Mountain Man’s Christmas Star (Wildwood Valley Christmas #2)

Chapter 1

IVY

The cheerful strains of “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” ran through my mind as I practically skipped toward my booth at the Wildwood Valley Christmas Festival.

I loved this town. Everything about it—the crisp mountain air softened by a pale December sun, the way people smiled wide and meant it, and, of course, the genuine enthusiasm they showed for my little star-shaped soaps.

Yes, I sold soaps. This time of year, they were green and red, each carefully poured and molded. The kind of soaps that made children smile and adults lean closer.

I balanced my peppermint coffee as I walked.

I’d thought I was early, but most vendors had already finished setup, their tarps rolled away, their displays shining with holiday spirit.

My booth, by comparison, looked pathetic.

The tarp sagged crookedly, leaving me looking like the one vendor who hadn’t gotten it together. A slacker. And I was anything but.

Something wasn’t right. As I drew closer, I noticed the tarp wasn’t fully covering the soaps. It looked like someone had peeled back the corner to reveal the soaps displayed there.

The music in my head slowed, like a horror movie where a cheerful tune drops to half speed, turning suddenly eerie. My footsteps, once light and quick, shifted into a careful, deliberate march.

Maybe someone just wanted a peek. Another vendor. Or an over-eager customer who’d wandered in early. But I didn’t see any customers yet. Maybe they were browsing the Christmas tree lot behind the rows of booths.

“Good morning,” the woman at the booth next to mine called out.

She raised her coffee cup. It was identical to mine—same festive sleeve and matching red lid. I recognized her from the fall festival on this very property. Her name was Paige, and she sold decorative bell wreaths and garlands.

“Got your caffeine fix too, I see,” she said.

She smiled wide, full of cheer, and I tried to match it, forcing a nod as I reminded myself to breathe. Stay calm. Don’t panic. I had a bad habit of expecting things to go wrong. It was understandable, considering there was always at least one small blip. But tarp tampering was a new one on me.

I stepped in front of my booth on the side where customers would soon stand, browsing and asking questions. And that was when I saw it.

Soaps were missing.

There was no mistaking it. Three of the display pieces—the unwrapped ones I’d set out so people could get a good look at them—were gone. They’d been plucked right from the careful arrangement I’d made the night before.

I turned back toward my neighbor. “Did you see anyone over here?”

She was on her phone now, holding it up in front of her, video-chatting with someone, her face glowing with joy.

No one was paying attention.

And three of my soaps had vanished.

I checked my storage bin full of extra soaps—still there, the bin still sealed tightly.

So it wasn’t a robbery exactly. Someone had just helped themselves to three of my handcrafted star-shaped soaps.

The ones I’d spent weeks perfecting, getting the swirled green and red colors just right, embedding real pine needles and winter berry essence.

My Christmas Star Soaps were supposed to be my big break. Online sales had been good, but this week-long festival was my chance to really connect with customers, to build my brand. Instead, I was apparently running an involuntary charity.

That’s when I spotted him—a tall, broad-shouldered man standing near the festival entrance, hands clasped behind his back in an official-looking stance. Even from this distance, I could see the dark jacket and what looked like some kind of patch on his sleeve.

Security. Thank God.

I marched across the festival grounds, dodging vendors arranging their displays and early shoppers with their coffee cups. The closer I got, the more imposing the man looked. He had to be six-foot-three at least, with dark hair that looked military-precise and a jawline that could cut glass.

“Excuse me,” I called out when I was still ten feet away. “Are you security?”

The man turned, and I nearly stumbled. His eyes were the color of winter pine trees, and they were currently fixed on me with an intensity that made me forget my prepared speech for a moment.

“Someone stole from my booth last night,” I continued, finding my voice. “I need to know about security cameras. This is completely unacceptable.”

He didn’t respond immediately, just studied me with that same unwavering focus. His expression was completely neutral, almost blank, like he was processing my words through some internal filter.

“Hello?” I waved a hand. “Are you listening? I had merchandise stolen. Star-shaped soaps. Someone just helped themselves to my display pieces.”

Finally, the man’s mouth quirked slightly at one corner. Not quite a smile, but close. “There’s no security overnight,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, like he didn’t use it often. “And definitely no cameras. Vendors understand that the organizers aren’t responsible for stolen items.”

I blinked. “Why bother hiring you to run security, then?”

Confusion marred his features for a moment, but finally he seemed to get what I was saying. Then he gestured to the patch on his sleeve. Upon closer inspection, it wasn’t a security logo at all. It looked military—some kind of unit insignia with an eagle and stars.

“I’m not security,” was all he said.

Heat flooded my cheeks. Of course. Because my morning wasn’t humiliating enough already.

“I’m sorry, I just saw the jacket and assumed—”

“Military surplus,” he said. “It’s warm.”

“Right. Of course.” I wanted to disappear. “I should go. Sorry to bother you.”

I’d taken exactly two steps when his voice stopped me. “I could take a look around, though.”

I turned back. “What?”

“Your booth. See what I can figure out.” He shrugged, the movement making his broad shoulders strain against the dark fabric. “I’ve got time, and theft is theft.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Gunnar Erickson.” He held out a hand that completely engulfed mine when I shook it. “And you’re the soap maker with the stars.”

“Ivy Shaw.” His hand was warm and callused, completely steady, while mine was still trembling with residual frustration. “How did you know about the stars?”

“Walked by your setup yesterday afternoon. Hard to miss someone who arranges soap like it’s fine art.”

Something about the way he said it made my pulse skip. “You walked by my booth?”

A hint of color crept up Gunnar’s neck. “I made the rounds. Guess you weren’t around at the time. And you do arrange it all very…creatively.”

Despite everything, I found myself almost smiling. “They are kind of like art. Three generations of soap-making recipes.”

“Then we should figure out who’s taking them.” Gunnar started walking toward my booth. “Tell me exactly what’s missing.”

As I rushed to keep up with him, I tried not to notice how other vendors looked up when Gunnar passed. The man had presence—quiet, but commanding in a way that made people pay attention.

“Here,” I said, pulling back the tarp to reveal my entire display. “Three stars from the sample section. These are the ones customers can pick up and smell.”

Gunnar crouched down, examining my setup with the same focused attention he’d given me earlier. His fingers traced the edge of the table, then he studied the ground around my booth.

“So they just pulled back the tarp and reached in,” he said, straightening up.

“Exactly. The tarp was shifted slightly when I got here this morning. Like someone had pushed it aside to reach the left side of my display.”

“And they only took the sample pieces? Not the wrapped ones for sale?”

“Just the three display stars people could handle and smell.” I frowned. “Who steals soap samples?”

“Someone who really likes how they smell, apparently.” Gunnar’s expression was thoughtful. “Or someone who likes stars.”

The way he said it made me look at him more closely. “You think this is about the star shape specifically?”

“Could be. Mind if I ask around? See if other vendors had any issues?”

I nodded, surprised by how much better I felt just having someone take this seriously. “That would be amazing. Thank you.”

“Can you meet me back here around five? After the fair closes for the day?”

“You really want to help with this?”

Gunnar looked at me for a long moment, something unreadable in those pine-green eyes. “Yeah. I do.”

The way he said it made something flutter in my chest. Like maybe this wasn’t just about stolen soap. Like maybe he had other reasons for wanting to spend more time figuring this out.

“Okay,” I heard myself say. “Five o’clock.”

Gunnar nodded once, sharp and definitive, then walked away without another word. I watched him go, noting his military-straight posture and how vendors kept glancing at him as he passed.

I had no idea what I’d just gotten myself into, but for the first time since discovering the theft, I felt like maybe everything was going to work out.

Even if I still had absolutely no clue who this mysterious man was—or why he’d volunteered to help a complete stranger solve the case of the missing Christmas stars.