Either way, she had no real say in the matter.
Tugging a stiff boot onto each foot, Kate coiled her favorite green and red handmade scarf around her neck and descended the loft staircase, careful not to lose her footing on the creaky boards that threatened to fall right out from under her. She could hear soft snorting and nickering from further down the barn aisle, the silhouettes of two saddled horses coming into view the closer she stepped.
“You take this one,” Deacon mumbled her direction once she was within earshot.
“Hello to you, too.”
Rolling his eyes, Deacon turned his back as he tugged on a strap under the horse’s belly to secure the saddle firmly into place. “I thought we already got all of the pleasantries out of the way.”
“I wouldn’t call anything about our first meeting pleasant.”
Deacon dropped a heavy hand onto the saddle horn. He cut her a look that made her stomach feel like a piece of wet fabric being wrung out. “You ready to get to work?”
She’d expected some sort of snide comeback and was honestly a little surprised when he didn’t readily give one. “Yep. I’m ready.” Pointing a toe, she waved her hand toward her feet to show off her new kicks. “Boots and all.”
“Sure, but that’s about it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
In one effortless maneuver, Deacon stepped up into one stirrup and swung a leg up and over to mount the horse. He looked just like a cowboy from the old, grayscale westerns Kate’s grandfather watched when she would visit the convalescent home where he resided back when she was a child. There was something nostalgic in Deacon’s movement that had Kate’s heart squeezing at the memory. But when he opened his mouth to speak again, all of that reassuring familiarity flitted away. “That expensive jacket is going to be covered in pine needles.”
Kate shrugged inside her wool peacoat. “This thing? It’ll be fine.”
“Suit yourself.”
Hooking her hands on her hips, she added, “Well, it’ll have to do because it’s the only one I brought.”
Deacon jabbed his heels into the sides of his horse and upon impact, the animal began walking steadily forward.
It had been years since Kate sat on the back of a horse and then it was only a short trail ride where her horse had, for all intents and purposes, been on autopilot. She didn’t know the first thing about steering, guiding, or managing a thousand-pound animal.
And evidently, she didn’t know how to get on top of one, either.
Grabbing the saddle with both hands, she attempted to pull herself onto the horse but her foot wedged awkwardly in the stirrup, hooking on the toe of her boot, and before she could process what was happening, she tipped up and over and landed flat on her backside in the slushy dirt below.
Deacon swiveled his steed around. “Really?”
“A little less judgment and a little more help would be nice.” Kate tried to tug her foot from the stirrup that trapped it. Even her horse angled a sidelong glance as she struggled to free herself from the tangle.
With a huff of displeasure, Deacon slunk off his horse and clomped toward her, his feet heavy and frustrated breaths even heavier. “You’re lucky Sarge is an old, spookless horse. You try that on any other animal and you would’ve been dragged a half-mile down the road.” He shot a hand out toward her like the toss of a lifesaver into troubled waters.
“You think I ended up on the ground on purpose?” With his assistance, Kate got to her feet. She brushed off the back of her pants with two palms and yanked on the hem of her coat to try to appear somewhat presentable.
“I don’t know. Isn’t that what you reporters do? Add dramatic effect or something?”
Unbelieving, Kate stood there, shaking her head like a nervous tick. “You are unreal.”
“I’m not the one in the fake news industry.”
“Oh, please! I’m a journalist who reports on unusual jobs. I’m not some frontline investigator.” She swiped her hands together before she tried—for a second time—to get into the saddle. “Would it be too much trouble to ask for some assistance?”
Before she could collect herself, Deacon had two huge hands on the curve of her waist and with the effort it would take to lift a feather, he all but tossed her onto the horse’s back. She wasn’t sure if it was from her previous efforts or from his unexpected touch, but a heated blush crawled up her neck and onto her face, warming her up by several degrees. “Oh. Thank you.”
“Welcome,” he muttered as he strode back to his waiting horse. “I got you into the saddle, but it’s your job to stay there.”
“I’ll try my best.”
Luckily, Sarge proved his worth and trailed uneventfully behind Deacon and his horse as they journeyed toward the thick forest of greenery.
“Where are we headed?” Kate called out. The horse hooves pulsed in a beat, a rhythm that was consistent despite everything around her being anything but. Kate typically did fine out of her element, but something about Deacon made her confidence blunder.
“Checking on our rental trees. We start deliveries next week.”
“I remember reading on your website that you offer live trees for rent. Not too many farms do that, right?”
“Right,” Deacon mumbled. He sure had a knack for buttoning up any conversation Kate tried to start.
“Do a lot of people sign up to rent them?”
“Uh huh.”
Kate would’ve closed her eyes to collect her thoughts and composure if she hadn’t been on top of a massive animal. Instead, she pursed her lips and silently counted to ten in an effort to regroup. It didn’t do her any good to let frustration get the better of her here, she knew that full well. “How many people are currently enrolled in your rental tree program this year?”
“Fifty-three.”
At least she got answers when she kept at it long enough. “And you deliver all the trees?”
“Yep.”
She leaned back in her saddle for balance as the horses navigated the slope of the land, one hoof placed dexterously in front of the other on the steep terrain. “Do people get the same trees year after year?”
“Most of ‘em.”
“So they rent a specific tree for the holiday season and then you take care of it the rest of the year?”
“We do.”
This was like pulling teeth, and not even wiggly teeth but those stubborn, immovable back molars.
“Shoot,” Deacon blurted out of nowhere. “Donna’s looking a little too thick around the middle. Dang it. Mindy, too.”
Kate blanched. “Excuse me?”
“I said Donna’s gotten real fat. Her proportions are all off.”
“Well, goodness! Don’t you think that’s rather rude?”
For the first time since meeting, Kate heard a jovial sound escape Deacon’s mouth. She couldn’t be sure, but it sounded an awful lot like a laugh. “Calm down. I’m talking about the trees.” He pointed toward the closest fir on their left-hand side. “That one belongs to Donna Palmerson. See how it’s lost its shape? How it’s too round in the middle and thin at the top? It’ll swallow ornaments whole. We need to come through here tomorrow and do some final pruning before these are ready to leave the property.”
“You call your trees by name?”
“I do. It makes them easier to identify. They’ve got nametags, but I’ve also got a spreadsheet that lists them all. I like it better than calling them by a number.”
Scanning the tree closest to her for a tag, Kate perked up when she located it and said, “Jenny here is looking kind of scraggily.”
Whatever semblance of rapport she felt developing between them was obliterated with that lone sentence.
“You don’t get to comment on Jenny’s tree.” Deacon’s voice felt like a reprimand.
“I’m sorry,” she recanted, disliking the irrepressible waver in her tone. She held securely to the reins in her hands and gulped. “I just thought that we could pretty it up a
little before delivering—”
“That tree isn’t going anywhere.” Deacon clucked his tongue and whipped his horse around, pointing it in the direction of the barn that sat like a beacon on the hilltop. “We’re done here for today.”
“But we just got started—”
“Breakfast is in the main house at 6:30. We’ll begin working at 7:30 AM, sharp,” he spoke over his shoulder as he spurred his horse into a trot like he was running away from both Kate and the conversation. Sarge picked up on the cue and jogged compliantly behind. With his face kept forward, Deacon added, “And don’t think about showing up late like you did this afternoon.”
Deacon
Deacon couldn’t sleep. He’d tossed and turned so many times he felt like a pancake on a griddle. Not that he was a stranger to restlessness. In fact, he couldn’t recall the last decent night of sleep he’d had since the skiing accident. The doctor had originally attributed it to his broken collarbone—that the physical discomfort was the reason for his inability to shut his eyes for more than five-minute intervals.
But Deacon knew it didn’t take four years for bones to heal. That was the relatively quick and easy part. The healing of his heart had occurred at a much, much slower rate.
Surrendering to the insomnia, he shoved back his quilt and dropped his feet into the fuzzy slippers waiting at the side of his bed. He snagged a robe from the bedpost and wrapped it around his body before making his way down the long hall to the kitchen, eyes bleary and spirit heavier than Santa’s gift sack of presents. His one and only mug had recently been washed and settled into the drying rack next to a single place setting that got more use than the matching seven collecting dust in his cupboard.
Deacon was a bachelor. He didn’t need more than one of anything, really. A quaint, one-bedroom cottage he’d built with his own hands. One good horse. One dog. (The good part was debatable on that). One fulfilling job.
One woman to love.
He’d once had that woman and Deacon knew his chances of ever meeting someone to fill that void again was slim-to-none. He’d already used up his one shot.
Twisting the heels of his hands into his eyes, he blew out a sigh that woke Rascal from his dog bed.
“Sorry,” Deacon apologized as he grabbed his mug and filled it with apple cider purchased from a local farm just a mile down the road. He punched a few numbers on the microwave and waited for his drink to heat. “You can go back to bed, Rascal.”
The dog was fast asleep before Deacon had even finished the sentence. How he envied that—the ability to shut out the world with just one blink.
When the microwave dinged, he retrieved his steaming drink and hunkered onto the plush, leather couch in the living room. Snow fell on the other side of the picture windows, fluttering down in iridescent flakes that looked like the sugar crystals sprinkled atop a gingersnap cookie. The forecast called for sunshine by morning. Deacon was grateful for that. If it was going to storm, he preferred mother nature get it out of the way during the night. Come daylight, there would be chores to tackle and business to take care of. Everything was made easier under clear skies.
In just a few short hours, he’d have not only a seemingly insurmountable list of jobs to complete, but a new farmhand to deal with. What had his mother been thinking? He knew her heart was in the right place. It always was. But this Kate woman sure rubbed Deacon the wrong way. She’d marched onto the property, her head filled with notions as to how his farm fit into her story, not how she fit into his farm. It was hard to tell exactly who worked for whom.
He’d have to set her straight after a hearty breakfast and a couple hours of sleep under his belt. He knew the first full day on the job set the pace for the remainder of the harvest season. He wasn’t about to let her believe her little news piece took precedence over selling trees. That just wouldn’t work.
One mug of cider down and a half hour of wakefulness later, Deacon found himself with his laptop open and Kate Carmichael’s name typed into the search bar. He had to laugh at how presumptuous she’d been during their introduction, like she was someone famous who deserved recognition. Even if she had been an Oscar winning actress, Deacon likely wouldn’t have noticed. He didn’t pay attention to things like that, didn’t have time to waste in front of a movie screen or television set. He was a simple, hardworking man who used all of the available hours of the day for productivity.
Maybe that was the reason he gave himself a little leeway when it came to researching Kate right then. It was night and he wasn’t wasting anything other than the sleep that always eluded him anyway.
Before he knew it, he’d fallen into an On the Job with Kate Carmichael rabbit hole. Episode after episode of the woman learning new trades. Tennis coach. Rattlesnake removal specialist. Fortune cookie writer. He had to admit, it was undeniably entertaining. She had a charisma in front of the camera that he hadn’t detected during their brief time together. She was confident and self-assured, not ruffled and harried like she had been when she’d tried to mount the horse and ended up with her feet in the air and her pride bruised.
She was a natural on camera.
But that didn’t mean Deacon welcomed that camera on his property.
It was nearly sunrise when he finally snapped his laptop shut and allowed his eyes several moments of rest with his head leaned back on the couch cushion. If it hadn’t been for Rascal’s startling bark, alerting Deacon that he was late with the dog’s morning bowl of kibble, he would’ve stayed asleep on that couch until noon. It was the first real sleep he’d had in weeks.
Blinking, Deacon’s gaze came into focus on the hands on the clock hanging on the opposite wall.
“Oh no!” He jumped up from the couch. “Shoot!”
Rascal barked.
“Shoot. Shoot. Shoot!”
Bark. Bark. Bark!
In an all-out sprint, Deacon rushed across the room and scooped the dog’s meal from the open bag. Bits of dry food rolled across the hardwood floor like scattered marbles, a mess he’d have to leave for later.
“Why didn’t you wake me sooner?” Deacon gave Rascal a displeased look before heading to his room to throw on a pair of jeans, plaid work shirt, jacket and boots. He scrubbed a toothbrush over his teeth, then shoved his cowboy hat onto his head. It was the fastest he’d ever gotten ready, but it wouldn’t do any real good. It was already 7:45.
Fresh snow crunched under his boots as he tramped down the hill toward the rambling main house. He could see thick coils of smoke twisting up from the red brick chimney but it was the rich, savory smell of bacon that reached him first. That was quickly followed by the joyful sound of laughter, something long absent from their mountaintop farm.
Deacon cracked the front door open and followed the pleasant sound into the dining room.
“Sometimes I do wish we had the chance to slow down a little during the holidays and just enjoy the season, but I wouldn’t even know what that would look like. I’ve been doing this since I was a little girl—”
Marla twisted around in her chair when Deacon entered.
“Deacon. You’re in the shot!” His mother threw her hands in the air and slapped them back down onto the table in a display of utter annoyance.
Not the greeting he’d expected. She brushed his hand away when he reached around her to snatch a piece of bacon from the greasy pile on her plate.
“Now I have to say all of that again!” Marla scowled at her son. “I’m sorry, Kate. Where were we?”
Deacon ignored his mother’s words. “We need to get to work.”
“I already am.” Kate tapped the edge of her cell phone and propped it up in front of her, about to continue with Marla’s interview. “Marla, you can just pick back up where you say you’ve been tree farming all of your life.”
“I mean, it’s time to do the job you were hired to do,” Deacon corrected. He stole another piece of fatty bacon.
“That’s the funny thing.” Kate aimed her eyes at Deacon. “I’ve been h
ired for two things: work at a tree farm for the holiday season and document what that’s like. I’ve technically got two jobs to do.”
“Which is exactly what I’m concerned about. I can’t have you putting in half the effort when I’ve got more than full-time work to be done around here.”
“That’s not going to be an issue,” Kate volleyed. “When I do something, I give it one-hundred percent. I’ll be giving both jobs that and more.”
“You do realize there’s no logic to that math, right?”
Kate rolled her lake-blue eyes. “You get what I mean.” She pushed to her feet and collected her breakfast plate, along with Marla’s now that Deacon had eaten all of her bacon and nothing remained on the empty ceramic. “If my short-term memory serves me correctly, I’m the one who was here and ready to go at 6:30. Over an hour and a half before you decided to waltz in.”
“I overslept.”
With an empathetic look that only a mother could perfect, Marla glanced up at her son. She took his large hand into hers and rested it on her shoulder. “You still having trouble sleeping? The doctor said he could prescribe you something for that.”
Deacon cut his mother a fast look. “I’m fine.”
Like she was suddenly privy to something she shouldn’t be, Kate fumbled with the plates in her hands and then scooted into the kitchen, quick to duck out of the mother-son exchange.
“You can leave those at the sink, Kate. I’ll take care of them,” Marla instructed. She still had her hand on her son’s and gave it a pat. “Deacon, there are people you can talk to. Professionals. Working through everything might help you sleep at night. I think it’s about time to put it all in the past once and for all. Don’t you?”
“I’ve worked through everything I need to work through.” He pulled his hand free. “Now I need to get to real work.”
“You know I only push it because I love you.”
He fell silent a beat before he shed a small smile and said, “I know. I love you, too.”
“Think about it. Please. You can’t keep things bottled up inside you forever, son.”
Christmas at Yuletide Farm: A Small-Town Christmas Romance Novel Page 3
