A Very Grumpy Lumberjack Christmas

2. The Mistletoe Grinch

2

THE MISTLETOE GRINCH

T he axe blade cuts into the peeling white trunk exactly where I aimed it, easily biting into the wood and sending small fragments flying. I tug it free only to swing again, driving the sharp metal above my previous strike to help create the wedge.

Sweat trickles down my temple and back, despite the biting wind and the snow swirling around me, and I tighten my grip as I make the final cut and step back.

Seventy feet above me, the barren top branches sway then list slightly before the massive birch tree tumbles to the right, falling exactly in the direction I aimed it with the perfect notch.

It crashes into the clearing with a thud that shakes the ground beneath my steel-toed boots.

Thank fuck that’s done.

I rest the axe head near my feet and lean against it, using my free hand to mop away the sweat from my forehead before it freezes to my exposed skin.

Against the glistening white, pristine snow, the peeling bark of the dead tree almost disappears as it sinks into the several inches already on the ground.

Breaking it into manageable pieces can wait for another day.

I just needed to get it down.

After weeks of exhausting work keeping the sales lot stocked, today, I finally did what I should have done weeks ago, since it was damaged in the last blizzard.

It could have fallen on its own and landed anywhere, including on the cabin…

You’re lucky it didn’t.

The winds already whipping through the forest around me signal what’s coming in the next few days.

One weatherman called it “the storm of the century”—but the blowhards up here are always saying that.

Every year, they stir everyone up, predicting several feet of snow, and we have yet to experience anything as extreme as the warnings. Still, at least it gets people to prepare ahead of time rather than getting stuck on the roads or in their homes without power, food, water, or heat.

I won’t have that problem.

My holiday plans consist of trudging through the snow to the cabin and locking myself inside until after New Year’s—regardless of what Mother Nature has in store for us.

Because it isn’t this coming snowstorm that has my gut twisting.

There might be a dangerous blizzard bearing down on Mistletoe this Christmas, but Noel Jolly is the only storm that poses a real threat to me.

The mere thought of that woman and the fact that she’s just a few miles up the road makes my body heat further, even as I try to fight the reaction. A combination of anger, scalding-hot memories, and regret that always hits me this time of year, knowing she’s back and so close but so fucking far away.

Stop thinking about her, then.

I snort at the absurdity of that and force myself to scan the rest of the surrounding trees for any other widow-makers I might need to take down before the storm hits.

Feet crunching in the snow draws my attention away from the tree line and toward the narrow path I made from my cabin up to this part of the mountain.

Mom trudges through the already ankle-deep snow straight from the sales lot toward me rather than taking the packed down trail I created when I came up, likely because it’s more direct and requires the least amount of time out in the elements. Bundled up in her parka, mittens and hat in place with her hood up and sealed tight around her wind-burned face, she offers me the look only a mother can.

“Don’t give me that look, Ma.”

She scowls. “You’re out here again in that?”

I glance down at my cutoff shirt and jeans. “What?”

“It’s freezing !” She waves a mittened hand around at the falling snow whipping through the trees. “Literally. And you’re walking around like you’re on summer vacation.”

Snorting, I lift the axe to my shoulder as I wipe away more sweat. “I’m fine, Ma. You know how hot I get when I do this…”

Her thin lips twist down again. “When you catch a cold, don’t come to me to make you soup and take care of you.”

“You haven’t done that since I was a child.”

She points a finger at me, shivering. “Bullshit, son. What about last February?”

I cringe. “Okay. I was really sick, though…”

“Yeah.” She nods, her brows rising. “And who made you chicken soup, brought you medicine, and checked on you every few hours?”

Honestly, I wish she wouldn’t have.

I was fine wallowing in my misery in bed alone, and having her hovering only made me wish it was another woman who likely won’t ever step foot in my cabin again.

“I could have done that all on my own. I’m a thirty-year-old man.”

She snorts and shakes her head. “Don’t act like it sometimes.”

“Did you come out here to argue with me?”

Everyone calls me a grinch, but the spitfire who gave birth to me seems to be the one with the attitude today.

She shakes her head and motions behind her in the general direction of the lot. “Dad needs your help.”

“With what?”

“Some guy drove all the way from Milwaukee to shop in Mistletoe and decided he wants a tree…” A grin plays at her lips. “And he wants that big eighteen-foot fir.”

“Seriously?” I release a groan and drop my head back to stare into the gray sky, letting the icy-cold flakes sting my face. “What kind of car does he drive?”

Mom’s laughter echoes across the snow. “Guess.”

I return my focus to her and raise an eyebrow. “Passat.”

She shakes her head, still chuckling. “Close.”

“You’re not going to tell me?”

“Come on.” She reaches out and grabs the wrist of my free arm, tugging. “It’ll be a surprise.”

The woman knows I loathe surprises—about as much as I do this time of year, with the merry holiday music, string lights, baked goods, and all-around good cheer.

But I won’t say no when she or Dad needs help.

And something tells me a battle with an out-of-towner trying to stick an eighteen-foot fir on a sedan will be one Dad needs backup for—the kind only I can provide.

Mom might be intimidating to some, but a six-five two- twenty-five lumberjack usually does the trick when the five-three petite blond can’t talk or reason her way out of confrontation like the one that is probably brewing on the sales lot.

People get difficult this time of year.

Ironic, really, considering it’s supposed to be “good will to men” and all that bullshit.

And it really is bullshit.

A charade.

An act everyone puts on to appear to be what they are not.

Which is exactly why I don’t do people, especially at Christmas.

Mom knows that all too well, and what she’s asking when she came all the way up here to get me. “Quickly now, we don’t wanna leave the customer waiting.”

It would’ve been so much easier for her to just text me.

But cells don’t work up on Jolly Mountain.

Never have.

Our little speck of Wisconsin is so remote that the mobile companies don’t give a shit what our coverage is like.

And I like it that way.

It’s a lot harder for someone to bother me when they have to climb half the mountain to get to my cabin.

That means peace and fucking quiet—away from the constant noise and fake joy that permeates the air and space around Mistletoe.

Mom keeps peeking over her shoulder, ensuring I’m following and haven’t made a break for my place.

Wouldn’t be the first time I did…

The frosty flakes bite at my exposed arms, chest, and face, but unlike most people who cocoon themselves in the thickest, heaviest down jackets and knitted hats and mittens in this weather, I embrace the chill.

It matches the way my chest has felt for almost a decade.

Cold.

Where once a heart beat, strong and fiery, now nothing remains but a broken shell. And the more time that passes, the harder it becomes to remember what it was ever like to feel true warmth.

A gust of wind swirls around us, and Mom shivers, but I just keep walking through the snow toward the barn and Dad down on the lot. He stands, talking to a man who gestures animatedly toward the massive tree leaning up against the weathered, red-painted boards.

“Bob, dear”—Mom hustles straight over to them—“I found Luke.”

Dad glances over his shoulder and offers a relieved look as the guy in front of him eyes me suspiciously, his gaze darting from my exposed chest to the axe still draped over my shoulder.

The asshole crosses his arms over his thousand-dollar down jacket and motions toward his Audi e-tron GT. “Are you going to help get that onto my car?”

Despite my annoyance at having to come down here, I can’t fight the smirk pulling at my lips. “ That tree is not fitting on that car.”

He gapes at me. “What are you talking about?”

“That’s an eighteen-foot fir. It is not going to fit on your sports car and make the trip back to wherever the hell it is you came from.”

His jaw drops even farther before he snaps it shut and grinds his teeth. A muscle there tics the longer he glares at me. “That’s how you talk to a customer?”

I set my axe down and lean on it casually. “That’s the reason I don’t do customers.”

Except when absolutely necessary.

Of course, the day will come—likely sooner rather than later—when Mom and Dad can’t run this place without my presence on the lot instead of tending to the trees and harvesting them. But I don’t like to think about that time. I just pray it doesn’t come before I’ve come up with a way to prepare myself mentally.

Then again, it’s been eight years since the night everything changed, and I haven’t figured it out yet.

The customer walks over to the tree and reaches in with his gloved hand to grasp the trunk and try to pull it from where it leans against the barn. “It isn’t that big. I’ve seen these on cars like mine.” He barely manages to move it a few inches before releasing it back to its original position. Coughing to try to cover his huffing at the wasted effort, he brushes off his glove with the other. “It will be fine.”

In what universe, pal?

Dad gives me an incredulous look.

I offer a shrug. “If that’s really what you want. But you’re going to sign a waiver that releases us from any and all liability for any damage caused to your vehicle or for any potential accidents you may cause driving with that strapped on top.”

He plants his hands on his hips, taking a defiant stance, even though he’s half my size, even with his puffer jacket. “Like hell , I will.”

Lifting the axe, I use the head to point at the tree. “Then I’m not putting that tree”—I swing the weapon in the other direction toward the parking area—“on that car.”

The pompous jerk glances back where his blond trophy wife sits in the front seat, and a little girl presses her face against the back window, watching everything with wide eyes. “You’re going to disappoint my daughter.”

I lower the axe and shake my head. “I’m not doing anything but trying to make sure she stays safe in that vehicle, sir. You are being an asshole.”

Mom smacks my arm. “Luke, you can’t talk to customers like that.”

“I don’t think he’s a customer anymore, Ma.”

And with his attitude, there is no doubt in my mind that even if I had managed to secure that tree to his vehicle, he would have driven like a complete asshole and done something to endanger his family just to prove a point.

The guy fumes and storms back to his car, jerking his door open, slamming it, and then trying to tear out of the parking lot. His tires won’t catch on the snow, and he slips and slides, almost slamming into one of the wooden fences.

He manages to right himself and eventually turns out onto the highway without killing anyone—but he still has a long drive back home.

I watch the car disappear into the edge of the forest and shake my head. “What a fucking d-bag…”

“Luke!” Mom glares at me. “Language!”

Dad gives me a reproachful look, too. “You didn’t have to be that harsh.”

I raise a brow at the old man. “Then you shouldn’t have called me down here.”

He presses his lips together, then immediately releases a cough and covers his mouth as he hacks.

“You okay?”

Raising a hand, he waves off my concern. “Just a little cough that started this morning.”

It doesn’t sound like nothing.

The older he gets, the more I worry about him—and Mom. And after seeing how quickly someone can be snatched away—here one instant and gone the next, the way Noel’s father was—I’m not about to let him brush it off.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be out here, Dad. With the storm coming, it’s been slow today.” I scan the empty lot and quiet road. “Why don’t we just close? ”

“Two days before Christmas?” Mom walks over to him and rubs his back as he continues to try to clear his throat. “You know, we can’t do that, Luke. There might not be anyone here now, but at any minute, we could have ten cars show up.”

She isn’t wrong about that.

And they can’t afford to miss any sales.

I can’t believe I’m going to say this.

I squeeze my eyes closed, suck in a long, cool breath and release it. “I’ll stay down here the rest of the day so you can take Dad home.”

Not that it’s far.

I can see their house twenty yards away, past the barn near the tree line.

Dad’s eyes widen. “If you talk to customers like that, you being here won’t be a benefit. Might as well just leave the place closed—”

He starts coughing again, and Mom pats his back.

“I’ll get him set, and I’ll come back and help you.”

What she really means is babysit me and ensure I’m playing nice with anyone who might stop by.

Annoyed, I watch her lead Dad up the shoveled path to their house—cleared off because they actually want visitors.

I prefer to keep mine as uninviting as possible.

When people see the unmarked trek through the woods to my cabin, it might as well be a sign that reads, “Go Away!”

And that’s the way I like it.

They disappear inside, and I release an annoyed groan and start to head into the office when a small blue sedan appears on the road at the edge of the forest, heading our way.

I don’t recognize it, and I know everyone in town.

Which means it’s likely a customer.

There isn’t any other reason for anyone to be on Jolly Lane, since it only leads here and to Noel’s house.

The car slows slightly, almost like it’s going to turn in, but then it jerks wildly and spins out, sliding into the ditch before I can even react.

“Shit.”

Tourists who have no fucking clue how to drive in this weather.

Lifting my axe in case I need it to extricate someone from inside, I break into a run across the snow-covered parking lot and down the gravel drive. With nothing more than a cursory glance in either direction, I cross the road and scramble down the ditch.

The car faces me, pointed slightly up toward the pavement, engine still running. Headlines stream right into my eyes, and I raise my free hand to block the blinding light and try to see the driver.

A blond head is dropped low, face pressed into the steering wheel. She doesn’t move, the eerie stillness inside the car instantly stirring concern.

“Oh, hell…”