Chapter 2
Archer
The wintry air was so sharp and crisp it was near eyewatering as I walked along the rows of spruce and balsam fir, tails of the long red tags fluttering around where I gripped them.
It could only mean one thing. Snow.
The fact that we hadn’t had more than a few inches here and there and a few morning dustings was further proof that it was coming. Living in Vermont meant there would always be snow.
And it was good for business. After all, it made picking out a fresh-cut Christmas tree all the more festive and romantic. For me, it meant more work. Plowing, salting, clearing paths, and making sure everything was accessible and safe was just another heaping on my already overfull plate.
Pine and woodsmoke lingered in the wind as it spiraled through the trees, swaying the branches. I stopped beside a tall, full spruce and tied a tag at the end of a branch, marking it ready to cut.
I kept going, doing the same with the others, until all the tags were gone.
The tip of my nose was numb, my breath puffing out in a cloud of white when I gazed around, looking for someone I hadn’t seen in a while. “Marlowe!” I called, then whistled for my Australian shepherd. “Come on, boy!”
The pungent scent of damp earth swirled around as my boots crunched over pine straw and grass as I made my way out of the evergreen field and into the clearing.
I whistled again, but Marlowe was still AWOL, and I shook my head because he was probably into something. “Probably chasing those poor chickens,” I murmured, heading toward the farm’s gift shop.
I’d barely stepped foot in the door but was already inhaling the mouthwatering scent of apples, cinnamon, and sugar as heated air stung my cheeks and nose.
Walking past the handmade wreaths, maple candy and syrup, bow station, and rack of our famous secret spice, Hodge Podge, I went into the small bakery in the back.
“I swear, Mama, it smells better every year,” I told her, going over to the fresh pot of coffee and pouring a cup. Once that was finished, I crowded the island where she was making crumble topping for the ten pies lined up and ready to bake.
The sliced apples coated with cinnamon and sugar were too hard to resist, and I reached out to steal one, only to have my hand slapped like I was a criminal.
“Ow! Ma!” I complained, pulling my hand away.
“Don’t you ‘Ow, Ma’ me, Archer Hodge. You know better than to put your grimy hands into the pies I’m baking for our guests.”
At Hodge Farm, we called our customers guests. Mom’s rules.
“They won’t know,” I grumbled. “I’m starving.”
“Go wash your hands,” she scolded, not even looking up from her task.
I washed my hands at the sink, and when I was done, she thrust a small bowl of the sugared apple slices into my hands.
Brightening, I shoved three into my mouth, groaning a little at the sweet and tart flavors bursting across my tongue. “No one makes pie like you.”
“That’s not pie yet,” she mused, shaking her head. “You always were too impatient.”
I plowed through half the bowl of half-made pie and followed it with some coffee.
“There’s a sandwich.” She gestured to the fridge.
“You’re the best mother I’ve ever had,” I told her, helping myself.
She laughed. “I’m the only mother you’ve ever had.”
“Well, why would I need another?” I asked around a bite of the ham and Swiss.
“Charming just like your father.” Her voice was fond with a hint of wistfulness.
Dad had been gone five years now, and while time dulled the pain, it would never erase his absence.
“Oooh, are those cookies?” I asked, sandwich in one hand and bowl of apples in the other.
“And where would you put them?”
I dumped the rest of the apples into my mouth and showed her my newly freed hand.
“Fine, you can have one, but that’s all! We’re going to be busy tonight.”
“‘Tis the season,” I said, stuffing two cookies in my mouth.
“Mayor Schroder will be here later this afternoon to get the mistletoe.” She reminded me.
“I don’t know why he insists on coming up here to help me harvest it. He doesn’t even own a pair of boots and he covers his ears every time I fire the shotgun.”
“It’s tradition,” she said, adding heaping amounts of crumble to the tops of the pies.
“Well, if Winterbury is anything, it’s traditional.” I agreed, polishing off the sandwich.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Sometimes it feels like we’re all living in the past.”
Mom set aside the bowl and wiped her hands on a dish towel tossed over her shoulder. “Tradition isn’t meant to lock us into the past, Archer. It’s a way to honor it and connect us all in the present.”
“Explain to me why we all need to be connected by a town tragedy centered around a ball of green leaves and berries?” I mumbled.
The raising of the mistletoe and lighting of the town tree was the biggest tradition in Winterbury. It was an event that happened faithfully every single year since before I was born and would likely continue long after I was gone.
And I thought it was stupid.
“It’s not necessarily the mistletoe but what it represents.” She repeated the words she said every year.
You’d think she’d be tired of saying it and I’d be tired of asking, but this conversation was a tradition of its own, I suppose, because every year I criticized it and every year she defended it.
“Yes, it’s a tragedy of two people torn apart, but it’s also a lesson in acceptance and unity. A reminder that love endures and should bring people together, not tear them apart. And what better time to issue the reminder than during Christmas?”
“Or maybe sometimes people just really aren’t meant to be and we shouldn’t force it,” I said, a little bite to the words.
Mom’s forehead creased. “Archer—”
“Thanks for lunch.” I cut her off. “But I have to get back to work. Lots to be done.” I strode out of the bakery and back through the shop, where a couple of helpers were making sure everything was stocked for later.
“Archer!” Mom called, coming out of the bakery behind me, but I didn’t stop, instead pushing through the barn-style door and into the cold air.
I paused, realizing my heart was pounding, and puffed out a cloud of breath while trying to shake off the chains of our town tradition. How was I supposed to put the past behind me when it was literally dragged out every year and hung in the town square for me to see?
“Archer,” Mom said, slipping outside behind me. “What you said back there—”
Her words were cut off by a high-pitched whimper. Spine snapping upright, I glanced around.
Another whimper followed by a low, lingering whine.
“Is that—” Mom began as I yelled, “Marlowe!”
Movement at the edge of my vision had me turning to see the brown Aussie limping into view. The second he saw me, he gave another whine and sat down, lifting his front left paw off the ground.
I rushed forward and dropped to my knees in front of my dog, noting the mud splattered on his paws and chest. His ears were down, and his eyes were sad. But even so, the end of his tail beat against the dirt when I reached him.
“What happened, boy?” I asked, hands hovering around the leg he was favoring. I was afraid to touch it but also afraid not to.
“Oh, you poor baby.” Mom worried over my shoulder. “What happened?”
I reached for his front leg, and he let me touch it, even if he trembled a little. “It’s all right now,” I soothed, keeping the touch gentle. “Let me see, huh? I’m just going to take a look. I won’t hurt you.”
I leaned in and lifted the leg, noting the blood smeared with the mud around his paw.
“He’s bleeding,” I murmured and tried to get a closer look, but he let out a sharp cry and pulled back. The suddenness of the movement made him fall back and then scramble up, causing him to limp more.
“I think you should get him to the vet,” Mom said. “Right away.”
I nodded and scooped him into my arms, holding him against my chest while trying to avoid the injured leg. “He must have fallen or something out in the field.”
“Doc Thomas will fix him right up,” Mom said, coming closer to scratch behind his ear.
“Can you ask Johnny to finish tagging the Douglas fir? And have him bring up some wood for the bonfire.”
“Of course. Don’t worry about a thing. Just take care of Marlowe.”
Inside my truck, I carefully placed him on the long bench seat before getting behind the wheel and blasting the heat. Marlowe rested his head on my thigh while I drove across the farm to the main road, noting the guarantee of snow in the gray sky overhead.
There was only one veterinarian in all of Winterbury, Dr. George Thomas—who happened to be the father of Toby Thomas, my childhood best-friend-turned-not.
It had been nearly ten years since I’d last seen Toby… but just thinking of him irritated me. It bent my brain to think about how someone I’d once been inseparable from could change so much, so fast and turn into someone I didn’t even recognize.
Did he change? Or did you?
The thoughts were as unwelcome as soil erosion on the farm, and I shut them down immediately, turning my attention back to Marlowe panting against my leg.
“We’re almost there, boy.” I encouraged him, stroking along his side.
His tail beat against the seat and gave me some comfort because that was a good sign, right?
Yeah, Toby Thomas might have itchy Christmas sweater energy, but his father was a skilled vet, and Marlowe would be in good hands with him. Right then, that was all that mattered.