Christmas at Yuletide Farm: A Small-Town Christmas Romance Novel

by Megan Squires

  “No worries.” He took the bread from his lap and placed it onto his appetizer plate.

  “You ready for question number three?”

  “Am I going to need a catcher’s glove for this reaction, too?”

  “I promise I won’t throw any more food at you.” Kate made a little X under her collarbone with her pointer finger. “Cross my heart.”

  “Go for it.”

  She beamed. “Can this interview take place tomorrow when we’re out delivering trees? I really want to get that on camera. I think the whole process will fascinate viewers. It’s exactly the sort of thing to usher in the holiday season and get people excited about coming out to your farm to take a look at your trees.”

  “Another one-worder?”

  “If I get an answer to this, then I can start planning how I’m going to tackle this whole assignment. I like to know what I’m getting myself into.”

  “And I’m a little worried about what I might be getting myself into.”

  Kate fluttered a dismissive hand. “I promise I won’t ask you anything that will embarrass you or make your grandmother blush.”

  “Well, I wasn’t concerned about that before, but now I am.”

  When Tommy finally returned with their dinner entrées, Kate and Deacon had fallen into a cadence of easy conversation. Deacon found himself almost disappointed by the interruption of food. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d shared a meal with a woman like Kate. Or any woman, for that matter. Of course, this wasn’t a date, but had it been, he would’ve found himself itching for a second one.

  That thought made him nearly flinch.

  “You okay?” Somehow, even from across the table, Kate noticed his small, jerky movement.

  “Just bit my tongue,” he lied. “You like the short ribs?”

  “They are everything I hoped and dreamed they would be,” she said with a smack of her lips.

  Deacon didn’t sense she was being facetious. Kate had big emotions. This was made very clear in the two short days he’d known her and while it originally frustrated him, he’d come to anticipate these big, exaggerated displays. Hope for them, even.

  “How’s your prime rib?”

  “I do believe you’ve used up all of your questions for the night.” He pointed the tines of his fork at her and made a tsk-ing sound.

  “Oh, you’re right.” She played right along. “And I was going to ask you if maybe we could come back here again while I’m in town. I guess I’ll have to find someone else to take me.”

  “I’ll bring you back here.” Deacon said it so quickly it made Kate’s eyes round. That came across more forward than he had intended.

  “I can write it off as a business expense,” Kate suggested. “Put it on the company card and everything.”

  “That’s not the way I work. I’ll be paying.”

  “Seriously, Deacon, the station will pay for it.”

  Deacon tossed his napkin to his lap. “You’re a woman. I’m a man. We’re sharing a meal together and I intend on paying for it. Insist, even.”

  He swore he saw the faintest shade of pink paint Kate’s cheeks and he hoped it was out of flattery and not embarrassment. She quickly squelched any worry he had over misspeaking when she said, “I can’t remember the last time a man paid for my meal. Thank you, Deacon. I really do appreciate it. That’s very generous of you.”

  “It won’t be the last time,” he said, hoping he wasn’t being too forward again when he added, “No freezer meals for Kate Carmichael on my watch.”

  The sparkle in her eye and the growing upturn of her mouth was the only answer he needed.

  Kate

  “Knock, knock.”

  An insistent rapping against the barn loft door had Kate leaping out from under the cozy confines of her covers. She’d slept hard. The full meal likely had a little something to do with that. The fact that she hadn’t been able to turn her brain off until after midnight probably contributed even more. Conversations replayed in her head like a looped musical track. It had been such a nice evening, one of the most enjoyable she’d had in recent days, and she didn’t want the night to end, even in her thoughts.

  “It’s just me, dear,” a woman’s voice echoed when Kate had yet to respond. “Marla.”

  With a quick tug of a sweatshirt over her head, Kate padded the few steps to the door and opened it wide. “Morning, Marla. I hope Deacon relayed the memo that I wouldn’t be joining you all for breakfast. I knew I’d still be full from last night’s meal.” She rubbed her satisfied belly.

  “No worries, sweetie. We did a grab-and-go sort of thing this morning, anyway. But I thought you could hang onto this for a snack for later.” She lobbed an orange at Kate like it was a softball and even though Kate admittedly lacked athletic dexterity, she managed to catch it one-handed. “And this came for you yesterday. Wanted to make sure you got it.”

  In Marla’s other hand was a wrapped, brown paper package with a shipping label bearing Kate’s name. “Not to be nosey or anything, but it’s from someone named Toby. Boyfriend?”

  That particular word made Kate balk. “Boyfriend? Goodness, no. Toby’s my cameraman.”

  Something about that answer seemed to please the woman. “Understood. Anyway, the boys are just about done loading up the trees for today’s deliveries. Deacon said you’d be busy with him all day, but I was hoping I could put in a request to reserve you for tomorrow. I need to make a dozen more wreaths before we open up our little farmstand shop and I could sure use another set of hands.”

  “I would love that,” Kate started to say. “But I do have to warn you—”

  “Already been warned.” Marla lifted a hand like a pause button on Kate’s confession. “Deacon mentioned pruning isn’t really your thing. That’s not a problem at all. I’ll have all the sprigs cut and ready for assembly. You’ll just have to attach them and add an embellishment here or there. Can’t botch it. Completely foolproof.”

  Kate was a little surprised to learn Deacon had been talking about her—to his mother of all people. “Then I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Same, sweetie.” Marla stepped over the threshold and squeezed Kate’s shoulders, tugging her close for a brief hug before releasing her. Then she gave her a playful swat on her arm. “Now go on and get ready so you can finally get that interview of yours.”

  “Deacon told you he agreed to give me one?”

  “He did. You know, Kate—Deacon is an obstinate man, there’s no denying that. But he’s not an unreasonable one. I think once he realized you were harmless, he saw no sense in digging in his heels just for stubbornness’s sake,” Marla explained, shedding some light on her son. “Like most men, he also does better when things are his idea.” She gave Kate a wink. “Or at least when he thinks things are his idea.”

  “Appreciate the insight,” Kate said. “And thank you for bringing this up for me.” She shook the small package in her hands. “Even as an adult, it’s always fun to get mail.”

  After Marla left, Kate readied for the day quickly. She decided on her favorite plaid flannel tucked neatly into dark denim jeans, topped off with a flashy studded belt she’d purchased the summer before at a cute, little western store in Old Sacramento. It took her almost twice as long to wedge her feet into her stiff cowgirl boots as it did to completely dress for the day. She wasn’t sure she’d ever break those dang things in.

  She had saved the package until now, loving the anticipation of a waiting gift and wishing to hang onto that sensation just a bit longer. Years back, Kate took a short online quiz to discover her love language. It came as no surprise that gift giving—and in turn, receiving—was right at the top. She relished the glow of appreciation on a loved one’s face when opening a present selected just for them. Toby knew that, and her heart swelled at the fact that he’d remembered her in this way.

  She tore into the package with gusto, only stopping to read the little note resting atop a pile of foam packing peanuts.

&nb
sp; Figured this might help you out a little. You’ve got this, Kate! Go get ‘em!

  Smiling, she set the notecard aside and thrust her fingers into the package to root around for the gift.

  “A selfie stick?” she pondered aloud once her hands landed on the object and pulled it free. She couldn’t hold back a chuckle. Never in her life did she think she’d own one of these silly contraptions. She couldn’t say it wouldn’t be helpful, though. Snagging her cell phone from the nightstand, Kate clipped it to the device, extended the rod, and tested it out, fixing on her widest grin and giving an enthusiastic thumbs-up to the camera. Retracting the long arm, she fired off the picture in a text to her long-time friend.

  Just what I needed! Thank you for thinking of me, Toby! It’s perfect.

  Within seconds, her cameraman’s reply of a smiley face emoji popped onto her phone screen, making Kate beam.

  She gathered her tote bag, threw the stick inside, and locked up the loft. Bella and Sarge nickered as she descended the squeaky barn stairs. They lifted their heads to snort a morning greeting with bits of hay poking out from their large muzzles. As Kate shuffled by, she struggled to keep from wincing. If her feet were already giving her this much grief only five minutes into her morning, she couldn’t fathom the shape they’d be in come evening time.

  “Hey there, horses,” she acknowledged each animal with a grin and a pat on the cheek. “Enjoying your breakfast?”

  Practically tiptoeing, Kate continued up the barn aisle. The low hum of Deacon’s truck motor—followed by the squealing of the unoiled trailer lagging behind as it hauled a thick cluster of rental Christmas trees—was a welcome, appreciated sound. The only prescription for Kate’s current discomfort was to get off her feet as quickly as possible.

  Deacon left the vehicle idling and jogged up. “Good morning, Kate.”

  “Morning, Deacon.”

  “I see you dropped the ‘good’ part.” His gaze landed on her feet, almost as though he could read her mind—or more accurately, her pain. “Boots still bothering you?”

  “Oh, you know. Only ninety-five more hours and I’ll be just fine.”

  He thumbed his chin right in the middle where Kate noticed a small divot that she hadn’t detected before. “You probably wear…what? A seven?”

  “Wow. That’s impressive. You have some women’s footwear fetish I should know about?”

  Deacon rolled his eyes. “Hang tight. I think I might have a solution.” With that, he disappeared into a room off the side of the barn that had a wooden sign with the word Tack nailed above it. She could hear him rustling around for a moment, and when he finally returned, he had a beautifully broken in pair of boots in his hand and a hopeful grin on his face. “Think these will work?”

  “Give me those!” Kate made grabby hands. She tugged the boots free and plopped to the ground right where she stood to swap out the torture devices currently on her feet.

  “You’re not weirded out by wearing someone else’s shoes?”

  “You obviously didn’t see the On the Job episode where I disinfected shoes at the local bowling alley. Not much grosses me out, Deacon.”

  “You’re certainly full of surprises,” he said, almost in passing. He clamped his hands together. “Ready to get started?”

  “With the interview?” Kate’s level of enthusiasm matched a child asked if they wanted a bowl of candy for breakfast.

  “Well, I meant with our day, but I suppose that does involve an interview,” Deacon acknowledged. “A promise is a promise.”

  “And I promise this won’t be as painful as you think it will be.” She reached into her tote bag and pulled out Toby’s gift, excited to give it a whirl.

  Deacon recoiled. “What in the world is that?”

  “This?” She extended the arm of the device to full length which made Deacon withdraw even further. He was practically sandwiched against the barn wall, looking for escape. “It’s a selfie stick.”

  “A whaty-what?”

  “Oh, come on Deacon. You’ve heard of a selfie stick before.”

  “I haven’t.”

  Kate gaped. “For real?”

  “Yes, for real.”

  “It’s a stick used for selfies.”

  Deacon shook his head. “What’s a selfie?”

  “Oh my word, Deacon, are you living under a Christmas tree? You’ve never heard of a selfie?”

  His face remained devoid of any hint of comprehension.

  “It’s when you take a picture of yourself with your phone.”

  “Why would you take a picture of yourself with your phone?”

  “I don’t know. To post on social media. Like if you’re traveling or eating out or at a concert or something. You take a picture of yourself and you post it.”

  “Why would anyone want to look at a picture of someone doing any of those things?”

  “Oh Deacon, I can think of many, many women who wouldn’t object to seeing your face while they scrolled through their social media feeds.” Kate didn’t think it possible, but Deacon’s expression grew even more bewildered. “You do own a mirror, don’t you?”

  “How do the boots fit?” Deacon changed the subject so fast she nearly felt the whiplash of his words. Kate had obviously made him uncomfortable, something she’d assured wouldn’t happen during the interview. Great. She was off to a fantastic start.

  Wriggling her toes, she answered, “The boots are perfect. Almost like they were made for me.”

  Just like her previous comment, this one also appeared to rattle Deacon. He spun around on his heel, made long, ground covering strides toward the truck and Kate made a mental note not to mention the boots again when he said, “Time to get on the road. These trees aren’t going to deliver themselves.”

  Deacon

  Kate’s hand on Deacon’s forearm made him pause, and not just because she was purposefully trying to halt him, which she was. What tripped him up was his reaction to it. A lump lodged squarely in his throat and he had an impossible time swallowing around it. Coughing wouldn’t even clear it. This bizarre response was not unlike the shiver that skittered up his spine the night before; when their fingertips had brushed over the bread basket and he felt like he’d been shocked with a live Christmas light strand.

  Before Deacon could waste any more time analyzing his almost laughable schoolboy reaction to Kate’s touch, she whipped out that silly selfie stick and fixed it onto her phone.

  “I want to get this on camera.” She then ran her free hand over her golden hair to smooth down the flyaways and swiped her tongue over her front teeth. She must’ve picked up on the perplexed look on Deacon’s face because she justified, “I’ve been caught on camera with lipstick on these pearly whites more times than I can count. Super unprofessional, not to mention embarrassing.”

  When she moved close and lifted a hand to adjust Deacon’s skewed shirt collar, he trapped his breath in his lungs like a swimmer preparing for a heat. He knew his breaths trembled with this unanticipated closeness. Kate was an observant woman. She would easily pick up on the shakiness that paired with each inhale and exhale. For that reason, he figured the better option would be to pause breathing altogether.

  “Breathe, Deacon.” Yep, nothing got past Kate Carmichael. “No need to be nervous. If we don’t like this take, we’ll just do another.”

  “Sounds doable enough.” Deacon messed with his wonky collar some more and leaned against the bumper of the trailer, arms threaded over his chest while he tried his best to appear cool. Collected. Two things that didn’t even come close to describing the man at the present moment. “Ready whenever you are.”

  She flicked a finger over his shoulder. “Let’s get one of the trees down and place it in between us. I think that will look nice and festive with the truck and trailer in the background holding the rest.”

  Deacon agreed and once they were situated with the Douglas fir in the center of the shot, Kate pressed her finger on the record button. “Good morning, Sac
ramento!” She smiled into the camera like she was talking to an old friend. “It’s been an exciting couple days up here in the Sierras and as promised, I’m back to give you a little inside look at my current life as a Christmas tree farmer.” She angled toward Deacon, motioning with her hand as an introduction. “I’m here today with Deacon Winters, the man in charge at Yuletide Tree Farm and we’re just about to deliver our first rental tree of the season. If you haven’t heard of living Christmas trees yet, get ready for that to be a new phrase in your holiday vocabulary. Actually, Deacon, would you mind explaining just what that is for our viewers?”

  “I’d be happy to, Kate,” Deacon replied. He coughed softly and nodded, readying to start in, but when he opened his mouth, no words followed.

  “Can you tell us a little about the rental tree program you have for your customers at Yuletide Tree Farm?” Kate prompted.

  Deacon was sure in any other scenario he could—he’d created the program, after all—but at that moment if someone had asked him his name, he wasn’t positive he’d be able to provide them the correct answer. He was entirely mute.

  Kate pulled the phone down. “It’s just you and me, Deacon.”

  “And your twenty-thousand viewers.”

  “But they’re not here right now.” She placed the selfie stick on the trailer’s bumper and collected Deacon’s hands into her own. “We’re just two friends having a conversation.”

  And holding hands, Deacon mused.

  “There are no wrong answers,” she encouraged. “Just speak from your heart.”

  “Since I couldn’t even speak from my mouth, I don’t think my heart will come any more naturally.”

  “Deacon? Deacon Winters?”

  He couldn’t have coordinated a better time for Blanche Cartwright to throw open her cherry red front door and descend down her walkway. Sweat had started to collect in his palms, and with his hands still in Kate’s grip, there’d be no way to disguise that tell-tale sign of growing unease. He needed an out and at that moment, Blanche Cartwright was it.