Chapter 11
Natalie had told herself the children’s ornament workshop would be easy, but that had been before thirty-two children had arrived at the church fellowship hall with glitter, glue, paint, ribbons, bells, and enough Christmas excitement to made ordinary voices impossible.
By ten o’clock Friday morning, the room looked as though every craft bin in Shooting Star Canyon had exploded in festive colors.
Natalie stood near the supply table with a clipboard tucked beneath one arm and a streak of silver glitter across the back of her hand. “We need more paper towels at table three, more red ribbon at table one, and whoever gave the preschoolers bells owes me an apology.”
Anna Sanford passed behind her carrying a tub of glue sticks. “That was me, and I stand by it.”
“You gave them sound.”
“I gave them joy.” Anna set the glue sticks on the nearest table and smiled when a little boy immediately claimed three. “Possibly too much joy, but still.”
Natalie laughed and scanned the room again.
The workshop had started as a simple children’s event tied to the Christmas market—ornament making, hot chocolate, a short devotional, and a table where kids could wrap gifts for their parents with assistance from volunteers.
Simple in theory, but in reality, children had opinions, glue had limits, and one little girl had already insisted her popsicle-stick manger needed “more sparkle because Jesus likes everything including sparkles.”
Natalie could hardly argue with that.
The door opened, letting in a gust of cool air and the distant sound of music from the square.
Mark Clemons stepped inside carrying a plastic bin marked EXTRA SUPPLIES across both arms. He looked around the fellowship hall, took in the noise, the glitter, the children, and the adults who had clearly underestimated the event, and then found Natalie with one dry glance.
“This looks worse than livestock sorting.”
Natalie crossed to him and lifted the lid from the bin. “Thank you.”
“Your text asking me to bring the bin from your shop failed to mention that I’d be walking into craft warfare.”
“That would have sounded dramatic.”
“It would have sounded accurate.” Mark set the bin on the supply table and looked at the nearest craft station, where two boys were arguing over whether a wooden star could be painted black. “Do you need me to leave before I get glitter on me?”
Natalie reached into the bin for the extra ribbon. “You already have glitter on your sleeve.”
Mark looked down immediately. “Where?”
She stifled a laugh. “Made you look.”
He stared at her.
She smiled sweetly. “Table four needs help with wooden ornaments.”
He spread out his arms. “I don’t know anything about ornaments.”
“You know how to keep things from falling apart,” she pointed out, grinning broadly.
“That is not the same thing.”
“It is today.”
He looked toward table four, where several children were attempting to attach tiny fence pieces to a ranch-themed ornament kit.
One boy had glue on his thumb, another had somehow attached a fence rail to his sleeve, and a little girl with dark braids sat frowning at her half-finished ornament like it had personally betrayed her.
Mark sighed. “Ten minutes.”
Natalie beamed. “That’s what you said at the market. You can’t tell me that you didn’t enjoy yourself.”
“I’m noticing a pattern,” he muttered.
“So am I.” She winked.
He walked toward table four with the resignation of a man heading into danger, and Natalie told herself she only watched because she needed to make sure the children didn’t overwhelm him.
He bent slightly to listen when the little girl with braids held up her ornament and explained the problem in rapid, serious detail.
“My barn won’t stand up,” the girl said, pushing the tiny wooden piece toward him.
“And Kayden said I used too much glue, but Kayden used all the red paint, so he can’t tell me anything. ”
Across the table, Kayden Pierce gasped. “I shared.”
“You shared after I told Miss Natalie.”
Mark took the ornament carefully and studied the tiny barn. “Looks like the base is too narrow.”
The girl blinked. “What does that mean?”
“It means the barn needs more support.” He pulled out the chair beside her and sat, ignoring the faint smear of glue already on the table. “Can I show you?”
She nodded, instantly solemn.
Natalie forgot about the ribbon in her hand.
Mark picked up two small craft sticks and placed them beneath the barn at an angle. “If you brace it here and here, it’ll hold better. Same way a fence post needs support if the ground’s soft.”
The girl leaned closer. “Like when my grandpa puts rocks around the posts?”
“Exactly like that.” Mark handed her one of the sticks. “You do this side. I’ll hold it still.”
The girl carefully added glue, her tongue caught between her teeth in concentration. Mark steadied the barn without rushing her and waited while she pressed the piece into place.
“It’s crooked,” Kayden announced.
Mark didn’t look up. “A lot of good barns lean a little.”
The girl looked doubtful. “No they don’t,” she mumbled.
“Yes, they can if they’re loved enough. Just repair ‘em. I do that at my ranch.”
Her face softened with relief, and Natalie’s heart did something entirely unreasonable.
Mark helped her add the second brace and turned the ornament gently so she could see the result. “Try it now.”
The girl set the barn upright. It stood.
She gasped. “We did it!”
“Good build,” Mark said.
“Thank you!”
“I didn’t do it.”
“You helped me.”
“Yes, but…”
“We did it!” she repeated.
Mark chuckled and shrugged. “Yes, we did.”
The girl grinned at him like he had handed her the moon, and Mark smiled back with such quiet pride that Natalie had to look away before she was caught staring.
He wasn’t charming in some obvious way. He wasn’t performing. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone. He simply gave the child his full attention, explained without taking over, and treated her crooked little ornament as if it mattered.
That was worse than charm. Charm could be dismissed. Kindness with patience and competence could not.
“Natalie?” Anna appeared beside her and followed her gaze toward table four. Her smile turned far too knowing. “Do you still need that ribbon?”
Natalie looked down and realized she was holding the same spool she had picked up several minutes ago. “Yes. Of course. Ribbon. Very important.”
“Mmm.”
“Do not make that sound, and keep any thoughts to yourself.”
Anna laughed softly and reached past her for the paper towels. “I always have thoughts. I just don’t always share them.”
“Please continue that policy.”
Anna’s smile widened, but she carried the paper towels to table three without saying another word.
Natalie tried to refocus. She restocked ribbon, helped two brothers negotiate custody of a gold marker, and rescued a nativity ornament from an unfortunate amount of purple glitter. Every few minutes, despite her best efforts, her gaze drifted back to Mark.
Ten minutes had passed, but he was still here.
He moved from one child to another with the same quiet patience he had shown the little girl.
He helped a boy cut a crooked piece of twine without making him feel clumsy.
He showed two children how to hold pieces together long enough for the glue to set.
When a little boy became frustrated because his ornament did not look like the example, Mark leaned closer and pointed out three things the boy had done well before asking what he wanted to change.
The little boy wiped his nose on his sleeve. “It’s ugly.”
“It’s not finished,” Mark said, turning the ornament carefully. “That doesn’t make it ugly.”
Natalie stopped walking.
The boy sniffed. “You think?”
“I know.” Mark pushed a small bowl of wooden stars closer. “Most things look rough in the middle.”
The boy selected one star and placed it near the top. “Like that?”
“That helps, don’t you think?”
The boy added another then another, his frustration easing with each small choice. By the time he finished, the ornament still did not look like the sample, but the boy seemed happy just the same.
Mark leaned back. “Better?”
The boy nodded, not quite smiling yet. “Better.”
Natalie’s throat tightened, and she hated how much that small exchange affected her. She had always loved children. She loved their honesty, their wonder, their loud confidence and sudden uncertainty. She had built whole events around creating memories for them.
She had expected him to be useful. Mark was always useful.
What she had not expected was how careful he was with frustration.
He didn’t rush the children. He didn’t take over because he could do the task faster. He noticed the exact moment discouragement started to settle in and stepped in without making anyone feel small.
That was dangerous in a completely different way.
Charm would have been easier. Charm faded. Competence didn’t. Neither did quiet generosity offered without expecting anything in return.
But none of this was part of the arrangement, and she realized she already needed to be careful.
Natalie turned toward the hot chocolate station and busied herself refilling marshmallows with more force than necessary.
Mary Whitley came up beside her carrying a stack of napkins. “Are you all right?”
Natalie nearly poured marshmallows onto the table. “Yes. Why?”
“You looked like you were trying to win an argument with that bowl.”
Natalie set it down carefully. “The marshmallows were being difficult.”
“Of course.” Mary’s gaze drifted toward table four, where Mark now had three children gathered around him and one small girl standing on tiptoe to show him a painted angel. “He’s good with them.”
Natalie reached for the cocoa packets. “He is.”
Mary smiled kindly. “That surprises you?”
“A little.”
“Why?”
Natalie thought about how to answer without revealing too much. “He seems like the kind of man who prefers quiet.”