Underneath the Tree With a Lumberjack (12 Days of Christmas)

Chapter One

Slater

Minding your own business is no longer a common virtue.

These days, everyone knows everything about just about everyone. I do not need to know who this action star is dating or what salad this socialite prefers. I do not even want to know who my neighbors are or what new gathering is going on down in Driftwood.

All I want is to be left alone on my mountain.

It is bitterly cold out, with a wild wind blowing through the thick spread of pine trees. The crisp mountain air tells of a storm coming our way. Overhead the skies are gray, and we’ve had a tame winter so far. This next storm is going to change all that, I can smell the snow in the breeze.

Being up on the mountain is where I am most at peace. It is where I am most myself. I work on Felle Landing, felling trees, otherwise I stick close to home. The guys on the landing are good guys, but I am still a bit of an outsider, as I have not been here in Driftwood Peaks for long.

Coming here was an accident. I grew up down in Fellow Falls, working on the farm with my parents. It was never what I wanted for myself. To get out of it, I joined the marines and spent my misguided youth going all over the world with my battalion. They passed away before I could get home to them, the farm got sold off without me there to stop it, so I had nowhere to come home to when I was done serving.

A few of my buddies from the service had come here, following their old commander, Mack Felle. Last spring I came for a visit and decided I would stay. I had no plan, no place to live, no job lined up, but it all came together at once. Joining the logging crew made sense, I love working hard and don’t mind getting dirty. Most of the crew lives up on the mountain so I put my retirement funds down on a plot of land and built myself a cabin.

Picking a corner of the mountain furthest from town should have provided me with privacy. Yeah, most of the other guys on the crew live up here too, but we’re spread out on the mountain. These mountains are plenty big for us to have our space to ourselves and not deal with anyone at all.

“Not again with this shit,” I gripe as I hear a holiday chorus ringing out beyond my corner of the mountain. “Who comes up a mountain to sing Christmas carols? Before a blizzard is about to come?”

Yanking the curtain open, I peer out into the gray twilight. It’s almost a week until Christmas. Not that you could tell by my bare cabin. No tree, no lights, and damn sure no cute Santa or cuter elves hanging out on the front porch. I do not mind the holidays. I just have very little to celebrate. Besides, I have no one in my life to celebrate with.

Just beyond the woods is another cabin, where Watt and Willa’s cabin is, I can hear the music. Not just Will singing off-key to holiday radio, no. This is the pack of carolers that have been making the rounds up here. On the mountain. They’re in the cold, on the mountain, just before dark, singing.

“Damn fools,” I murmur in disgust as I step away from the window.

Sailing past the big window, I head for the kitchen to check on the stew I have cooking. The cabin is filled with the delicious smell of carrots, onions, and savory meat. Cooking is something that reminds me of my mother. Sometimes it hurts too much to make her signature or remember her favorite brand of butter beans, but it also makes me feel closer to her.

Mother was a force to be reckoned with. Strong opinions, strong sense of right and wrong, and she loved with her whole heart. Not getting to say goodbye to her or my father, it haunts me still. I never bothered to go home after their funerals, not even to see my brother. It wasn’t as if we had much to talk about, we never really did I guess.

Stirring the thick stew, I grab a bowl once I see the roast is falling apart just the way it should. Filling the bowl, I grab a cold beer and head to my workshop. With all the ruckus on the mountain lately, and the rush of the holidays taking over most of Driftwood Peaks, I have plenty of time to create. Sitting down at my work bench, I turn on some Mozart and take a huge bite of the stew.

“That’s the good stuff,” I murmur as I get a hit of the hearty broth and the perfectly cooked meat. Smiling a bit proudly, I take another bite, then turn to my latest creation.

Staring back at me is a small diorama of Driftwood Peaks. Well, a portion of it at least. Out in the shed I put in during summer, are more pieces of the whole project. Lately, I have been working on the shops on main street. I’ve got The Rusty Nail completed, and I’m working on the new coffee shop now. Picking up the little building, I stare at it for a moment.

“Something is wrong,” I tell myself, pulling my glasses on.

Peering over the top of them, I stare a little longer. What is it missing? Then I remember. The real coffee shop has a large window, showing the antique countertop the girls were excited to save from another old shop in town. Looking a little harder, I imagine it and realize that yes, that is what is missing, that big, wide window.

Grabbing some tools, I start to carve a window out of the plywood I use for the buildings. Taking my time, I try to get it as accurate in size, shape, and placement as possible. Digging into a box of pieces for windows, doors, light poles and more, I pull out some window plastic and some window frame. Just as I am about to place them, I knock sounds at the front door.

“What the hell? Who would be here now?” Glancing at the clock, I see it’s just past seven, so it’s not as if it’s late. Still, who would ever be here?

Waiting a moment, I hope whoever it is will just go away. I hold my breath, my heart rate spiking. Taking some calming breaths, I take a sip of beer to calm myself. There is no enemy at the door. I am about to get back to work, certain whoever it is has left, when another knock sounds.

Pushing to my feet, I toss the window and the coffee shop aside. I curse as I storm from the room, down the long hall to the front room. I hesitate again, still hoping they might leave. Whoever they are. No such luck, a knock sounds again so I go to the door. This better be good.

“Hello! Hi! We’re just making the rounds of the mountain,” a bubbly voice greets me, coming from a tiny figure. “We almost missed you, but I saw the light on! Give us a moment, chief,” the woman prattles on, turning to the group gathered behind her.

Nodding at her, they all start… singing . They’re perfectly in tune with one another as they begin to belt out “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” with the woman in front taking lead. Her voice rings just above theirs. It is not her voice that has me standing there dumbfounded.

It is the shine in her pretty green eyes as they stare up at me. A huge smile tilts pink lips, her cheeks rosy from the cold. Still, that smile never quits as she croons along with the melody filling my front porch. Blinking when the groups’ vocals drop out for a moment, I can only stare at her.

“Good tidings we bring. To you and your kin,” her voice rings out with beautiful harmony, her nose scrunching up a little.

Dark hair spills down to her shoulders in thick, carefully curled waves. My gaze locks on her mouth. Full and pink, with a cute cupid’s bow. Even with a hat, scarf, and thick coat on, I cannot miss all her curves in all the right places. Whoever she is, she is a vision of total perfection.

Something twists in my chest, and I shake my head. Nope. No, I do not like that feeling. Hell, I rather feel nothing at all. Not pain, not joy, not good tidings or anything else for that matter. Frowning down at her, I send a glare at the others behind her, before I hold a hand up.

“This is cute. You all sound wonderful. Go take it somewhere else, to someone who wants good tidings and has kin they give a damn about.”

The brunette’s face falls, the glow in her eyes dimming. I hate that. Hate that I was so harsh, that my words spit out like bullets, hitting her and anyone in their path. Behind her, the group shuffles off, a flurry of apologies muttered as they go. I wave them off carelessly. Only the pretty brunette with the beautiful voice and shining eyes does not move.

Staring up at me, she seems to be assessing me. Reading me. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Roth. Your praise is thanks enough for all of us.”

Turning on her heel, her shoulders going back as her spine straightens, she stomps off my porch with a little huff. I can’t help it. I smile as I watch her go, catching up to the others. There was a flash of fire in her pretty eyes as she wished me a Merry Christmas.

Watching her go, I find myself wondering how they find my place, how she knew my name. I’m almost a mile off the main road. If they were truly making the rounds of the mountain, they had to make quite a hike to get to my place. I chuckle to myself as I imagine them showing up at all the other asshole lumberjacks and mountain men on this mountain.

Surely I won’t be the first or the last to send them off in a huff.

Heading back inside, I can’t shake a nagging tug in my gut. Those eyes keep flashing in my head. Those pretty, sad eyes. One moment they were bright, joyful, then I opened my damn mouth. Why do I have to shut people out? What am I hiding from up here on this mountain?

Back in my office, I take another pull on the cold beer. Peeling the label off I shred it in my fingers. They’re shaking. Dizziness makes my vision blurs, and I am glad I am sitting down. My chest is rattling still. I hate this. Who gets triggered from some damn Christmas carolers?

“Calm down. Deep breaths,” I tell myself, just as my therapist would tell me to. “Count to ten, calm down. Asshole ,” I spit the final word emptying the beer in one long drink.

It is more than another panic attack. Not the first and won’t be the

last of those, I am sure. This is different. I cannot get that woman’s face out of my head. Those sad eyes. Pretty eyes that I made sad. Also, not the first or last time I upset someone. This is so different, and it takes me two more beers before I can figure out what it is.

I am ashamed that I made that pretty girl sad.

I must be drunk because I decide I must make it up to her—no matter what it takes.