Mistletoe and the Mountain Man (Grumpy Mountain Man Christmas #15)
Chapter 1
Chapter one
Dawson
I wake before the sun, same as always. Coffee’s on by five-thirty, eggs in the pan by six.
The cabin is quiet in the way only a place ten miles up a private mountain road can be quiet.
It’s lived-in, peaceful, mine. I built every log of it myself after the army spat me out with a limp and a folder full of paperwork.
The first floor is an open-concept space with the living room, kitchen, and dining room flowing together.
Upstairs, there are two guest bedrooms, one I’ve turned into an office and the other a catch-all room for stuff that has no place, on one side, and a massive primary bedroom on the other with windows that look out on nothing but peaks and sky.
It’s more house than one man needs, but I like knowing there’s room, just in case.
By seven-forty-five, I’m in my truck, rumbling down the switchbacks into Pine Hollow.
Main Street is already waking up when I park behind Hartman’s Hardware.
Annie waves from the bakery door, flour on her apron like always.
I lift two fingers off the steering wheel in reply.
That’s about the extent of my morning small talk.
Inside the store, the lights hum on, the ancient coffee pot in back gurgles to life, and by eight-oh-five the bell over the door starts jingling.
Mrs. Alvarez needs pipe insulation. Jake needs a snowblower blade.
Old Man Thompson wants rock salt and spends ten minutes describing his sciatica in detail.
I listen, nod in the right places, and carry the fifty-pound bag to his truck.
I know every face, even if I don’t always join them for chili cook-offs or at the Elks lodge on Thursdays. I’m here six days a week. That counts for something. They know they can count on me.
Fixing the star on the town Christmas tree is one of those things that I am counted on to fix every December. The wiring’s older than I am, and even though the town could replace it, tradition is very important in Pine Hollow.
Tom texts me the same panicked SOS every year, I grumble, and then show up to fix it. This tradition is important to me, too, even if I keep one foot outside town.
Today’s no different. I’m restocking galvanized nails when the phone buzzes.
Tom: Star’s half dead again. Tomorrow night’s the lighting. Save us, Hartman.
Me: I’ll come by at four when the store closes.
Tom: You’re a saint. Drinks on me after.
At exactly four, I close the shop, flip the sign, and pull my truck around to the square. The place is already buzzing with kids chasing each other, someone testing the sound system with “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” Tom spots me and waves like a golden retriever on espresso.
That’s when I see the most gorgeous woman across the square.
She’s helping Dottie set up a cocoa stand, laughing so hard she has to brace a hand on the table to stay upright.
Blonde hair is escaping a red knit hat, her cheeks are pink from cold and effort, and curves fill out her red coat in ways that should probably be illegal.
When she straightens and brushes snow off her gloves, her gaze sweeps the square and lands on me like a spotlight.
Everything slows down. She tilts her head, smile soft and curious, like she’s trying to place me. I should look away, but I can’t.
Tom claps me on the back hard enough to rattle teeth. “There’s our hero! Ready to work your magic, big man?”
I grunt and head for the tree, but I feel her eyes on me the whole climb.
Twenty-five feet up, wind whipping my jacket, I splice wire and swap bulbs and try not to think about the fact that she’s probably still watching.
When the star finally blazes to life, the crowd cheers like I just pulled a baby from a burning building.
I climb down slower than necessary, scanning the faces looking for her.
She’s ten feet from the bottom of the ladder, holding two paper cups, steam curling into the cold. Before I can take another step toward my truck, she’s walking straight for me.
“Hey, mountain man.”
I stop and wait for her to approach me. Up close, she’s even prettier. Freckles across her nose, eyes the color of a winter sky just before snow. She smells like vanilla and pine needles, and I suddenly forget how to form sentences.
“Figured the guy who just saved the Christmas tree star deserves something hot,” she says, holding out a cup. “Extra marshmallows. Dottie swears it’s her secret weapon.”
My fingers brush hers when I take it, and heat shoots straight up my arm that has nothing to do with cocoa.
“Thanks,” I manage.
She smiles, small and crooked. “I’m Cora McClaine. Dottie’s niece. Here to terrorize the town with Christmas cheer until New Year’s.”
I nod, the corner of my mouth tugging up before I can stop it. “Dawson.”
“I know.” Her eyes flick over my face like she’s memorizing it. “You own the hardware store. And apparently, the only ladder tall enough to reach the top of that massive tree.”
A rusty laugh slips out of me. “Something like that.”
We stand there a beat too long, snow falling soft between us, the square loud and bright at our backs. The cup full of hot cocoa heating my palm in the best way, and I try to think of something clever to say to keep her right here.
“Cora, honey!” Dottie’s voice rings out like a church bell. “We need another pair of hands with the garland.”
Cora rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Duty calls,” she says, already stepping backward. She lifts her own cup in a tiny salute. “See you tomorrow night, Dawson.”
She flashes me one last bright smile then spins away, red coat flaring like a spark against the snow.
I watch her go, my heart thudding slow and heavy in my chest like it just woke up after a very long sleep.
Tomorrow night the square will be packed, the tree blazing, carols loud enough to rattle windows. I’ll be here for the lighting like always, even if just to make sure the star stays lit.
This year, I’m not planning my escape route. This year, I might even stay for the carolers.
I take a sip of the cocoa. It’s sweet and perfect, like the woman I just met. As I get into my truck and start my drive up the mountain, for the first time, I’m not looking forward to the quiet.