The Knight Before Christmas
A Mountain Man Holiday Short Story
Sierra Hill
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Sierra Hill
Copyright 2020 by Sierra Hill
Ten28 Publishing LLC
A Flirt Club Novella
Cover Designer: Poppy Parkes
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Created with Vellum
Chapter 1
Ivy
My high-pitched and woefully off-key rendition of We Wish You a Merry Christmas is interrupted when the red check engine light on the dash of my old Jeep Wrangler flashes its warning sign.
And then stalls abruptly, leaving me to stare blurry eyed at the icon that flashes an angry blinking red. Not the holiday red I enjoy watching flicker and flare on my Christmas tree, but the kind that blurts out, “Oh shit. You’re hosed.”
“Great. Just great,” I grumble a curse to myself, hitting the steering wheel with my open palms. “Why does the universe hate me?”
After having driven sixteen hours from Chicago, the city I once called home, two hours of which were treacherous, white-knuckled driving around switchback slopes of this mountain, I don’t have the energy or wherewithal to handle this level of emergency right now.
I’d hoped to be tucked safely in my new mountain home tonight that I’d recently taken ownership of on Knight’s Mountain and enjoy the holiday week ahead licking my wounds and mending my broken heart while I snuggled by the blazing fireplace. The point of coming here was to decompress from the life-changing and chaotic past three months of my life.
An out-of-the blue divorce forced upon me by my husband of three years was not something I expected to deal with leading into the holiday season. Nor had I thought I’d be alone for the first time ever over Christmas.
But alas, here I am, alone on Christmas Eve, and now have to figure out how to make it to my destination before the storm grows any bigger.
Pushing all of the other worry aside for the moment to focus on the new crisis at hand, I check my navigation and GPS to see if I’m anywhere close to the town of Knight’s Falls.
My map pings with my location and I see there’s a diner or café coming up just a mile ahead. Good ol’ Google maps. At least something in my life is trustworthy and reliable.
Coaxing my Jeep back to life, I give her a little boost of encouragement. Or maybe the words are really meant for myself.
“Come on girl. You can do this. You’ve come so far not to make it now.”
Snow begins to fall as I round the final bend and see the old, tattered sign of the ‘Round the Bend Café, and nearly burst into song again, this time with a dopey version of She’ll Be Coming ‘Round the Mountain. My spirits lift marginally as I pull into the snow dusted lot, sprinkled with two cars and a tow truck.
“Well that must be a good sign,” I mutter, turning off the engine with a sigh and a boost of confidence that maybe everything will turn out okay in the end.
I glance at the time on my phone which reads nine-fifteen p.m. and then notice the Open sign is still illuminated in the window, a friendly welcome in its neon-lit lights.
“Thank you, Baby Jesus.”
Grabbing my purse off the seat and the white down puffy coat Hayden gifted me the previous Christmas, citing that I was always cold (okay, that’s thoughtful enough), and then ruining the gift when he claimed he hated having to warm up my frigid body (not so thoughtful), I trudge through the snow packed lot toward the café door, pushing thoughts of Hayden out of my mind for more pressing matters.
Stepping inside is like being transported in time to an old classic holiday movie. The one’s my mom would always have me watch with her, like It’s a Wonderful Life or White Christmas. It fills me with nostalgia and an ache for home.
The bell above the door clangs loudly, and the sweetest hello comes from behind the counter from a woman who has a tight blonde updo, a cheery smile and a red Mrs. Claus apron covering her hefty bosom. I breathe in a sigh of relief and get a whiff of the delicious fragrance of apple, cinnamon, and spice.
“Merry Christmas, honey. You’re just in time for the last piece of bourbon pecan pie.” She waves a saran-wrapped plate in the air toward me.
I stomp off the snow from my boots over the mat and walk toward the counter, peering around the room to catch a glimpse of a few remaining customers in booths and one extra-large, bearded man at the far end of the counter, his face and eyes cast downward underneath a bright orange knit cap.
Whoa. Don’t get on his bad side.
I return my attention to Mary, as the tag on her apron says, and shake my head politely to decline the offer.
“Merry Christmas to you, too. But no thank you, I don’t want any pie…I…”
She waves me off as if it’s the most foolish thing she ever heard. “Nonsense, sweetheart. You look like you could use a good, home cooked meal and a slice of my heaven-sent pie. Now grab a seat and I’ll get you something. Coffee, too?”
I lean over the counter, trying to grab her sleeve before she runs off. “Wait, no, really. I’m actually in need of a tow truck. My car—” I flip my thumb over my shoulder—“The engine light came on and I don’t think I’ll make it to my place tonight in this weather without some assistance.”
You’d think I just informed Mary she got everything she wanted for Christmas with the look of pure joy that transforms her already perky face. Mary claps her hands together and steeples them together underneath her chin, staring at me expectantly, like I should know what she’s so happy about. My forehead wrinkles in wary confusion.
“Well, you poor dear. That must’ve been terribly frightening outside on this blustery night coming up this mountain pass. But luck is on your side, honey, because Knight’s Falls one and only towing service just so happens to be right here at your service.”
With a swivel of her hips and the sweep of her arm, my eyes follow in the direction of her hand as they land on the scowling, mountain man at the end of the counter, hunched over his plate of food like it’s his last meal. The man doesn’t bother to look up from his plate until Mary slaps a loud palm against the countertop.
“Ahem, Anderson. Did you hear me? This young pretty lady is in need of a tow.”
The man – Anderson, I presume – lifts his hooded gaze, scans me for a second and then drops his chin down again, cutting off any direct eye connection. With one loud grunt, he claims, “Sorry. It’s a holiday and I’m closed for the night.”
Too stunned to say anything, I stare silently aghast at his attitude and poor customer service skills. Luckily for me, I seem to have Mary’s charitable demeanor on my side for some unfathomable reason, who stomps over to the end of the counter and pokes the big bear in the shoulde
r.
“Anders, I just so happen to know that your towing service is, and always has been, a 24x7 service. You are most certainly not closed! And you will help this young lady with her vehicle.”
Mary stands back and crosses her arms, as Anders cocks his eyebrow high, eying me with disgust and then grimaces.
With a reluctance of a moody child who was just scolded for his behavior, he rolls his eyes with a scoff. Then his head snaps to me and he stares me down with a menacing scowl.
“Fine,” he grumbles, his voice deep and thunderous. “But it’s gonna cost you double because it’s Christmas Eve and you’ve interrupted my dinner.”
Poor Mary turns to me with an apologetic shrug of her shoulder and pinches her lips together.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Anderson’s our town grouch. But I’ll throw in the pie for you on the house.”
Chapter 2
Anders
Jesus Christ, this woman smells like a fucking warm tropical breeze. And her scent permeates the cab of my truck in every lungful of air I suck in and breathe out.
I can’t stand it. I guess I’ll have to keep my mouth closed and hold my breath through the remainder of this ride.
As we left the café, my mother shot me a look that told me everything she was thinking with one hard glare.
Be nice to her. It’s Christmas. She’s all alone and is sweet and pretty.
I could argue the first thing because I’m not nice to anyone anymore. But the other facts couldn’t be disputed. Yes, it’s Christmas Eve, a night I despise and generally do my best to avoid as few human interactions as possible. My mother being the only one I can deal with these days. And even so, tonight she grated on my last nerve, with her less-than-obvious match-making attempt.
And the undeniable truth is that this girl is extremely pretty and too goddamn sweet for my taste. Like a candy cane dangling from the crook of Santa’s finger, begging to be plucked off and devoured.
My thoughts are interrupted by Candy Cane’s voice. Also sweet, which gives me visions of eating out her sugar plum for dessert.
Fuck, this is what happens when you haven’t been with a woman in over three years.
“Thank you so much, Mr…” She swivels and gives me a look of confusion. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we were properly introduced. Is it Mr. Anderson?”
I ignore the hand she offers between us, and the warm, welcoming smile, wanting to avoid any unnecessary contact or conversation, and grunt my response.
“Just call me Anders.”
I return my eyes to the road, gripping the steering wheel tighter in my grasp to keep my focus on the curves of the mountain and not on the curves of her breasts which are visible under the down of her coat.
And do my best to ignore the bouncy strawberry red hair cascading over her shoulders from underneath her knit cap. From the corner of my eye I see her shove her dainty hand back into her mitten, and then both land on her lap, her thumbs twiddling nervously together.
Good, I make her nervous. Then she’ll leave me alone.
“I’m Ivy. Ivy Foxx, by the way. And thank you, Anders, for saving me tonight. I drove from Chicago and didn’t expect my night to end like this.”
She turns to stare out the passenger window and mumbles something that sounds like, “Or my marriage.”
Ignore it. Ignore her, I reprimand myself.
I won’t allow her to break the vows I made to myself to never care for anyone - or any woman - ever again. Or let her sweet sadness rip down the mask of the heartless man I’ve worn for three years ever since Shawna left me with a hole in my heart.
I remain silent, the swishing noise of the wiper blades across the windshield the only sound inside besides our breaths that blow out around us in frosty vapors.
Before we left the café, I mounted her Jeep to my towing rig and she’d given me the address to the place where I was to drop her off, with the agreement I’d have her car fixed and returned after the holiday.
I have to admit to the surprise she gave me when she told me where she was staying, considering the mountain home she mentioned has remained empty and untouched for the past three years. It belonged to some out-of-town wealthy family who had a son around my age.
I remember when we were kids, when they would visit over the holidays, we’d sled down the hills or ski together, forging somewhat of a friendship, even though he was a brat and once even tried to bury my head in the snow when I beat him skiing down Knight’s Mountain.
Although for the life of me, I can’t remember his name…
“This will be my first visit here. The home belonged to my husband, Hayden, and his family. One of the only good things I got out of my divorce.”
Ah, that was it. Hayden. What was this sweet woman doing with a douche like that guy? I mean, I guess he could’ve changed since I last saw him over fifteen years ago, but doubtful. A Zebra never loses its stripes.
Ivy continues the incessant chatter, maybe more to herself than to me, but I let her ramble. Her voice is like a warm cinnamon roll on Christmas morning. Sweet and fragrant, with a hint of spice.
“I don’t even know what I saw in Hayden now,” she murmurs, her head hanging low out of shame or disappointment. “I never belonged in his world. It was so cliché. I was his administrative assistant and he was my boss. I fell head over heels and when he proposed, I was so madly in love with him, I didn’t see all the warning signs. He turned out to be just like his father.”
Ah, I remember his father, too.
A conceited, arrogant prick, if I recall. When my father, Langston Knight, a general contractor, did some work on his home when I was about twelve, my dad brought me along a few times to learn the trade. I recall the man made passive-aggressive comments to my dad the entire time, alluding to the intelligence (or lack thereof) of laborers and blue-collar workers. I didn’t understand it at the time because my dad was one of the smartest and most talented men I’d ever known.
But later I realized, after meeting a lot more out-of-towners, that Hayden’s father was a privileged, upper-class asshole who thought he was far superior to anyone who didn’t have a degree from an Ivy League school.
Ivy sighs a dejected noise. I suppose most men in this situation who are far more empathetic than me would say something to comfort her. To placate her with all the right phrases, telling her that “It wasn’t your fault” and “You weren’t to blame for his behavior.” Or even the, “You deserve so much better than him.”
But I don’t. I remain unapologetically silent.
This doesn’t seem to deter Ivy from sharing more, however.
“Oh well,” she flaps her mittened-hand toward the mountain side, barely visible in the blinding snow and icy darkness . “I guess it’s true what they say. Some lessons are meant to be learned the hard way. And I’ll come out stronger for it. Even though it hurts as much as it would if I hit my head against the side of this mountain.”
She snorts out a chuckle and I almost – almost – want to say something in kind. Tell her that she has a kindred spirit in me and my grief is just about as miserable. But I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from saying anything.
“I suppose I could have traveled a bit farther and gone out to visit my sister in California, but we aren’t really close. She never liked Hayden, anyway, and didn’t even attend our wedding. I guess I understand why now. And I don’t feel much like hearing “I told you so,” right now, ya know what I mean?”
I give her sidelong glance and sniff. That’s the best I can do.
“I just couldn’t stay in Chicago, either. There’s nothing there for me now, anyway. The only thing I have is this house.”
Just as she says this, I turn down the narrow, gravel drive, surrounded on both sides by white, snow-covered pine trees, so thick you can’t see between them. Ivy gasps when we near the property, which opens up to a stunning, sprawling log-cabin exterior estate that must be roughly nine-thousand square feet.
My lights
flash on a trio of deer sitting off to the right of the house and they stare at us as though we’re the interlopers interrupting their evening meal.
“Whoa, this place is massive!” She remarks, covering her gaping mouth with her hand, her gaze zeroing in on the dark house and then whipping to me in shock and surprise. “I don’t know why Hayden even offered to give this place to me, since we never used it, but now I’m glad he did.”
Folding herself over to pick up her bag by her feet, she sets it on her lap and begins riffling through it in search of something. I hear the jingle of the key set before she pulls them out and dangles it between us.
“Well, I guess this is it. Thank you so much for assisting me tonight and I apologize again for interrupting your Christmas dinner. Just call me when my car is fixed and ready to be picked up and let me know how much it’ll cost. I’m sure I can get an Uber or cab to get around until then.”
I can’t help but snort at her assumption. Does she really think those services exist on Knight’s Mountain?
Without waiting for an answer, which she’s probably learned she won’t get from me, anyway, she gathers her things and opens the door, the blast of cold snowy air taking her by surprise. She rears backwards, bumping my shoulder, barely hard enough to wound a bunny, but the shock it gives me could likely spark a forest fire even in the coldest of climates.
“Whoa,” I blurt, shifting to awkwardly cradle her in my hands. Her slight frame, even underneath the puffy down jacket, is warm and enticing and touching her is the best thing I’ve felt in years. I quickly set her back upright as she laughs nervously.
“Sorry about that. You’d think I’d be used to cold winds being that I’m from Chicago, but that was arctic-level cold. I hope the property management company turned on the heat like I requested.” She shivers dramatically and it’s almost enough to make me crack a smile. But not quite.
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