“My name is Evan.”
I smiled, feeling suddenly awkward. “I know.”
“How’d you sleep?”
The smile fell from my face, pulled away at the mention of my night. “There were nightmares,” I whispered. I glanced around the room, unsure why I’d admit such a thing and hoping no one else had heard.
Evan leaned closer. “They’ll pass,” he whispered in response. “I promise. Nightmares, anxiety, all sorts of reactions are perfectly normal in the aftermath of an experience like yours.”
I bobbed my chin, willing his words to be true. “Okay.”
“You’re very brave,” he said. “The odds were against you, and you persevered. No light. No coat or boots. No phone. No plan.” The final word was clipped.
“Why did he do it?” I asked, altering the subject slightly. “Why did Mr. Nettle kill Mrs. Fenwick? Did she find about the stolen grant money and confront him? Why would he steal from her to begin with?”
A number of listening ears turned our way.
Evan gave the room a passing glance before answering. “According to his confession,” he said, “Nettle was financially overextended and thought borrowing some of the grant funds was the answer to his problems. His intentions weren’t sinister, though they were certainly illegal. He was desperate and thought he had a good plan. He told the Mistletoe Historical Society that the mill grant was denied so he could use the money to get himself out of debt. He assumed he’d have plenty of time to put the money back before spring, which was the soonest the work on the mill could begin anyway. Once he’d repaid the money, he planned to surprise Mrs. Fenwick with news of a reconsideration. He’d hoped she’d be too thrilled to question the reason.”
“That’s sad,” I said. “None of this should’ve happened.”
“You’re right.”
I hated the troubled expression on Evan’s face and the fact I could sympathize with Mr. Nettle. One bad decision had led him to a commit a whole slew of crimes. I knew firsthand how things could get out of control when you started down a questionable path. I’d begun asking questions about Mrs. Fenwick’s murder in an attempt to make Evan look beyond our farm for a suspect, and when I couldn’t stop, I’d nearly gotten myself killed. “I’m sorry I pushed this so far.”
“I should’ve gotten here sooner.”
“It’s not your fault,” I said.
His jaw clenched and pulsed. “I was building a case against France when I realized what had likely happened and turned my interest to Nettle. I’d been to his home and office looking for him last night. When I saw your parents at the square without you, I got worried. When they said Nettle had just spoken to them, I knew it wasn’t a coincidence. I tried contacting Phillip while I beat a path through the square to my cruiser, but he didn’t respond. I was terrified by the thought of what might be happening to you because I’d been too slow to put the clues together, but then you called.” He released a slow breath.
“And I confirmed your fears.”
One stiff dip of his chin said what he couldn’t: he’d thought I was going to die.
“Why couldn’t I have just let you finish building your case?” Frustration built in my chest. I’d asked myself the same question a thousand times.
A tiny smile budded on Evan’s lips.
“Why are you smiling?” I sniffled.
“I was sitting around building a case. You trapped him in a hole. Your way was faster.”
A low rumble of laughter drew my attention away from Evan. I hadn’t noticed the room grow still around us with interest in his story.
The bottom line to all of it was that if Evan hadn’t been en route when I called, it wouldn’t have mattered that Mr. Nettle fell in a hole; I would’ve frozen to death. Evan had saved me. I turned back to him, full to the top with gratitude, and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. I buried my face into the curve of his neck and squeezed him tight. “Thank you for coming for me.”
He ran broad hands over my back and tightened his fingers against me. “Always,” he promised in a fervent whisper.
Someone cleared his throat obnoxiously, and we sprang apart.
I expected to find Dad glaring at us but instead found Ray Griggs with a pile of daily newspapers. “Hello,” he said. “Holly. Sheriff Gray. Merry Christmas.”
Evan released me. He stood to shake Ray’s hand. “Sorry for the trouble I gave you last night. You did all right.” He clapped Ray on the back, then saw himself out without a good-bye.
I did my best to hide the sting of disappointment plucking at my skin. “What was that about?” I asked.
“He caught me following him around, and he was pretty mad, but I got a picture of Nettle stuck in that pit.” A wide smile split his face.
“Did you get your story in the paper?” I asked, pointing to the stack of Mistletoe Gazettes tucked under his arm.
“Yeah.” He turned the papers around, giving me a clear view of the headline.
“‘The True Meaning of Christmas,’ by Ray Griggs,” I read. “This isn’t about Nettle.”
“Nope.” He slid the top paper onto my lap, then passed the rest of the papers through the room.
A tear fell onto the paper as I finished the article on the guaranteed revitalization of Pine Creek Bridge. “Really?” I raised my eyes to his.
“When these people heard about what happened last night and why”—he opened his arms to indicate the crowd filling my parents’ home—“they started forming a mob outside the Historical Society.”
Bright smiles and blushes spread over the faces of our town.
“I don’t understand,” I admitted.
Ray rocked back on his heels with a goofy grin. “When I finished the article at dawn, donations of time, supplies, and cash totaled over seventy-five thousand dollars,” he said. “More than enough to restore the bridge and dedicate it to Margaret Fenwick and her family.”
My mouth fell open with a gasp. I covered my mouth to stifle a sudden sob.
“In the true spirit of Mistletoe,” Ray continued, “there will be a formal ceremony in her honor next Christmas when the restoration is completed.”
A hearty round of hoots and applause broke the silence. The folks before me patted one another’s backs and exchanged handshakes and hugs.
Ray’s headline was right—this was the true meaning of Christmas.
“Thank you,” I said, first to Ray for the article, then more loudly to the room of celebrators. My gaze slid to the front door, wishing Evan had stayed a moment longer to see this with me. This was Mistletoe.
A number of guests abandoned their snacks and donned their coats, forming a sudden exodus through our front door.
“Don’t go,” I said, struggling onto my good foot.
Ray moved back into view. “I have one more thing to show you.” He offered me a hand and steered me to the end of the exit line.
I checked the crowd behind me to see if I was in anyone’s way.
The lingering bunch smiled and waved.
“I don’t understand,” I told Ray.
“The article was from me, but this is the work of your people.” He propped me against the doorjamb and moved away, allowing me an unobstructed view of the world outside.
A crowd of carolers began to sing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” They filled the porch, front steps, and lawn. Behind me, guests in our home joined along with the chorus.
I blinked to make sense of the sheer numbers. I’d thought everyone who knew me had been in the living room, but there were many new faces singing in the snow.
Mom unhooked my coat from the rack and handed it to me. “Come on,” she said. “You’d better get out there and invite them in.”
I slid my arms into the coat sleeves and hobbled through the open door. A thrill pinched my chest as I took in the beautiful sight.
Slowly, a handsome tenor emerged from the pack. Sheriff Evan Gray climbed the porch steps with a gentle smile. “Holly?” he asked, casting a pointed
look at the mistletoe over my head.
“Yeah,” I answered, catching two handfuls of his coat in my hands.
“Merry Christmas,” he whispered, and he lowered his lips to mine.
Acknowledgments
Huge, heartfelt appreciation to my agent, Jill Marsal, for believing me in. My world is changing because of you. To Crooked Lane Books and their kind, dedicated team. Matt Martz, Anne Brewer, Jenny Chen, Sarah Poppe, thank you. Also, to my personal cheer and support squad, Keri Ford, Jennifer Anderson, and Janie Browning. You make my stories better. Finally, to my mother-in-law, Darlene Lindsey, who deserves a gold medal in love, support, and encouragement, and of course my sweet family. I’d be lost without you. And if you are reading this, I thank you too. They say it takes a village. You are my village.
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