She had pondered that reality while she made her way into the spare bedroom and located the knitting supplies that were right where Marla had said they would be. There was something special about the Winters family. Kate had worked with other families before, but none had opened their arms—and their hearts—so fully. It was no secret Kate was falling for Deacon. It was nearly impossible not to. But she also found herself falling for Marla’s warm, motherly nature and her go-getter attitude. For Cody’s sarcastic wit and goofy, younger brother demeanor.
Kate was falling for this entire place and everything wrapped up in it. She was falling for Yuletide Farm and she never wanted to leave.
“Knit one, purl two. Knit one, purl two.” An hour into their knitting session, Marla continued whispering the words as her hands followed the instructions. She lowered her chin at Kate, her eyes angling above her reading glasses. “You sure I’m doing this right?”
“Yep. It’s looking great, too.”
“You don’t need to lie, dear. My ego isn’t that fragile.” She mouthed the movements again, this time less distinct. “What exactly are we making?”
“A scarf. It’s the easiest thing to start with and if there’s a part you don’t like, you can hide it when you wear it.”
“Knit one, purl two.” Fingers tangling, Marla let out a little huff and unwound the string from her needles. “Do you mind me asking where you learned to knit? I don’t want to sound ageist, but you aren’t exactly in the demographic that usually takes to this sort of hobby.”
“As with most of the things I’ve learned, it was on the job.” Kate settled her needles and yarn to her lap and made air quotes around her words. “My first assignment, actually. I was working for a fisherman named Michael Swinson. His wife, Betty, was an avid knitter. She’d bring her little basket down to the dock each day and by the end of my shift, she’d have fashioned a fabulous new creation. It fascinated me. I was no good at fishing, but Betty taught me all I needed to know about knitting and I absolutely loved it.”
“I think you get to lead the most fascinating life, Kate.” Marla rested her needles on the couch cushion beside her and collected the television remote from the end table to click off the screen. The T.V. darkened, along with the room, save for the bronze glow of the dwindling fire in the stove. “Meeting new people everywhere you go. Learning new trades.” She paused as she gave Kate a pressing look. “I imagine that would make it hard to ever want to settle down.”
“I’ve been doing this for seven years now, so it’s all I really know. But I always told myself these assignments are a bit like job interviews, just in reverse. I’m the one deciding if I’m the right fit for the job, not the other way around.”
“And how do you think you fit in here at the farm?”
“Well, I’m lousy at hauling trees and I’m not so sure I’m cut out for storms like this one tonight, but the truth is, I’ve never felt more at home.”
Marla regarded Kate with a look that reiterated everything Kate’s heart felt in that moment. It was as though her soul was looking into a mirror. “I’m glad to hear it.” The woman picked up her needles and began knitting once more. “Very glad to hear it.”
Wind howled against the shutters, flapping the wooden slats like flags whipping up in a stormy gale. Kate couldn’t sleep. She’d completed her scarf, helped Marla finish hers, and retreated to bed just a few strokes after midnight. She seldom had an issue falling asleep in a new place. In truth, her biggest bouts of insomnia often took place within her own apartment walls. At times, that place felt akin to an impersonal, rental hotel room. There was no identifying mark that made it hers. No monogramed towels. No custom curtains. She didn’t even really like the comforter that draped over her own bed. She’d picked out one that looked similar to the quilt she remembered from the model home she had viewed before purchasing the place. It matched well with the paint. But it didn’t feel like it belonged to her. She could sell it all tomorrow—her home and everything within it—and not even have the slightest twinge of remorse.
How was it, then, that she felt a tug in her stomach each time she thought of leaving Yuletide Farm? These memories that coated the walls in the forms of pictures, wallpapers, and paints weren’t even hers. They belonged to a family that she’d merely inserted herself into.
When she’d tossed and turned enough to dizzy herself, Kate gave in and got up. Knitting always seemed to calm her, those trance-like, repetitive motions often enough to make her eyelids heavy and her mind equally drowsy. Crawling across the mattress toward the foot of the bed, Kate lifted the lid of the hope chest to rifle through the balls of yarn that she knew to be there. They had made scarves of rich, bold holiday colors earlier, so this time she pulled out all of the pastel skeins she could find. Just as she was reaching for a bundle of pale pink yarn, something else caught her eye.
The Winters Family.
The letters were stamped in gold across the leather-bound book. Kate pushed everything else aside and lifted the thick album from the trunk before working her way back up to the headboard to sit cross-legged. She flicked the nightstand lamp on and opened it up.
The black and white images looked like something out of a history book. Worn, weathered faces with hollow eyes stared back at her. Smiles were hard to detect, likely because they were hard to produce in that era. These were the images of early Californians who risked life and limb to settle this land. The tired stares that graced image after image made Kate’s spirit heavy, like an anchor tugging her soul. She knew nothing of this sort of rugged and rough existence, nothing of the struggles some ancestors endured to secure an abundant life for their future generations.
With each turn of the page, Kate could sense an upturn in spirit. Corners of mouths curved upward—if only slightly—a detectable joy now spread across the faces of children and parents alike. She read the notes scribbled in the margins listing the names and ages of each person within the frame. By the time the photographs morphed from grayscale to color, Kate started to recognize the subjects. Cody as a little boy, bundled in a puffy blue jacket while he held his Grandpa Tuff’s big paw of a hand. There were images of a young Marla, her hair a brilliant red luster that evidently had faded to silver only in recent years. In many of the shots, she looked on from the periphery, tucked under the loving and possessive arm of a man Kate could only assume was her husband, Joe. He shared Deacon’s large physique and matched with a twin twinkle in his chocolate colored eyes.
Her favorite image was of Deacon perched atop a pony, cowboy hat on his head and red boots snug on his feet. Kate smiled at the sweet thought of a young Deacon sleeping with those very boots on.
As the years passed, images of Deacon and Cody took center stage. They were rough and tumble teenagers with wild hair and brawny frames. It was hard to find a photograph without a tree in it—most often they were hoisted high upon shoulders as a show of brute strength. Kate paused at the next picture. It was of the three men—Deacon, Cody, and their father. There was nothing special about the image, nothing noteworthy in their poses or backdrop, but the look of love inscribed on each individual face was enough to make Kate’s heart ache. Joe Winters stood in the center, his arms wrapped around his boys, pride filling his eyes. Deacon was young here, and when Kate turned the page and was met with a photograph of Deacon and Cody dressed in suits of black, eyes melancholy and expressions vapid, she nearly gasped.
He was so young. A boy. But in that image, she knew he had become a man and it appeared as though the weight of the farm and his family now rested squarely upon his shoulders.
It wasn’t until a brunette entered the photographs some five or so years later that a smile finally returned to Deacon’s face. It was barely perceptible at first, just a small, slight tip of his lips. But soon, his full-fledged grin was the only thing Kate could see. It was a magnet that pulled her into each picture and produced a similar one on her own face just in viewing it. Deacon’s joy was palpable, and Kate figured the woman
next to him had a little something to do with that.
There were images of the couple riding horses side-by-side through snowy mountain trails. Photographs where they were decked out in ski gear, poles gripped in their hands and eyes smiling under tinted goggles. Pictures of holidays and family celebrations and dinners so delectable it made Kate’s taste buds tingle. But the image that stole her breath was the one with Deacon dropped down on one knee, a sparkling diamond ring pinched between his fingers, and an elated smile plastered on the young woman’s face.
This was Jenny. It had to be.
Kate had already spent some time pondering Deacon’s situation. She assumed Jenny was someone important. But it was also clear that his heart had been broken. Shattered. Part of Kate had wondered if Jenny had failed to reciprocate Deacon’s affection—if he’d proposed and she’d declined. But this picture was evidence to the contrary. It was clear the woman had said yes. Enthusiastically, too, it appeared.
So what led to this hesitant, sometimes sullen and guarded new version of Deacon?
Kate hated to think of the possibilities, and when her head kept circling back to the same speculation, she had to close the album, stow it away, and turn off the lights and her thoughts. It was just too painful to go there.
One thing she knew for sure: Deacon Winters was no stranger to loss, both in life and in love.
Deacon
Deacon took another guzzle of his woefully tepid coffee. Unlike the lone mug housed in his cupboard at the cottage, his mother had enough to use a different one each day of the month if she so desired. It appeared she had kept every single cup she’d acquired throughout her lifetime. Every Mother’s Day gift and birthday present. Every failed masterpiece from her sons’ ceramic classes. Deacon wasn’t sure why that was always their go-to when it came to gift giving. Apparently, he and Cody weren’t all that creative, as evidenced by the three mugs that had some version of World’s Best Mom printed across the side.
The current mug Deacon drank his weak, medium roast blend from was festive with glittering white snowflakes stamped on the border and a little spotted deer with snow-tipped antlers embossed on the façade. Sure, it was unquestionably feminine, but it held his coffee fine and that’s all he really cared about.
He had spent the first hour of daylight sipping from the mug and scrolling through Kate’s online footage of their farm. There was the rental tree drop-off and wreath making with his mother. Interviews with bright-eyed children detailing each item scrawled on holiday wish lists they’d shipped off to the North Pole. Kate had even created a short segment she’d titled, “Find That Tree!” where she challenged three separate families in a race to search for, cut down, and haul off their perfect Christmas tree. The winner received a twenty-dollar gift certificate to the farm store to purchase decorations for their new evergreen possession, which struck Deacon as a brilliant idea.
And she had done it all on her own. Without a camera man. Without a producer. Just Kate, her phone, and her charisma. Based on the comments, she didn’t need those other elements. Her audience loved the bonus piece on Marla’s infamous hot chocolate, and at the end of the video, Kate asked viewers to leave their own holiday drink recipes in the section below. Deacon was shocked by the amount of interaction that post received. There were hundreds of responses. What stunned him even more was that Kate took the time to reply to them all. Sometimes it was just a thumbs up, but she made sure to acknowledge each comment and he knew that was intentional on her part. She was just like that.
“Morning.”
Deacon startled at the live version of the recorded voice he had been listening to for the last hour.
Kate meandered into the room with bleary, half-lidded eyes, wearing one of his old high school t-shirts paired with faded sweatpants. The ensemble hung loose and was ill-fitting, but she looked adorable all the same. She pushed a fist to her eyes and rubbed, then yawned as she stretched her arms skyward like a cat arching its back after a long winter’s nap. When she dropped her arms back down, she met Deacon’s gaze and smiled lazily. “You’re up awfully early.”
“I’m heading out soon to do some shoveling before we open things up.”
Her eyes flicked over her shoulder toward the wood paned window at her back. “Oh, gosh. I didn’t even think about that. These big storms create a lot of work for you when they blow through, don’t they?”
Deacon shrugged. “A fair amount. Luckily, the snow plow comes through before sunup to clear out the roadways so people can actually get to the tree farm. I know the owner of the company so I always throw a little extra money his way so he’ll clear out the parking lot for me, too. All I really have to do is make sure all the walking paths are safe and that we haven’t lost any trees overnight. I’m headed out on the snowmobiles in a few minutes to do just that.”
“Do you mind if I come with you?”
“To look for downed trees?”
“Yeah.” She slumped against the pale yellow farmhouse wall and yawned again, sleep still lingering in her eyes. “I’ve never ridden on a snowmobile before.”
“No? I don’t know why, but I’m a little surprised to learn that.”
“Probably because I’ve ridden camels, rickshaws, and even dolphins. But not a snowmobile. Go figure.”
Deacon collected his mug from the table, shoved his cell phone into his jacket pocket, and pushed to his feet. “You’re more than welcome to join me. They’re relatively straightforward to drive so I don’t think you should have any problem—”
“Oh.” She shook her head so rapidly her messy bun flopped back and forth. “I don’t think I want to drive one. I was hoping maybe I could just ride on yours with you.” She paused, then added in a rush, “But only if that’s okay.”
Deacon coughed and instantly felt the acidic bite of his coffee repeating on him. With one balled up fist, he thrust twice against his chest and swallowed so loudly it came out as a gulp. “Sure. I mean, yeah. That’s totally fine.”
“Great! Just give me five minutes to get ready and I’ll meet you back down here.”
“How about I grab the snowmobile from the storage barn and swing back around to pick you up? That way you don’t have to walk all the way down in the snow. There’s a lot of it.”
“That would be really nice, Deacon. Thank you. I’ll be quick. Promise.”
As Kate scampered down the hall, Deacon downed the remaining sludge in his mug, rinsed it clean in the sink, and headed out the back door to set out for the barn. If he hadn’t been fully awake at that point, the bone-chilling cold that rushed over the apples of his cheeks would’ve shocked him into complete alertness. The temperatures had dropped by double-digits overnight. With the collar of his insulated jacket flipped up to shield his neck against the icy blast and his work gloves fitted to his hands, Deacon stepped off the back porch stoop, letting each boot sink slowly into the pristine covering of white until he couldn’t see his toes and snow came clear up to his shins.
This was angel making sort of snow. Light. Powdery. The kind so soft one could fall back into it and feel as though they would never fully land. Funny. That was the same way Deacon felt when it came to Kate.
What had this woman done to him?
Even if he had all the time in the world to sort through possible reasons for this almost ethereal feeling, he figured he would never arrive at an answer that made any real sense. Some things just couldn’t be explained. Like how Santa’s magical sleigh could carry enough presents for the world’s population of little boys and girls. Or how fruitcake ever earned its way into the ranks of holiday treats. Or most puzzling, how his shattered heart somehow felt—for the first time in years—like it was in the process of being put back together again.
Deacon forced those thoughts from his head while he removed the battered canvas covering from the snowmobile inside the barn and fired up the engine. This thing with Kate didn’t need to be analyzed. He also didn’t dwell too long on the fact that she’d asked to ride double.
If he gave that another thought, his stomach would tangle with nerves that just might twist him into immobility. Before he could chicken out, he nudged a helmet onto his head, grabbed another for Kate, and angled the mobile out of the barn to double back toward the house. The blades underneath the small vehicle carved ruts into the snow, curving and bending with the fresh mountain terrain in parallel lines. As he eased up the hill, he couldn’t squelch the chuckle that rumbled his chest at the sight of Kate waiting for him, bundled in a rust-colored coat she must’ve retrieved from the depths of his mother’s hall closet. Her thumb jutted out in a hitchhiker’s signal and she danced in place in what Deacon assumed was an attempt to maintain warmth. It was glaringly off-beat yet endearing all the same.
“Hey there, handsome,” she said with a lash-fluttering wink. “Got room for one more?”
“Hop on.” Deacon passed off the extra helmet and waited while Kate maneuvered it onto her head before settling onto the back of the snowmobile. When her arms wove around his waist and her hands clasped at his middle like a makeshift seatbelt, he revved the vehicle and set out down the hillside before she had time to change her mind.
“What are we looking for, exactly?” Kate shouted over the grating motor that buzzed beneath them like an angry chainsaw.
“Any possible damage the storm might’ve caused overnight.” Deacon tilted his head back so she could hear him more clearly. “Fallen trees or branches. Things of that nature.”
“Like that?” Kate nudged her chin and set her eyes forward.
Deacon groaned. “Exactly like that.”
Up ahead, one of their largest firs rested horizontally across their path as a massive evergreen barricade. When Deacon eased up to it, he could see the many branches crunched and snapped beneath the substantial weight of the tree.
“Can it be salvaged?”
Christmas at Yuletide Farm: A Small-Town Christmas Romance Novel Page 14