Chapter 22 Everett
Everett
The cold air stings my face as the snowmobile roars beneath me, but I can’t stop smiling.
Last night’s tree lighting ceremony replays in my mind on an endless loop: Melody’s eyes reflecting the Christmas lights, her hand in mine, that moment when I thought maybe I could kiss her.
Last week, I was drowning in things to do; now I’m buzzing with excitement, especially after Gabe told me what happened with Melody.
Ahead of me, Gabe maneuvers his snowmobile around a cluster of pines. I follow his path. We’ve done this route hundreds of times since we were teenagers, back when my dad would let us borrow the snowmobiles if we promised to check the property lines.
“Keep up, Pine!” Gabe calls over his shoulder, accelerating.
I gun the engine; the machine leaps forward with a satisfying growl.
For a moment, we’re sixteen again, racing through these woods without a care in the world beyond who’d reach the north ridge first. Before financials and family expectations.
Before dad died. Before Gabe left for the city. Before Granny May got sick.
I catch up to him as we break through the tree line into a small clearing. He stops, pulling off his helmet, his breath clouding in front of him.
“You’re getting slow in your old age,” I tell him, cutting my engine.
“Says the guy who was eating my snow the whole way up.” He grins, the expression transforming his usually serious face.
The silence that follows is comfortable, the kind only possible with someone who’s known you since you still believed in Santa Claus. We survey the land spread below us, Perfect Pines in its winter glory.
“Miss this?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
Gabe nods, his eyes scanning the horizon. “Every damn day.”
“Then come back. I know that equity gig is killing you.”
He sighs, “It’s not that simple.”
“It could be.”
“Finn loves the city.”
“Does he?” I raise my eyebrows. “Because, as dramatic as he is about the snow and the cold, he hasn’t once mentioned missing the city. I think he secretly likes it here.
Gabe’s quiet, considering. “We’ve built a life there.”
“You could build one here. Especially now… with Melody.”
“When she was standing between us at the tree lighting—.”
“—Everything clicked into place,” I finish for him, remembering the sensation. Melody between us, Finn beside Gabe, the four of us together forming something more.
“What if she doesn’t want to stay?” Gabe asks. “Her life is in the city, too. Her job, her apartment—”
“A job she hates and an apartment she complained had no personality,” I interrupt. “Have you noticed that? She’ll talk about her boss, what an ass he is, but never about missing her place, her life there, or her family.”
“So what’s the plan?” Gabe asks.
“We help them fall in love with Snowflake Valley,” I say with a grin.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Gabe says, a smile spreading across his face.
“You bet I am.”
I smile, scanning the trees.
Perfect Pines has been in my family for three generations.
My grandfather bought this land and planted the first Blue spruce trees over sixty years ago, my father expanded the operation by planting Balsam fir and Fraser fir saplings, and now it’s mine, one hundred acres of pine-covered heaven that’s more home than any building could ever be.
We walk quietly for a few yards. As we reach the top of a small ridge—one of my favorite lookouts—I come to a sudden halt.
Below me should be the dense stand of Blue spruce that my grandfather planted forty years ago, a small grove of premium trees our family preserved for sentimental value, but there’s nothing but a field of hastily hacked stumps.
Hundreds of them scattered across what looks like two acres of newly clear-cut land. The once-pristine snow is churned up by tire tracks and drag marks. Broken branches and discarded pine needles litter the ground like a battlefield.
“What the fuck?”
I scramble down the ridge, nearly losing my footing in my haste to reach the devastation.
Up close, it’s even worse. These weren’t carefully selected trees harvested with respect.
They were hacked down indiscriminately, the cuts rough and hurried.
No care was taken with the surrounding vegetation.
Even the smaller trees, the ones that needed another few years to mature, are gone.
I kneel beside the nearest stump, examining the cut. The exposed wood is still light-colored; the sap has barely congealed. This happened recently. Very recently.
“Jesus Christ,” Gabe says, coming to stand beside me. “When did this happen?”
“Last night, I think. Maybe the night before. The cuts are fresh.”
My fingers trace the rough edge where a chainsaw ripped through decades of growth in seconds.
My grandfather planted those trees. My father nurtured them—I nurtured them. And now they’re gone, along with several younger generations, stolen in what must have been a single night. Whoever did this was well organized.
The thieves weren’t subtle, deep tire tracks show where at least one large truck drove right up to the edge of the grove. They must have used industrial equipment to take so many trees so quickly.
My hand balls into a fist at my side. This isn’t just theft. It’s a violation. These trees were more than inventory. They were living history, a legacy passed from my grandfather to my father to me.
We follow the tire tracks until they exit my property through an old access road we rarely use. The lock on the gate has been cut, the chain dangling uselessly from the post.
“They knew what they were doing, though,” I say. “They took the most valuable trees on the property. The ones we were saving.”
“You think it’s connected to the new supplier?”
“Seems like a hell of a coincidence. One day, the surrounding towns can’t find trees; the next, they suddenly have a new supplier, and my best stock disappears overnight.”
Gabe stands, brushing snow from his jeans. “You calling the sheriff?”
“Yeah, but…” I trail off, looking across the wasteland of stumps. “What’s he going to do? The trees are already gone.”
“Still need to report it. Insurance.”
“I know.”
I stare out at the destruction. Dad entrusted this land to me, made me vow to care for it the way he and Grandpa had. I’ve let our legacy be stripped bare by thieves.
“It’s not your fault, Everett.”
“I should have been more vigilant. Put up cameras, checked the whole property more often. I never thought I’d have to worry about theft at this level in a place like Snowflake Valley, where everyone in town is practically family.”
“You have more than 100 acres. And you’ve been taking care of your grandmother, managing all the rental properties, and dealing with the tree crisis. You can’t be everywhere.”
He’s right, logically speaking. But logic doesn’t ease the sick feeling in my stomach as I look at the remnants of my family’s life’s work.
“Let’s investigate where they came in. Maybe they left something behind that we can use to identify them.”
We spend the next hour walking the perimeter, documenting the damage with photos and looking for any clues that might tell us who did this, or where they came from.
I find a discarded work glove, and Gabe discovers an empty gas can half-buried in snow.
Small things that probably won’t lead anywhere, but we take pictures and bag them anyway.
Then I call the sheriff.
“Sheriff, we’ve had a major theft. Hundreds of mature trees, maybe more. They cut the lock on the back access road.”
“Jesus, Everett. When?”
“Last night or the night before. Fresh cuts. Professional job—they knew exactly which trees to take.”
“Any witnesses? Security footage?”
“No cameras out there. We never thought we’d need them.” I clench my jaw. “But Sheriff, the timing is suspicious. The neighboring towns suddenly find a supplier right after we’re hit?”
“I hear you. I’ll be right there.”
As we wait for the sheriff, I take one last look at the stripped land. The trees will grow back eventually. Not in my lifetime.
“Hey,” Gabe says, catching my expression. “We’ll find who did this.”