Chapter 12
Twelve
Holiday Pines Farm
Wes woke up to a light so bright it felt like a physical presence in the room.
He blinked, shielding his eyes against the glare. The storm had passed, leaving behind a sky of piercing, cloudless blue. The sun was blazing, hitting the ice coating the county and fracturing into a blinding kaleidoscope of diamonds.
The world outside was frozen and broken, but the world inside the bed was warm and whole.
“Too bright,” Jake mumbled, burying his face in Wes’s chest. He was draped over Wes like a climbing vine, one leg thrown over Wes’s hip, an arm flung across his stomach.
Wes combed his fingers through Jake’s hair, which was sticking up in every direction. “Storm’s over.”
“Is it?” Jake cracked one blue eye open. “Does that mean we have to get up?”
“Unfortunately. We have trees to check.”
Jake groaned, tightening his grip. “Five more minutes. I need to defrost my soul.”
They stayed like that for ten minutes, basking in the quiet. The terrified urgency of yesterday—the storm, the wreck, the walk—felt like a nightmare they had both woken up from.
When they finally dragged themselves out of the tangled sheets, the air in the room was still nippy, but bearable. Wes pulled on a fresh flannel and his heavy work boots.
Downstairs, the living room smelled like woodsmoke and strawberry jam.
Henry was sitting in his recliner, his cane resting against his knee. He was eating a Pop-Tart—untoasted, because the power was still out—with a content expression.
“Morning, boys,” Henry grunted. He gestured to the window with his half-eaten pastry. “The silence is loud, isn’t it?”
It was. The snapping sound was gone. Now, there was just the rhythmic drip-drip-drip of water falling from the eaves as the Georgia sun began its work.
“How’s the leg, Pop?” Wes asked.
“Stiff. The cold gets deep in the joints.” Henry looked at Jake. “How are your feet, son?”
“Still attached. All toes accounted for,” Jake said, pouring a cup of lukewarm water from a pitcher. “Thanks for asking, Henry.”
“Don’t thank me. You’re the one who decided to take a stroll in an ice storm.” Henry wiped crumbs from his chin. “Though I suppose it saved me from listening to Wes pace a hole in the floor.”
Wes grabbed his jacket from the hook. “I’m going to check the lot. Jake, you stay here. Keep warm.”
“Not a chance,” Jake said. “I’m coming too.”
Wes paused, then crossed to the mudroom closet. He pulled out a pair of worn work boots. “These are Dad’s. They might fit you.”
Jake took them, something shifting in his chest at the casual intimacy of it—wearing Henry’s boots, being handed things like he belonged here.
“Thanks,” he said quietly, lacing them up. “They fit fine.”
When they stepped out onto the front porch, the scene was one of beautiful devastation.
The world was glittering, coated in an inch of crystal clear ice that caught the morning sun.
But the damage was undeniable. The ground was littered with green boughs, looking like a giant had given the forest a haircut.
In the main sales lot, two massive white pines had snapped at the trunk, lying across the gravel drive like fallen soldiers.
Wes felt the old, familiar panic rise in his throat. It was the same feeling as in 2019. The I-can’t-do-this-alone feeling.
“It’s too much,” Wes murmured. “We lose the last two days of sales if we can’t clear the drive. And the fence line is down.”
Jake stepped up beside him. He didn’t offer platitudes. He scanned the yard with the same sharp, assessing look he used on spreadsheets. “OK, then. We prioritize the driveway first. Then the fence. We can drag the smaller debris later.”
“It’ll take three days just to clear the driveway with one chainsaw,” Wes said, defeat heavy in his voice.
And that was when they heard it.
A low rumble in the distance. Then another. The first a sound of a heavy diesel engine fighting for traction on the icy road.
Jake squinted against the glare. “Is it the power company?”
Wes shielded his eyes. “No. That’s a Ford.”
A procession turned into the driveway. Leading the pack was a monster of a truck—a lifted F-250 with a plow blade attached to the front.
Behind it was the branded delivery van for The Divine Dough, slipping slightly in the slush.
And behind that, Miguel’s beat-up Toyota pickup, followed by Barb’s pristine SUV.
“What the hell?” Wes breathed.
The F-250 roared, the plow dropping with a metallic clang, scraping a wide, muddy path through the ice and debris on the driveway. It pushed the fallen pines aside like they were toothpicks.
The truck parked. The door flew open, and Tucker Shepherd jumped out, looking like a lumberjack in flannel and a beanie.
“Morning, sunshine!” Tucker yelled, his breath clouding the air. “Thought you boys might need a hand!”
Chuck and Brody hopped out of the van. Chuck was carrying a massive stainless-steel pot that required two hands. “I brought chili!” Chuck bellowed. “Spicy brisket. Guaranteed to clear your sinuses.”
Behind them, Miguel jumped out of his truck with Charlie, his nephew. They were already carrying chainsaws.
“Miguel,” Wes stammered as the group converged on the porch. “I can’t pay you guys for this. I can’t—”
Tucker walked up the steps and punched Wes lightly in the shoulder. “You don’t pay family, dumbass. You just feed ‘em.” He jerked his thumb back toward the road. “Saw your fancy rental car kissing that ditch on the way in. You trying to start a new extreme sport?”
“Something like that,” Jake said, smiling.
“Well,” Brody said, looking at the fallen trees. “Let’s get to work.”
Wes looked at the crowd. His throat felt tight. For years, he’d held himself apart, thinking the farm was his burden alone, believing he had to carry the legacy on his own.
Jake nudged him. “Tell them where to start, Wes.”
But Wes looked at Jake. “You’re better at logistics. You run the show.”
Jake blinked, surprised. Then he straightened, stepping naturally into the role.
“Alright. Miguel, you and Charlie take the chainsaws to the north fence. We need the perimeter secure. Tucker, use the plow to push the debris in the lot to the burn pile. Chuck, set up the food in the kitchen so Henry can supervise. Brody, you and Wes take the handsaws to the smaller stuff.”
“Aye aye, Captain,” Tucker saluted with a wink, moving immediately toward his truck.
The farm came alive—the sound of chainsaws revving replaced the silence. Wood smoke and the scent of burnt resin soon permeated the air.
Wes watched Jake directing traffic, pointing at a precarious limb near the barn. He wasn’t an outsider anymore. He wasn’t alone. He was part of the pack.
The Hawthorne House
Wednesday, December 24
10:00 AM
The power had flickered back on late Tuesday night, bringing the modern world rushing back in with a symphony of appliance beeps.
Jake sat at the antique desk in his room at the Hawthorne House, his laptop open. He was wearing his suit jacket and a crisp white shirt, but seeing as the camera cut off at mid-chest, he had on jeans and wool socks underneath.
On the screen, Harrison looked polished and remote in his Atlanta office.
“I received the waiver,” Harrison said, looking at a document on his own screen. “Signed and notarized, right on time. I didn’t think you’d make it back down there with the ice storm. We were watching the news. Looked like a disaster zone.”
“Yeah. It wasn’t easy, but I made it,” Jake said, not offering the slightest of details.
“That must be someone special you met down there.”
Personal comments from Harrison were rare. Jake immediately suspected an ulterior motive for the call.
“He is. We’re spending Christmas together,” Jake said, then added, “... and New Year’s.”
Harrison offered the slightest of head tilts, then continued as if unfazed: “Right. Well, we want you back. First of the year. We’re opening up a VP slot in Rural Recovery. It’s yours.”
Jake took a breath. This was it. The corner office. The salary bump. The life he had spent ten years building.
He looked out the window. The sun was melting the last of the ice, sending glittering streams of water down the glass. He could see the roof of the bakery on Spoon’s town square. He thought about Main Street beyond, heading to Hwy 68, and then Holiday Pines, where Wes and Henry waited for him.
“I want the job,” Jake said. “But I can’t do it from Atlanta.”
Harrison’s face scrunched with disbelief. “Excuse me?”
“I can’t save these farms from a glass tower in Midtown, John.
I need to be on the ground. I saved the Dalton account because I was here.
The same with Crawford and Whitlock because I understand the local logistics.
” Jake leaned in. “I want to pilot a Rural Recovery satellite office. Based here. In Spoon.”
“Spoon? It’s three hours away.”
“Which puts me within striking distance of fifty percent of our agricultural portfolio. I’ll come in for monthly meetings. But I stay here.”
Harrison stared at him. The silence stretched.
“A satellite office,” Harrison mused. “Low overhead.”
“I’ve already found a space above the bakery. Cheap rent. High visibility.”
Harrison sighed, tapping his pen. “Six-month trial. If the metrics dip, you’re back in the tower.”
“Deal.”
“Merry Christmas, Jake.”
“Merry Christmas.”
Jake closed the laptop. He sat there for a moment, feeling the adrenaline dissipate. He had just bet his career on a small town and a Christmas tree farmer.
The door burst open. Barb and Cassie rushed in, holding trays of orange juice and champagne.
“We were listening!” Cassie squealed. “Totally eavesdropping!”
“We knew it!” Barb cheered, handing him a mimosa. “I told Cassie the minute you walked in here, I said, ‘That boy isn’t leaving.’”
The Workshop
2:00 PM
Wes was sweeping sawdust in the workshop when he heard the driveway gravel crunch.