genuine snow globe scene. It's picture perfect, or it would be if everything would just work properly.
I reach the northern perimeter where a string of twinkling lights hangs dark among its brightly lit companions. Kneeling in the snow, I trace the wire to the connection point, searching for the problem. My fingers are nearly numb despite my gloves, and my breath clouds in the frigid morning air.
"Need help?"
The deep voice startles me so badly I lose my balance, falling backward onto my butt in the snow. Looking up, I find myself staring at Aaron Wilson.
He's standing just on his side of the property line, hands tucked into the pockets of a worn leather jacket. His dark beard is dusted with snowflakes, and his blue eyes are watching me with what might almost be amusement.
"You came," I say, unable to hide my surprise.
"I'm not at your event," he corrects me. "I'm on my property."
Technically true. He's standing in the exact spot where we spoke yesterday, firmly on his side of the boundary. But he's here, watching, which is more than I expected.
"Well, since you're just standing there on your property," I say, getting to my feet and brushing snow from my jeans, "any chance you know anything about electrical connections?"
He hesitates, then steps over the invisible line, crossing into the meadow with reluctance written in every line of his body. It feels momentous somehow, like watching a wild animal venture out of the forest.
"Let me see," he says, crouching beside the dark string of lights. His large, calloused hands make quick work of examining the connections. "You've got moisture in the junction box. Probably from the snow."
He pulls a multi tool from his pocket, deftly unscrewing the plastic housing. Within moments, he's separated the wires, dried them with a handkerchief from his pocket, and reconnected everything properly.
The lights flicker, then illuminate, completing the twinkling perimeter around our event space.
"Thank you," I say, genuinely impressed. "Are you secretly an electrician?"
"Former Navy. We had to learn a bit of everything." He stands, towering over me. "Your setup looks like it's drawing too much power for these temporary lines. You might blow a fuse when everything's running at once."
"That would be a disaster." I chew my lower lip, looking around at all the electrical elements—the carousel, the light displays, the vendor booths with their heaters, the sound system. "Mike said we'd be fine with the generators we rented."
Aaron shakes his head. "Your electrician miscalculated. You need at least one more generator to distribute the load, especially with these temperatures. Batteries drain faster in the cold."
"It's too late to get another generator. We open in an hour."
He's quiet for a moment, surveying the setup with a critical eye. "I have one. A backup for my workshop. Industrial grade."
Hope flares in my chest. "Would you consider..."
"I'll get it," he says before I can finish asking. "But I'm setting it up myself. Don't want your electrician blowing it up."
"Thank you. Seriously, Aaron. You're saving us."
Something flickers across his face at my words. Something almost vulnerable before the stoic mask returns.
"I'll be back in twenty minutes," he says, turning away.
"Wait!" I call after him. When he pauses, I add, "The offer still stands. Free admission. Hot cider. Holiday cookies."
A corner of his mouth twitches. "I'll think about it."
I watch him stride away, his tall figure moving with the fluid grace of someone completely at home in this rugged environment. For the first time, I wonder if maybe the grumpy exterior is just that—an exterior, a protective shell around something softer.
No time to dwell on that now. With the lights working again, I need to finish a dozen other tasks before we open to the public.
The next hour passes in a blur of activity. Vendors arrive to set up their booths, volunteers take their positions, and Wren delivers her final pep talk to the team. I'm checking the schedule at the welcome booth when I spot Aaron returning, pulling a generator on a small trailer behind an ATV.
True to his word, he installs it himself, efficiently connecting it to relieve our overloaded electrical system. He works methodically, ignoring the curious stares from volunteers who've heard rumors about the reclusive mountain man who nearly derailed our event.
When he finishes, I approach with two steaming cups.
"Hot cider," I offer, extending one to him. "Non alcoholic, but I have a flask in my coat if you want to make it more interesting."
He actually smiles at that—a brief, reluctant quirk of his lips that transforms his face, making him look younger, less burdened.
"Just cider is fine," he says, accepting the cup. His fingers brush mine in the exchange, sending a completely inappropriate tingle up my arm.
"You should see the carousel," I tell him, nodding toward the center of the meadow where our star attraction stands. "The restoration team finished it this morning. It's from the 1920s, on loan from a collector in Helena."
To my surprise, he follows me toward it.
The carousel is truly magnificent—hand carved horses with flowing manes, painted in vibrant colors restored to their original glory.
Gold and silver accents catch the winter sunlight, and the traditional organ music fills the air as the operator tests the mechanism.
"Beautiful craftsmanship," Aaron observes, running a hand over the intricate carving on one of the wooden horses. "You don't see work like this anymore."
"The collector told me it took three years to restore," I say, watching him examine the details with an artisan's appreciation. "Each horse is different—look, this one has tiny bluebells painted on its saddle, and that one has eagles carved into its mane."
For a few minutes, we walk around the carousel together, Aaron pointing out details of the woodwork that I hadn't even noticed. His knowledge of construction and design is impressive, and I find myself wondering again about the man behind the gruff exterior.
"The gates are opening," I say, noticing the first families arriving at the entrance. "I should get back to the welcome booth."
He nods, already retreating. "I'll make sure the generator keeps running."
"You don't have to stay—"
"I want to make sure my equipment works properly." He glances at the growing crowd with poorly concealed discomfort. "I'll stay out of the way."
Before I can respond, he's moving toward the perimeter, keeping his distance from the incoming visitors. I have no time to analyze his behavior as the event kicks into full swing.
The next few hours are a whirlwind of activity.
Children race from attraction to attraction, their laughter carrying on the cold air.
Parents sip hot drinks and browse the craft vendors selling holiday decorations and gifts.
The carousel spins continuously, its music mixing with the Christmas songs playing through our sound system.
Every time I look up from a task, I find myself searching for Aaron's tall figure among the crowd. Sometimes I spot him checking the generator, other times examining the structure of one of our display tents, always keeping to himself.
At noon, I finally get a break. Wren insists on covering the welcome booth, practically shoving a plate of food into my hands.
"Eat," she commands. "You've been running on coffee and adrenaline all day."
"Everything's going perfectly," I tell her, suddenly realizing how hungry I am as I bite into a warm gingerbread cookie. "The snowfall last night was like a miracle."
"The children are having an amazing time," she agrees, her eyes tracking a group of kids throwing snowballs in a designated play area. "The McKenna brothers brought their families. Even Elias came down from his cabin, which is almost as shocking as your mountain man showing up."
"He's not my mountain man," I protest around a mouthful of cookie.
Wren raises an eyebrow. "He's been watching you, you know. When you're not looking."
"He's probably making sure we don't violate his precious property rights."
"Mmhmm. That must be why he brought his personal generator to save our event, and why he's been scowling at any man who talks to you for too long."
"What? He has not." I turn to scan the crowd, finding Aaron precisely where Wren indicated, by the hot chocolate stand. As if sensing my gaze, he looks up, our eyes meeting across the distance. He doesn't look away.
Heat that has nothing to do with my hot cider spreads through my chest. I break the eye contact first, turning back to Wren.
"He's just being neighborly," I insist, not entirely sure who I'm trying to convince.
"Neighborly," Wren repeats with a knowing smile. "Sure. Because that man has been the definition of neighborly since he moved here two years ago."
Before I can formulate a response, a commotion near the entrance catches my attention.
Mayor Johnston has arrived with the children from the Billings Hospital—our special guests of honor.
Some in wheelchairs, others walking with assistance, all bundled up against the cold and wide eyed at the winter scene before them.
"I need to greet them," I say, handing my half empty plate back to Wren. "We have special gift bags for each child."
I hurry toward the entrance, checking that everything is ready for our most important guests. These children and their families are the whole reason for the event, the reason I fought so hard to make it happen.
The next hour is devoted to making sure each child experiences the full magic of Winter Wonderland.
I personally escort two sisters, both undergoing treatment for the same rare blood disorder, to the carousel.
Their delight as they ride the beautifully restored horses makes every struggle worthwhile.
As I help the younger girl, barely five years old, down from her horse, I notice Aaron standing nearby, watching the carousel spin. The little girl notices him too.
"Are you a real mountain man?" she asks him, her voice made thin by illness but her eyes bright with curiosity.
Aaron looks startled, then kneels down to her level, his massive frame somehow making the gesture even more gentle.
"Some people say so," he tells her seriously.
"Do you have a pet bear?"
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "No bears. Just myself."
"That sounds lonely," the child says with the brutal honesty only kids possess.
Something flashes across Aaron's face—pain, recognition, vulnerability—before he composes himself.
"Sometimes quiet is nice," he says. Then, reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a small wooden figure—a tiny carousel horse, intricately carved. "I made this earlier. Would you like to have it?"
The little girl's eyes widen as she accepts the carving. "It looks just like the one I rode! Did you make it just for me?"
Aaron nods. "Merry Christmas."
"Thank you!" She throws her thin arms around his neck in a spontaneous hug. For a moment, Aaron freezes, clearly unused to such contact. Then, carefully, he pats her back.
I feel like I'm witnessing something profoundly private, a crack in the armor he wears so rigidly. When the child releases him and runs to show her sister the wooden horse, Aaron rises to his feet, his eyes meeting mine.
What I see there steals my breath—rawness, pain, and something else, something warm and wanting that makes my heart beat faster.
"That was beautiful," I say softly when I can trust my voice. "When did you carve it?"
"This morning. After I saw the real carousel." He shrugs, uncomfortable with the praise. "It's nothing."
"It's everything to her." I step closer, drawn to him despite all my better judgment. "You're full of surprises, Aaron Wilson."
His gaze drops to my lips, just for a second, but long enough to send a thrill of awareness through my entire body.
"Leah!" Wren's voice breaks the moment. "The mayor wants to make his speech now!"
I step back, suddenly aware of how close we've been standing. "I have to go."
Aaron nods, already retreating. "I should check the generator."
As I hurry toward the stage area, my mind is spinning. What just happened? What was that moment between us? And why can't I stop thinking about how his eyes looked when that little girl hugged him, or how he'd carved that perfect little horse, or how his gaze had dropped to my lips?
Focus, Leah. You have an event to run. A charity to support. A job to do.
Aaron Wilson and whatever is happening between us will have to wait.
But as I take the microphone to introduce the mayor, I can't help scanning the crowd for his tall figure.
And I can't help the flutter in my stomach when I find him watching me from the edge of the gathering, his blue eyes intense and unreadable in the winter light.