Chapter 4
BENJAMIN
The gate on the back of my blue truck clicks shut, and I wipe my hands on my flannel shirt before looking over the farm—the rows of trees, the barn, the dark edge of forest.
We’re finished with another season. At least the part that sends trees into town for the holidays.
There’s only a momentary reprieve before we’re back tending saplings for next year’s rush.
As word spread about our farm and the little town at the base of the mountain grew, the demand for trees grew with it.
We’ve had an unusual number of storms this year, which knocked down some of the younger growth before we could get up a temporary shelter. Between that and Dad breaking his leg a month ago, Nathan and I have taken on more than usual.
The crunch of tires on snow reaches me—thanks to my sensitive shifter hearing—and I glance down the winding road from my family’s property. We weren’t expecting anyone tonight; our food delivery came yesterday, and we don’t usually have traffic until after the holidays.
Instinctively, my hand settles on the head of my ax at my belt as my bear stirs beneath my skin, wanting out. I scan the treeline until a tiny yellow car creeps up the dirt road. The driver pauses at the gate, then eases through.
Damn it—why didn’t I close it when I drove through? Now there’s nothing to stop them from coming all the way up until I greet them.
The car crunches to a stop on the frosted gravel, headlights sweeping across the darkening farm. I bite back a groan.
Perfect. Just when I thought I was done for the day. My shoulders ache from hauling logs, and I’d been two minutes from kicking off my boots and pouring a drink.
The door opens, and a woman steps out—blonde hair shimmering like the ends were dipped in the bluest sky. She turns, and my breath catches. Piercing blue eyes lock on me just as the wind shifts, carrying a warm, sweet scent of butterscotch and cookies. My chest tightens.
No. Absolutely not. Not now. I shake my head hard, trying to dispel the pull of her scent, the haze creeping into my thoughts. Schooling my expression into something stern and uninviting, I force my feet forward.
“Hi, I’m so sorry, but is this Oakwood Farms?” Her breath puffs in the chill, cheeks pink as she clasps her hands like she’s praying I’ll say yes.
“Yes, it is. And you are?” My voice comes out rougher than I intended.
Her gaze flicks toward the towering pines behind me. “What a peculiar name for a farm that specializes in evergreens, not oaks.”
I raise a brow, fighting the impatience twisting in my gut. Lady, I’m not here to give a history lesson.
“Oh—yes, sorry. My name is Hazelmarie. Well, most people just call me Hazel. I’m here for a Christmas tree.”
I cross my arms, shifting my weight back on my heels. I should tell her to turn around right now, but I can’t seem to tear my gaze away from the way her hair frames her heart-shaped face. Damn it. “I’m sorry, but we’re closed for the season. Who sent you up here, anyway?”
She takes a quick breath, words spilling out in a rush. “Well, you see, all the shops in town are sold out of trees, and I really need a Christmas tree this year. People said you might already be closed, but I just had to try.” She gasps for air at the end of her ramble.
I grit my teeth. Just my luck. “Yes. We’re closed for the season.”
Her lips press into a pout as she gestures helplessly toward the car. “But is there any way you could just sell me one tree? I don’t expect you to understand, but I drove for hours—and you’re my last hope.”
Her words hit harder than they should, her desperation threading through the cold night air, mixing with that intoxicating scent that’s already unraveling my resolve.
Just get the lady a tree. Look at her, Benjamin.
“I’m sorry, but like I said, we’ve closed for the season.” She’s asking for the one thing I don’t want to give, and yet—my chest, my bear—both are already betraying me, softening in spite of myself.
“Please, you must have at least one tree left.” She stomps her feet in the snow, then rubs her hands together and blows on them.
She’s freezing out here, and a storm’s blowing in fast.
I catch her wrists before she can tuck them away, turning her palms over in my calloused hands. A tingle of magic whispers where we touch.
A witch, how peculiar.
Mine. My bear grumbles low in my chest.
My brows knit as I study the icy whiteness of her fingers, pondering my bear’s sudden possessiveness. “Your hands are like frozen icicles. Why are they so pale? Where are your gloves?”
She jerks them back, cheeks flushing from more than just the cold, and shoves her hands under her arms. “I was in a hurry to get my tree and get home. I left them in the car.”
My gaze flicks to the ancient yellow BMW parked in last night’s half-melted snow, its bumper flecked with rust and a crooked strand of Christmas lights zip-tied to the grille. I shake my head, lips twitching.
“You’re telling me the heater works in that tin can? Because I’m not buying it. No one’s fingers get that cold in a few minutes.”
“The heater works just fine,” she snaps, chin lifting. “It’s called Raynaud’s, genius lumberjack. I’ll survive. What I won’t survive is a Christmas without a tree.” She points at a thick pine dusted in snow. “That one. That’s my tree. I don’t care how much—that’s the one I want.”
Planting my hands on my hips draws her attention to the ax at my belt. I tear my gaze away and eye the tree. “That one? Witch, it’s taller than a house. You wouldn’t even get it through the door.”
“Maybe I have a spell for that,” she counters, blue-highlighted hair glinting like frost. Her eyes meet mine, stubborn and sparkling. “Don’t underestimate me.”
She’s feisty. I like her.
A slow, dangerous smile tugs at my mouth, letting a bit of the bear show, and the corners of her lips turn down.
“Oh, I’m not underestimating you.” My voice drops low, almost intimate, and my gaze lingers a second too long on her lips before I look back at the tree.
“But I am questioning your taste in Christmas trees.”
She swallows, suddenly aware of the heat rolling off me even in the freezing air. “Are you going to cut it down, or do I need to do it myself?”
I throw my head back, a laugh barreling out until my eyes water. “You? Chop down that tree?”
“If that’s what it takes, I will.” She tightens her arms over her chest and shifts on her feet. “Or I could hex you if you don’t help me.”
I lean closer, my breath a warm cloud against her temple. “Careful, little witch. Hex me and you’ll have to live with the consequences.”
“And what would those be?” she challenges, the pulse at her neck fluttering.
My grin sharpens. “I don’t think you’re ready to find out.”
Her eyes widen, but I pop open the sheath at my hip and draw my ax, testing its weight in my palm. “Luckily for you, I don’t have time to fight with wee little witches crazy enough to drive up the mountain right before a snowstorm, demanding a damn tree.”
“Snowstorm?” She glances up, turning in a slow circle to survey the sky. “There are hardly any clouds on the horizon.”
I follow her gaze to the west, where thick grey clouds are already gathering.
The wind’s picking up too. I inhale, catching the sharp, cold tang of ozone—snow on the way.
I need to get this tree down and send her home before it hits; otherwise, she’ll be stranded up here, and I’ll never live down explaining to my family why a strange-smelling witch is waiting out the storm on the farm.
“You’re not from here, are you?” I ask as I walk around the tree, finding its natural lean. I begin clearing away the dead, spindly branches at the base.
“No, it’s my first Christmas in town. I moved recently.” She rocks on her heels, teeth chattering. At least she had the sense to wear boots and a jacket.
“Ah, so that’s why getting a tree is so important to you. Celebrating the big move.” I toss the brush aside, planning to break it down for kindling after she leaves—before the storm hits.
“You could say that.” Her voice is soft as she watches me work, but when I glance over my shoulder, her eyes are distant, unfocused.
Something weights heavier on her than just needing a Christmas tree. The witch looks like she’s carrying the world on her shoulders, but I’ve never been one for small talk. As much as I feel the pull to ease that pain, it’s not my place.
I clear my throat and gesture toward her feet. “You’ll want to move back.”
She shakes her head, then quickly obeys, her little brown boots shuffling through pine needles.
I position myself before swinging the ax.
It soars through the air, biting smoothly into the bark just inches above the ground.
Another swing, precise and clean, lands just above the first, carving a V-shaped notch.
I move to the opposite side and swing again.
Each strike lands deep until a sharp crack splits the air and the tree leans into the cut.
“Falling!” I shout as I step back, though I know she’s where I told her to stay. The tree drops gracefully, snow scattering as it hits the ground.
She squeals, clapping and bouncing like a kid.
I really shouldn’t have encouraged her. It’s not like me to toss banter with anyone outside my family, let alone a paying customer. There’s just something about this witch that gets under my fur—but I can’t put my finger on why.
“Whoa, slow down there, witchling. You’ll hurt yourself,” I say as she crouches beside the fallen tree and tries to lift it with her bare hands. “Don’t you have some magic spell to shrink it and levitate it into your car?”
“I was joking about that earlier. I don’t actually know a spell to make it smaller, and I can only levitate small objects. I’m better at manipulating water.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
My jaw clenches, and I rub a hand over my furrowed brow.
You could take her and the tree home. Or better yet, invite her to wait out the storm.
“You’re telling me I just chopped down this giant tree and you have no way of getting it down the mountain?” I gesture between the tree and the road.
“I just figured we could tie it to the roof? I brought some rope…” She runs to her car and pops open the trunk, pulling out the spindliest twine I’ve ever seen.
“What is that?”
“Rope,” she replies, holding it up. Calling it that would be generous—it’s hardly thick enough to knit a sweater. “It’s all I have. I wasn’t even sure if you’d have any trees left over…”
“That isn’t rope. I wouldn’t even offend it by calling it yarn. It wouldn’t hold that tree”—I point from the tree to her car for emphasis—“for five minutes, let alone a three-hour drive back to town, even at five miles an hour.”
“I do not drive five miles an hour,” she quips, slamming the trunk before planting her hands on her hips. “Look, this is all I have. I’ll pay for rope if you have something thicker. I just want… I just…” She sniffles and turns away, but not before I catch the glimmer of silver lining her lashes.
Goddess damn it, Benjamin. Look what you’ve done.
“Look, I’m sorry. I’ve got some rope in the back of my truck. You’re going to have to drive slow, and I don’t know how you’ll manage to get it off your car once you’re home.”
“You will?” She turns, arms wrapped around her waist. “Thank you so—”
“Don’t mention it,” I cut in gruffly, heading toward my truck parked by the barn. “Just get your car warmed up and your gloves on before you freeze to death.”
Twenty minutes later, the tree is strapped down tight to her roof. Hazel stands beside it, crooning and petting the branches like it’s alive.
“You should get going. Those clouds are coming in fast,” I say, gesturing at the sky. The longer she’s near, the more this ache in my chest becomes unbearable.
“But I still need to pay you for the tree and rope.” She digs through her purse and pulls out a bank envelope.
“Don’t worry about it. Just get home safe.” I step back.
“Nonsense. This is your family’s livelihood, and you went out of your way for me.” She begins counting out bills.
“Then take it as a welcome-to-town gift. Or a Christmas present. Whatever you want to call it. Just go before you get caught in the storm.”
Her brows pinch, but she slips the money back into her purse. Then she turns and shoves a soft wad of blue yarn into my arm. Where our fingers brush, a spark of magic races along my skin, shooting straight to my core. My bear surges possessively as my chest tightens.
“Then have this. It’s not perfect, but I started learning this year. I know it’s not worth as much as what you’ve done, but I hope you like it,” she murmurs before ducking into her car, shutting the door, and driving away.
Not yarn, I realize as I spread it between my fingers—a scarf, misshapen and uneven, but it smells like warm butterscotch. Like her.
Mine, he roars inside my head as her taillights fade down the road.
No. This can’t be. I’m barely thirty-six. Most shifters never find their mates—or at least not until they’re well into their prime.