Holiday Pines (A Southern Comfort Christmas #1)

Chapter 1

One

The alarm went off at four, same as always. Wes slapped at his phone until the noise stopped, then lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling. His body ached in places he didn’t remember using the day before. Thirty years old and he felt fifty.

Five more minutes.

He gave himself three, then swung his legs out of bed.

The farmhouse was cold. Heat didn’t reach the upstairs like it used to, not since he’d moved up here and given Henry the bedroom downstairs. Wes pulled on yesterday’s jeans and a flannel shirt, both smelling faintly of pine sap and chainsaw exhaust. He’d shower later. Maybe.

Downstairs, he paused outside Henry’s door, listening. Soft snoring. Good. His father had slept through the night, which meant Wes had too—no 2am texts about needing help to the bathroom or not being able to find the TV remote.

Small mercies.

The coffee maker gurgled to life while Wes pulled on his boots.

Through the kitchen window, he could see the barn lit up like a beacon, his crew already there.

Miguel and his nephew, Charlie, were good workers, early risers.

They’d have the tractors warming up, the first batch of trees ready to load onto the lot.

First Friday of December.

Wes poured coffee into a thermos—black, no sugar. His phone buzzed. A text from Miguel: Boss, we've got a problem with the baler.

Of course we do.

He typed back: Be there in five.

The air outside bit at his face, sharp and clean. Frost crunched under his boots as he crossed the yard. The trees stood in perfect rows beyond the barn, dark silhouettes against the pre-dawn gray. Forty acres of Fraser, balsam, and noble firs. Three generations of Daltons had worked this land.

And you’re about to lose it.

“Shut up,” he muttered to himself.

The barn smelled like hay and gasoline. Miguel stood by the baler, scratching his head. “It’s making a noise,” he said. “Like this—” He mimicked a grinding sound that Wes felt in his back teeth.

Wes crouched down, peering into the machine’s guts. “Hand me that wrench.”

It took twenty minutes and skinned knuckles, but he got it running.

Miguel beamed, eyes bright. “You’re a genius, boss.”

“I’m a guy who can’t afford a new baler.” Wes stood, wiping grease on his jeans. “Get those fraser firs loaded first. People want them fresh.”

By eight, the sun was up, and customers were already trickling in.

Families with kids in puffy jackets, couples holding hands, retirees who came every year, remembering when Wes’s grandfather had run the place.

Wes smiled, shook hands, pointed people toward the tree varieties, and tried not to think about the stack of bills on his desk.

Forty-seven thousand dollars behind.

Foreclosure notice: December 24th.

Merry fucking Christmas.

At noon, he took a break, sitting on the tailgate of his truck with a sandwich he’d forgotten to eat at breakfast. His phone buzzed—Henry’s monitoring app. The little dot showed his father was awake, moving around the house.

Wes watched the little dot on the screen travel from the bedroom to the kitchen. His father could manage breakfast on his own—cereal, toast, nothing that required the stove. They’d learned that the hard way after the stroke.

February had been hell. Watching Henry relearn how to walk, how to grip a fork, how to form words that didn’t slur together. The man who’d taught Wes everything—how to prune a tree, how to handle a chainsaw, how to run a business—suddenly couldn’t tie his own shoes.

So Wes had stayed and given up the idea of getting out, of having a life that wasn’t measured in feet of pine and gallons of sap, just like he’d given up art school so many years ago.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself.

He shoved the sandwich back in its bag, appetite gone.

That’s when he saw the car.

A silver Audi sedan, navigating the dirt road like a nervous cat in a dog park. It bounced over ruts, swerved around the worst of the mud, and finally parked near the barn. Too clean. Too expensive. Too Atlanta.

The driver’s door opened, and a man stepped out.

Dark suit. Polished shoes. Hair that had seen a barber recently, not a pair of kitchen scissors and a mirror. He looked around, spotted Wes, and started walking over.

Wes didn’t move from the tailgate.

Here we go.

“Mr. Dalton?” The man extended a hand. “Jake Marley. Regional First Bank.”

Wes looked at the offered hand, then at Jake’s face—clean-shaven with piercing blue eyes. He was handsome, but also looked like a guy who probably ironed his underwear.

“I know who you are.” Wes didn’t shake. “You’re early.”

“I texted yesterday. Said I’d be here around two.”

“It’s not two yet.”

Jake glanced at his watch—something sleek and silver that probably cost more than Wes’s truck payment. “It’s 1:47.”

“Like I said. Early.”

A pause. Jake lowered his hand, slipping it into his pocket instead. “May I look around?”

“It’s not like I can stop you.”

“You could. But I’d appreciate the cooperation.”

Wes slid off the tailgate, landing harder than necessary. His boots hit the mud, and Jake’s eyes flicked down to them, then to his own shoes, already speckled with red Georgia clay.

Should’ve worn boots, city boy.

“Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

He led Jake toward the rows of trees, moving fast enough that the banker had to work to keep up. Wes didn’t slow down. Didn’t point out the different varieties or explain the lot layout. Just walked.

“How many acres?” Jake asked.

“Forty.”

“And you run it yourself?”

“Mostly. Got a crew for harvesting and busy weekends.”

“Your father—Henry, right?—does he still work the farm?”

Wes stopped so abruptly that Jake almost ran into him. He turned, and the banker took a step back.

“My father,” Wes said, voice low, “had a stroke in February. He uses a walker now. Can’t lift anything heavier than a coffee mug. So no. He doesn’t work the farm.”

Jake’s expression didn’t change. Professional mask firmly in place. “I see. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

Wes studied him. Looking for the lie, the practiced sympathy bankers likely learned in some corporate training seminar. But Jake just looked back, steady, waiting.

Damn it.

Wes turned and kept walking.

They covered the lot in silence. Jake took notes on his phone, occasionally stopping to photograph a section of trees or the barn or the old farmhouse in the distance.

He didn’t ask stupid questions. Didn’t comment on the obvious—that the equipment was old, that the fence line needed repair, that the whole operation was held together with duct tape and prayers.

When they reached the workshop behind the barn, Jake paused. “What’s this building?”

“My workspace.”

“For?”

“Chainsaw carvings.” Wes didn’t elaborate.

Jake peered through the window. Inside, half-finished figures crowded the space—bears, owls with wide eyes, and eagles with spread wings. Wes’s escape when the farm got to be too much, when his hands needed to create, lose himself.

“These are yours?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re good.”

“Thanks.” He’d never been comfortable receiving compliments. He didn’t know how to accept them without feeling like he should deflect or make a joke. So he just stood there, awkward.

Wes’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out. The app again. Henry’s dot was in the living room now, stationary. Probably in his recliner, watching game shows.

“Need to take that?” Jake inquired.

“No. Just checking on my dad.”

“Monitoring app?”

Wes’s head snapped up. “How’d you know?”

“My foster father had one after his surgery.”

Foster father.

Something about that surprised Wes, though he couldn’t say why. He’d assumed—what? That bankers came from country clubs and trust funds? That guys in expensive suits didn’t know what a monitoring app was because they’d never had to use one?

They walked back toward Jake’s car. The Audi looked even more ridiculous from this angle, splattered with mud.

“So,” Wes said, crossing his arms. “How long before you pull the plug? A week? Two?”

Jake stopped, turning to face him. “I’m not here to pull the plug, Mr. Dalton.”

“Right. You’re just here to assess the situation.” Wes made air quotes. “I’ve read the letters. I know how this works.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah. You come out, take some pictures, pretend to care, then go back to your office and recommend foreclosure. Merry Christmas, family farm’s gone.”

Jake didn’t flinch. “Is that what you think I do?”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.” Jake pulled out his phone, tapped a few times, then turned the screen toward Wes. “This is the Hartwell Dairy Farm. Outside Athens. They were six months behind when I took their case. That was three years ago. They’re profitable now.”

He swiped. Another photo. “Mayfield Pecan Grove. Macon. Two years behind, equipment failing, owner ready to walk away. We restructured their loan, connected them with a co-op buyer. They’re still operating.”

Another swipe. “Bellwood Produce. Alpharetta. Eighteen months behind—”

“Okay.” Wes held up a hand. “I get it. You’re a real hero.”

Jake pocketed his phone. “I’m not a hero. I’m a loan officer who specializes in agricultural recovery. I don’t destroy farms, Mr. Dalton. I save them.”

“For a price.”

“For a restructured payment plan, updated equipment leasing, and better market connections. Yes.”

Wes laughed, sharp and bitter. “And how much is that going to cost me?”

“Right now? Nothing. I’m assessing whether your farm is viable for recovery. If it is, we’ll talk options. If it’s not...” Jake paused. “Then we’ll talk about that too.”

“And you’ll be making that decision when?”

“I’ll be in town through Christmas. I’m handling three properties in the area.”

Three.

“Great,” Wes said. “So you can destroy multiple families’ livelihoods efficiently.”

Jake’s jaw tightened. First crack in the professional veneer. “I told you. I don’t destroy—”

“Yeah, yeah. You save them. Sure.” Wes turned toward the barn. “You got what you needed?”

“For today.”

“Then I’ve got work to do.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Just walked away, shoulders tight, hands shoved in his pockets.

Behind him, he heard the Audi’s door close, its engine starting with a smooth purr. The tires crunched over the gravel like a predator skulking away.

Wes didn’t want to turn around.

Don’t look. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

He looked.

The Audi was passing, navigating the ruts more confidently now. Jake sat straight behind the wheel, eyes darting briefly at him, offering a brief nod and professional smile.

Wes hated that he’d seen it. Hated that his brain had been cataloging details since the man’s arrival—the way his suit fit snug across his shoulders, the careful way he’d stepped around the mud, the fact that he’d known about monitoring apps because he’d had a foster father who needed one.

Stop it.

The car disappeared around the bend.

Wes pulled out his phone, checking the app. Henry’s dot hadn’t moved. Still in the recliner. Safe.

Miguel waved from the lot, pointing at a customer who needed help with selecting a tree.

The bills were still on Wes’s desk.

The foreclosure notice still said December 24th.

And Jake Marley would be back.

This is going to be a long December.