Chapter Four

Wyatt

I headed into the barn for the blanket, my heart still thumping from the moment Cassie agreed to the tour. The old wood floor creaked beneath my boots, and the scent of hay, tools, and pine resin wrapped around me like a familiar comfort. Outside, the twilight sky had deepened, the last pink and gold strands fading behind distant treetops. In that soft hush of evening, her voice had sounded different—less guarded, more open. I told myself not to read too much into it. She was here for a story, not for me. Still, the way she’d looked at me when I offered the tour…well, it stirred something I guess I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Grabbing a thick wool blanket from a hook on the wall, I stepped back outside. Cassie waited near the tractor; arms wrapped around herself to keep out the cold. The fairy lights strung around the barn cast a gentle glow, catching the shine of her dark hair and the subtle curve of her jawline. She looked both curious and a touch uncertain, as if unsure what this little expedition would bring.

“Here,” I said, unfolding the blanket and handing it to her. “It’ll be chilly once we get moving.”

“Thanks.” Her tone was quiet, and when she took the blanket, our fingers brushed. A small spark traveled up my arm, unexpected yet welcome.

I climbed onto the tractor’s old metal seat, gesturing for her to settle on the small flatbed trailer attached behind. There was a makeshift wooden bench there, nothing fancy, but enough room for her to sit comfortably. She arranged the blanket over her lap and gave me a nod. With a pull of the choke and a turn of the key, the tractor’s engine sputtered to life, a steady rumble that cut through the silence of the evening.

I steered us away from the barn, following a narrow path that wound between rows of evergreens. The headlights cast twin beams over the field, illuminating neat lines of trees in various stages of growth. The air smelled of fresh pine and damp earth, and I inhaled deeply, finding it crisp and invigorating. Behind me, I could hear the soft rustle of the blanket as Cassie adjusted in her seat.

“Those are the younger trees on the left,” I called over my shoulder, voice raised slightly so she could hear above the engine. “We plant new seedlings every year. It takes a while before they’re ready for someone’s living room.”

She leaned forward, her voice warm despite the cold. “They’re so small. I never realized you’d have different generations of trees all growing at once.”

I smiled to myself. “It’s a cycle. We don’t just harvest trees; we cultivate them. Some take five, six, or seven years to reach the perfect shape. We prune and shape them as they grow. It’s a patient kind of work.”

I slowed the tractor as we reached a crest in the land. Before us spread a gentle slope covered in taller trees, their branches full and lush. I killed the headlights and let the moonlight take over. Stars shimmered overhead, the sky a deep, inky blue.

“This is where we grow the premium firs,” I said quietly. “We guide their growth year after year, trimming a little here and there, removing dead branches, ensuring they fill out evenly. People think a perfect Christmas tree just happens, but it’s a lot of careful work.”

She took it in, silent for a moment. “I always thought tree farms just waited for them to grow naturally. I had no idea you shaped them by hand.” Her words were soft, almost reverent.

“Everything worthwhile takes care,” I replied. “Same with this place, this tradition. The Wishing Tree, for instance, it’s part of that same care. It’s never for sale, never harvested. It stands apart, a kind of symbol of what the Lawson family is about I suppose.”

At the mention of the Wishing Tree, Cassie went quiet again, and I wondered if she was remembering how she’d tied her own wish among its branches earlier. I resisted the urge to ask what she’d wished for. Some things needed to remain private. Instead, I turned the tractor onto a smaller path that dipped into a hollow behind the main field.

“Hold on,” I called. The ground was uneven here. She gripped the wooden bench, and the trailer rattled a bit as we descended into a pocket of trees taller than me, their silhouettes black against the starry sky.

When the path leveled out, I stopped the tractor and hopped down. “Let’s stretch our legs,” I suggested, offering my hand to help her down. She took it, trusting me for that brief moment. The ground was firmer than I expected, and patches of snow and ice glittered faintly. As she stepped off the trailer, one foot slipped on a patch of ice, and she let out a surprised gasp.

Without hesitation, I caught her, circling an arm around her waist. She grabbed at my shoulders, and our bodies pressed close together. Her eyes widened and her breath came quick. I felt her heartbeat as if it were my own. The tension that had always crackled between us softened into an undercurrent of heat. She smelled like vanilla and something uniquely her.

“Careful,” I said softly, not yet letting go. “This ground can be tricky.”

“Thanks,” she whispered. Our eyes met, and under the silent stars, something unspoken passed between us. The reporter and the farmer, the skeptic and the traditionalist, standing chest to chest in a winter field.

I eased my grip, letting her find her balance. Reluctantly, I stepped back, the cold air rushing in where our bodies had touched. “I wanted you to see this place,” I said, gesturing at the rows of trees around us. “My great-grandfather planted the Wishing Tree decades ago, with my grandfather at his side when he was about six years old, as the story goes. My great-grandparents came here after immigrating from overseas and built a life from the soil up. My granddad always said planting the tree was his father’s way of thanking the land, of planting a wish that his descendants would thrive in this new country. That’s how the tradition got started.”

She listened, her features soft in the moonlight. There was no judgment or mockery in her eyes, just quiet interest. “I can see why it’s so important,” she said. “It’s not just a legend, it’s part of your family’s history.”

“Exactly,” I agreed. “I’ve never fully believed in the magic people talk about, but I respect what the tree means. My grandfather said every ribbon tied to it was a piece of someone’s heart. I guess that stuck with me. It’s the reason I protect it so fiercely.”

She took a step closer, not enough to touch, but enough to share the space intimately. “I never had anything like that,” she said softly, gazing around at the evergreens as if seeing them for the first time. “My parents divorced when I was nine, and they were always busy…careers, meetings, conferences. I was shuffled back and forth between them and their various new spouses. We had Christmas at both houses, sure, but it was always more about a beautiful tree in the living room and fancy parties than anything meaningful. No traditions, no heartfelt stories. Just…surface-level stuff.”

My chest ached at the wistfulness in her voice. “That must’ve been hard.”

She shrugged, blinking away what I sensed might be old hurt. “At the time, I told myself I didn’t need any of it. I was focused on school, and later on, it was all about my career. But being here, seeing this place, I can’t help but wonder what it would’ve been like to have something more. Something real. A family.”

I reached out and gently brushed a stray hair from her forehead, a small, instinctive gesture of comfort. She stiffened slightly, surprised, but didn’t pull away. “There’s a lot of heart in Springfield,” I said. “But I know it’s not for everyone. Some people find this life too quiet, too simple. I’ve watched more than one woman shake her head, say I’m too set in my ways, and leave for greater things. Sometimes I wonder if I’m too stubborn for my own good.”

She smiled ruefully, folding her arms to keep warm. “I’ve thought the same about myself. I’ve worked so hard to climb career ladders that I never let anyone in. Maybe I’m too stubborn, too. Maybe that’s why I’ve never experienced what people here take for granted.”

We shared a rueful smile at our mutual admissions. The honesty between us felt fragile but genuine.

After a while, the cold gnawed at our hands and cheeks. I guided her back to the tractor, and we rode silently through the fields, the engine’s low growl and the whisper of wind our companions. The closeness we’d felt seemed to linger, and I hoped it would continue.

When we returned to the barn, I parked the tractor and turned off the engine. Inside, the brazier still glowed with low embers. I stoked it gently, coaxing small flames back to life, and we stood together, palms open to the warmth. In the flickering light, it seemed she looked at me differently, or so I thought. Was she seeing me not just as a gruff farmer, but a man tied to something he loved, trying to share it without losing himself?

“I’d like to come back tomorrow,” she said quietly. “Maybe I could help with the trees? I’d like to learn, if that’s all right.”

I turned to face her, surprised and pleased. “You want to help? It’s messy work, you know. You’ll get sap on your hands, and dirt on your jeans. And you might have to lift heavier branches than you’re used to.”

She smirked, raising an eyebrow. “I’m tougher than I look. Though I might need better gloves. The ones I got today aren’t great.”

I nodded, considering her slender hands. “I might have a spare pair that could fit if we find the right size.” I held out my hand. “Let me see.”

She hesitated, then placed her hand in mine. Her fingers were cool, but I could sense the softness of her skin. My hand dwarfed hers, and I imagined how small gloves would have to be. Before I knew what I was doing, I leaned down and pressed my lips to her knuckles. The gesture felt old-fashioned, maybe too bold, but it was instinctive—a quiet thank you for trusting me, for being willing to enter my world.

She drew a shaky breath, eyes wide. Realizing what I’d done, I released her hand. “I’m sorry,” I said, voice low. “I shouldn’t have done that. I just…wanted to show my appreciation. It means something that you’re willing to step outside your comfort zone.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she glanced down, a hint of a smile curving her lips. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “I understand.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, looking nervous but not upset. “I should probably go. It’s getting late.”

I stepped aside as she made her way to the barn door. Outside, the moon had risen higher, silvering the snow and trees. She paused, turning back to me. “I’ll stop by the boutique tomorrow morning, pick up better clothes, and then come here. Does that work?”

I nodded, my heart warm at the thought of her return. “I’ll be here. I look forward to it.”

She smiled, and it reached her eyes this time. “Me too.”

I followed her outside, watching as she climbed into her car. I raised a hand in farewell, and she waved before driving off. The red glow of her taillights vanished down the lane.

For a long moment, I stood in the barn’s doorway, the winter air crisp on my face. Something had shifted tonight. We’d started from opposite ends—her skepticism and my pride—but somehow, in the quiet darkness and among the trees, we’d managed to build a bridge. I couldn’t predict where this would lead. Maybe nowhere. Maybe just a fleeting connection during her stay in Springfield. But part of me dared to hope for more.

Closing the barn door behind me, I banked the fire and headed back to the farmhouse with lighter steps. The Wishing Tree stood silent and watchful outside, its ribbons stirring gently. I still wasn’t sure I believed in miracles, but I knew this: the night’s quiet revelations felt like a gift. Tomorrow would come soon enough, bringing Cassie Monroe back here, to my world. And I wanted to see where this unexpected path might lead.