by Frankie Love
Mistletoe Mountain
The Mountain Man’s Christmas
Frankie Love
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
BUCKED
Chapter 1
TIMBER
Chapter 1
Claimed By The Mountain Man
Chapter 1
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Edited by Teresa Banschbach
Cover by Mayhem Cover Creations
Copyright © 2016 by Frankie Love
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
Dedication
For my lovely readers in Frankie’s Book Group … this one’s for you!
May we all find ourselves some mistletoe and a chance to get frisky this Christmas!
xoxo, frankie
Chapter One
Hot pink fleece gloves? Check.
Knee-high, fur lined boots? Check.
Hand knit, mint green, beanie? Check.
With my outfit complete, I step out of my Subaru, crunch across the snow, and open the trunk. Grabbing my loppers and a basket, I begin my trek into the woods.
The weather has been cold all month, but it hasn’t snowed in three days. I should be able to get in and out within an hour, and still be home before lunch. I just need to cut down several cedar branches boughs of holly and get home by dark.
Before locking the car, I pull out my phone and text my sister.
Me: I’m in Northstar Forest. Just in case I get lost.
Willa: What the eff are you doing there?
Me: Best cedar trees around.
Willa: All that effort to make a dozen wreaths? U R Cray Cray.
Me: It’s Christmas. #tradition.
Willa: Tommy is a terror today.
Me: He’s two. Hang in there sista.
Willa: Easier said than done Auntie.
I smile, she’s got a pretty good set-up from my vantage point. A man, a baby, and a house that is a home.
Me: I’ll come babysit.
Willa: Thx, but don’t you have your ugly Xmas sweater thing? Time to get drunk with your fifty closest friends.
I smirk. My sister loves to tease me about my social calendar. But what can I say? I’ve always been the sorta person who loves to stay busy.
Me: I’d cancel all of it to be with Tommy. You know that.
Willa: I know. I’m being a brat. Can’t help but be a teensy bit jealous of your life is all.
Me: I love you, sister. Nothing to be jelly of.
Willa: xoxo. Stay safe.
I pocket my phone and put on my gloves. Even though I told Willa that she has nothing to be jealous of... I know it’s not the truth.
There are a ton of things I love about my life. My home business has totally taken off. I have an adorable little one-bedroom house on the cutest street in town.
There’s always someone to hang out with -- I went to college here and have made a ton of connections in the four years since I graduated. I attend a book club and a knitting group -- weekly events where my girlfriends and I get drunk on boxed wine.
And I always have plans on Friday nights. And Saturday nights. The girls and I go out dancing, meet guys, and enjoying everything the city offers.
I figure living life in the fast lane won’t last forever… but so long as it does, I’m all in.
Body shots in Mexico instead of Valentine’s day at home? Check.
Renting a party bus for my friends’ birthdays? Check.
Hosting bridal showers and baby showers when said friends get hitched and knocked-up? Check.
I look out at the snow-covered mountain. Everything is so quiet. Still.
For a moment, I can’t help but wish my life were more like this. Like my sister’s, even.
Sure, Willa would love to have more girls’ nights out, but she has Tommy and Ethan. She has everything.
And I tell myself I have everything I need too.
Even if the truth is I’ll be alone on Christmas morning.
Which is why I am determined to deliver these handmade wreaths to my neighbors. I won’t feel the pang of loneliness quite so sharply if I’m walking around my neighborhood.
I start hiking into the trees, wanting to find the perfect branches to make wreaths. This has become my annual tradition—and on Christmas morning I deliver them to all my neighbors.
As I step over a fallen branch and inhale the pine and cedar scent, the air crisp and cold, I smile, watching tiny snowflakes cover my coat.
I start looking for usable branches to cut. Oddly, though, the good ones are all fairly high, out of my reach. Instead of attempting an impossible climb, I keep walking knowing that eventually, I’ll find what I’m looking for.
My mind’s on the blog post I’m planning to write this afternoon -- after all the cedar is laid out on my workbench to dry. I’ll photograph each step in the wreath making process, and use them in a how-to post.
My readers love those the most. Helpful, affordable -- and always cute. That’s the motto on my website, EASIER WITH EVIE.
As I am thinking through the steps to make the wreaths, I realize: 1) I’ve walked quite a way from the car and 2) the snow is coming down awfully thick.
Like too thick.
Like, it’s basically a blizzard.
Dangit.
I pull out my phone -- why I don’t know. Probably because I’m tethered to this thing 24/7 and I’m hoping Siri can tell me that the weather is going to clear up in the next three to five minutes or something.
She doesn’t tell me anything.
NO SIGNAL.
Fantastic.
Pursing my lips in concentration, I try to retrace my steps. But the snow is coming down so heavily that I can’t even see where I came from. And it’s getting cold. I can’t feel my toe, it’s so cold.
And I’m walking in circles trying to find my way but only getting more turned around.
Frick.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m not one to panic. While I maybe not be exactly conventional in my methods, I have a system for everything. I’m prepared and organized and do things in order. Evie order.
Step 1: Get the hell out of the forest
Step 2: Find some whiskey and warm up
Step 3: Go to the hardware store and buy some freaking pre-made wreaths.
Lost in a snowstorm wasn’t the plan. Making wreaths to put a smile on my neighbor’s faces shouldn’t be this complicated.
I want to be a strong, independent woman, and for the most part -- I am.
But right now, I need help.
I feel my eyes prick with tears, and suddenly I feel alone. And scared.
And that is pretty much the last way anyone should feel two days b
efore Christmas.
Chapter Two
Sitting in my cabin is usually my favorite fucking place to be.
This year, though, it’s different.
Maybe I’m restless, just needing some sort of change of scenery. Not that I’d ever leave my place in the woods -- hell no, but sometimes it feels like I am missing something.
Missing someone.
I run my fingers over the worn photograph of my family. My parents and sister. They died when I was twenty-two, in a car accident -- coming to visit me in the city. Fucking sad as hell, a tragedy without any silver lining. They were the salt of the earth people, true grit -- good as gold. Taken way too damn soon.
It put life into fucking perspective. I got rid of the three-piece suits and silver cufflinks I wore for my stupid-ass job where I clocked in for the man, and started reading about living a slower life. One where I’m wasn’t chasing the next weekend high of parties and friends and women.
So, I built a cabin. Planted a garden. Fucking canned tomatoes and got a goat, some chickens, and a few pigs. I was all in. That’s how I’ve always been with everything.
And I documented it all. One entry a day, and three hundred and sixty-five days later I had a book. And then another. So far I’ve published five. Day in the Life of an American Mountain Man.
The lifestyle is great in the spring, planning and planting a garden. The summer is tending crops and chopping wood. The fall is nice, harvesting and canning.
But then winter comes.
And it’s lonely as fuck.
And long.
Really fucking long.
I put down the photograph and open and close the cupboard doors. There are no Christmas cookies or toffee. My mom always made that stuff. I have her old recipe book, but every time I think about making a dozen cookies to eat alone I get sad as fuck.
Now look, I’m not some depressed dude in the woods -- I love this life, I honestly do.
But Christmas makes me sentimental. Makes me think about years past when there were lights on a tree and stockings hung and presents wrapped.
Not one to sit and wallow, I grab my coat and pull on my boots. I may be alone, but I can still make it a memorable Christmas.
Stepping outside, I grab a saw, holler for my chocolate lab, Johnny Walker, and shut the door.
The snow has gotten worse over the past few hours, and I’m surprised at how heavy it’s falling. The sky is still bright, and the freshly fallen snow shines. My feet sink in the inches that have already accumulated, and I head toward the edge of my property. The Northstar Forest surrounds my homestead.
I’m trying to think of any good Christmas-sized trees I may have seen, and Johnny Walker runs ahead, yapping at something he must see or smell. Can’t imagine too many forest animals would be out right now in this weather. Seems like I’m the only beast crazy enough to come out today.
I follow the old boy, knowing he must be on to something. I cut across the snow-covered garden, beyond the livestock barn that houses the animals for the winter. We cross into the forest, and immediately things are darker, hushed. The sky is covered by the tree branches laden with snow.
It’s gorgeous out here, beyond the cleared space of my cabin. The nearest city is over an hour away, in this forest, there is nothing to distract you, nothing to do but clear your mind. It’s calm and peaceful.
Except that today there is a cry for help.
Johnny’s off like a shot and I follow close behind, my ax still firmly gripped in my hand.
And there she is. A woman with bright blonde hair and eyes frozen with worry. A woman beneath a tree, shaking, arms crossed.
Lost and alone.
“Hey, there,” I call out, running as quickly as I can through the snow.
Her eyes meet mine, relief flooding her face as a flurry of snow whips between us.
Johnny is barking, jumping between us.
“You did good, Johnny,” I tell him, patting his head as I come up to the woman who looks frightened.
She’s standing under a pine tree, and I smile, seeing the bough growing from a branch above her head.
“Mistletoe,” I tell her, pointing.
She looks slightly stunned. “Where did you come from, wielding a saw like you know what to do with it?” Her voice is textured, both light and low at the same time.
“Over yonder,” I tell her, jutting my chin to the east.
“Yonder?” Her question is more of a laugh. Her laugh is more of a song.
I nod, and then swing my ax over my shoulder, eyeing her loppers, not quite figuring her out. “And where did you come from?”
“Over the river and through the woods.”
I smile, liking how easily her words slide off her tongue. I also liked the way her reddened cheeks rounded as she smiled. Liking the way her lips part as she speaks.
“There are no grandmas at my house, but I do have a fireplace. And I think you could use some warming up.”
“My car’s out on the main road.”
“Honey,” I tell her, a flurry of snow nearly blinding our vision. “You aren’t getting out of here in a car tonight. Besides, you’re three miles from the main road, you know that, right?”
She covers her face, clearly lost. “I’m such an idiot.”
“Nah, at least you’re prepared. You got loppers to cut off the head of anything that got too close.”
She lowers her head, smiling. “You have anything stronger than a fire at your place?” Her words surprise me; I had supposed something as sweet-looking as her would want sugar and spice and everything nice.
“I got Fireball whiskey.”
“Perfect.” She leans down and pats Johnny as if instantly relaxed with this plan in place.
“But on our way,” I tell her, “We need to chop down a Christmas tree.”
Chapter Three
When this big, burly, dark-haired mountain man comes through the snowstorm carrying an ax and a frown, I don’t know what to think.
I’d say run, but I’m already lost.
And then he leans down to pat his barking dog and I realize he’s not an ax murderer –– not even sorta. He’s tall and broad-shouldered and handsome as all get out. His eyes are bright, deep pools of blue, and his beard is thick and just looking at him gets me all hot.
Which is saying something considering it’s near freezing out here.
I don’t even know what I said to him. Something about whiskey and fireplaces and he said Christmas trees and I was in a daze. Because the frozen toes and fingers and the way he spoke, slow and steady, and in control. He wasn’t in a rush. Like he knew it would all happen in its own sweet time.
And the next thing I know my gloved hand is in his gloved hand, and he’s leading me across a snow bank, his dog running beside us. He points to a tree, and I smile encouragingly, mostly because what is even happening right now? It’s a scene out of a romance novel -- a handsome man finding me lost in the woods standing under some mistletoe.
“This one is perfect, don’t you think?” he asks.
The tree isn’t massive, maybe four feet tall, a size that he could carry on his own.
Though truth be told I wouldn’t mind him carrying me home on his own.
“It has potential,” I tell him, assessing the branches.
“You’re pretty tough on trees, then?”
“You asked my opinion.”
He crosses his arms playfully, watching me circle around the tree.
“If you turned it, so that side was in the back, where it’s kinda bare, and cut off these low hanging branches, it could work.”
He smiles, and damn that smile is more than I was expecting. “My mom always went for the Charlie Brown trees, guess I take after her.”
“So you always root for the underdog?” I ask, crouching down to lift the branches so he can access the trunk easier.
“Yes, ma’am.” He begins sawing at the stump, the snow still falling as he moves, his saw against the grain.
> The trunk is only six inches across, and he saws it down in a few swift strokes. When he stands, he lifts the tree easily.
“You can’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel old,” I tell him as we begin walking to the cabin that is now within view.
“What should I call you, then?” he asks.
“Genevieve, but everyone calls me Evie.”
“I’m Everett.”
“Evie and Everett. That’s....” I stop short of saying cute because that would be more awkward than this already is.
“Similar,” he finishes, in a much more matter-of-fact matter, continuing to drag the tree behind him. We’re crossing a wide expanse of cleared land complete with a workshop and a large red barn. The cabin is one-story, with a stone fireplace, and a wide front porch.
“Right. Similar. Anyways. This your place?”
“Sure is.”
When he doesn’t offer me anymore, I realize he may have a wife and kid inside the cabin. He’s wearing gloves so I can’t check out his ring finger, but damn, do I want to. Just to know what I’m working with.
At the front door, he stomps off his boots. When I attempt to stomp my feet, I realize they’re too frozen.
“Ouch,” I wince, my poor toes aching.
“You need help?” Everett asks.
I nod, realizing that even if I got the snow off these boots there’s no way in hell I’d be able to untie them and slide them off my feet.
“Come on in,” Everett says, “I’ll help you.”
I follow him inside, noticing at once that it’s a minimalist bachelor pad.
Not in a run-down sort of way, no. Everett’s place is full of order.
As if there is a home for everything he owns. The wood is stacked with precision. The counter boasts a clear work surface. The floor is polished and shoes are lined up next to the door. And beyond being tidy, there aren’t enough things in here to make it messy.
He would have a hissy fit in my place if this is the way he likes to live.
“Your place is so neat. And organized,” I tell him taking in the soft glow from the dying fireplace, the drying herbs over the sink and the braids of garlic hanging near the stove. An open cupboard is stocked with canned vegetables in an array of colors and I see a bookshelf lined with how-to manuals and classics.
