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

  Christmas at Yuletide Farm

  Megan Squires

  Copyright © 2020 by Megan Squires

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For Brad.

  Thank you for being my sturdy and proud evergreen through all of the seasons of life.

  Contents

  1. Deacon

  2. Kate

  3. Deacon

  4. Kate

  5. Deacon

  6. Kate

  7. Deacon

  8. Kate

  9. Deacon

  10. Kate

  11. Deacon

  12. Kate

  13. Deacon

  14. Kate

  15. Deacon

  16. Kate

  17. Deacon

  18. Kate

  19. Deacon

  20. Kate

  21. Deacon

  22. Kate

  23. Deacon

  24. Kate

  25. Deacon

  26. Kate

  27. Deacon

  28. Two Years Later

  The End

  Also by Megan Squires

  About the Author

  Deacon

  “Don’t you dare lift your leg on that tree, Rascal!”

  The Labrador dropped the leg in question and sauntered up to the next rotund Douglas fir, readying to test his luck a second time.

  “I’m not fooling around, Rascal. You’re gonna sleep on the porch if you insist on pushing it. I’m in no mood for your shenanigans today, dog. No mood.”

  Deacon Winters clucked his tongue and spurred the buckskin horse beneath him further down the hill. Hundreds of firs hemmed them in, a prickly barricade that sloped and meandered into the valley of their Northern California Christmas tree farm in rivers of deep green. While Deacon took a visual inventory, Rascal did figure eights between the horse’s legs, doing his level best to trip up the mare. Luckily, at least one animal had a mind to obey its owner. Bella moseyed on without giving the dog even an ounce of the attention he so desperately sought, her hooves clacking a melodic beat that felt like a song.

  Deacon noted the shiny green needles fanning out on the thick branches surrounding them, an indicator of healthy, well-cared-for trees. Forty-seven weeks of watering, pruning and tending to led to only one loss. While that was an overwhelming success in the grand scheme of things, it was still news he’d rather not break to the Browning family. Year after year, they’d been good fosters of their rental tree, always following the directions on the tag to keep it alive and thriving during the holiday seasons. Still, despite Deacon’s best efforts, that particular fir tree bit the dust. Even though he had a beautiful replacement selected for the family, he felt the disappointment of that failure in his chest like a stubborn bout of heartburn.

  “Let’s head back up to the house,” he said to his animals after making a mental note of the few trees that would need a little extra care the following day. “I bet supper’s already on.” Deacon collected the worn, oiled leather reins that had once belonged to his grandfather and swiveled around to angle Bella back up the mountainside. Without looking over his shoulder, he hollered, “Don’t even think about it, Rascal!” and the little grunt of frustration from the retriever confirmed he’d been caught in another act of disobedience. That dog sure took every opportunity given to do precisely the wrong thing.

  It was half-past-six when Deacon finally got Bella unsaddled, groomed, and settled into her stall for the night, a pile of hay and an oatmeal cookie as her reward for clocking in another hard day’s work on the tree farm. Though everything in him wrestled against it, those rounded, pleading puppy eyes that blinked his direction turned Deacon into a bundle of mush. He chucked a cookie at Rascal and grimaced.

  “Don’t go getting any ideas that you actually earned that,” he warned as he heaved the rolling barn door shut, the dog trotting haughtily on his heels. “I catch you trying to relieve yourself on another one of our trees and you’ll be eating nothing but broccoli for a week. You hear me?”

  Rascal waggled his floppy black ears.

  “Hmph,” Deacon grunted. His big body hugged close to the side of the barn as he trudged toward the main house at the very crest of the hill. It had started to snow, delicate little flecks sprinkling from the heavens that stuck to the wide brim of his cowboy hat and dusted the shoulders of his tan, canvas jacket. They dissolved only seconds after they appeared, like the popping of tiny bubbles on the surface of a still pond. This was the kind of snow Deacon tolerated. He preferred it over the dumping they’d received the week prior, the one that caused once-sturdy branches to bend and sag under a heavy, wet accumulation of slush. He knew their trees could easily withstand the temperamental winter weather—they were native to these parts, after all—but deliveries were slated to begin the following week. He needed their Christmas trees at their absolute best when they showed up on their customers’ doorsteps. Nothing less would do.

  The Yuletide Tree Farm was over seventy-five years in the making and Deacon would not be the Winters to tarnish that hard-won heritage of excellent service, superior quality trees, and homegrown tradition. Plus, it had been his idea to add living tree rentals to their farm some five years ago. At the time, it was a suggestion met with more than one speculatively raised eyebrow. No one had even heard of such a thing. But when Tuff Winters, the farm’s patriarch and Deacon’s beloved grandfather, passed away one starless summer night after a valiant fight with cancer, legacy traded hands.

  Deacon was now the owner of the farm. In the end, it was his decision—and his only—to make. Every year that went by, Deacon prayed he’d made the right one.

  Shrugging out of his snow sodden coat as he stepped over the threshold and into the farmhouse, Deacon nudged the front door closed with a broad shoulder. Christmas music played quietly from his mother’s antique radio that popped and crackled due to the poor mountain reception. Even with the overlay of white noise, the familiar carols brought about as much warmth as the cozy temperature of the home. He’d been chilled to the bone to the point of numbness, yet could feel himself gradually begin to thaw with each step further into the house.

  “Smells delicious.”

  Deacon followed his nose toward the mouthwatering aroma of roasted carrots, savory pearl onions, and buttery Yukon potatoes like a hound on a scent trail. As he hoped it would, it led him to the dining room in the back of the house where his mother and brother gathered around the rustic, wide-plank table he’d built with his dad nearly a decade earlier using only timber found on their land.

  “What is it? Pot roast?” Deacon lowered his hat to his chest before bending to place a kiss on his mama’s cheek, then refit it where it belonged. He drew in another hearty breath and could almost taste the meal before him, the spices so delectable his stomach began to rumble.

  “Close. Beef stew.” Marla Winters took her eldest son’s jacket and folded it over the crook of her arm, then gave him a firm poke in his side with her free hand. “I’m glad you finally decided to grace us with your presence. Cody’s ready to dig in. Told him we’d give you ten more minutes before starting in without you.” She placed the jacket over the back of an empty chair and cut Deacon a stern look before adding, “We expected you before sundown, Deacon.”

  “Got caught up checking the trees.”

  “Nothing that couldn’t wait until morning,” she
insisted. She wiped her palms on an apron that had holly berries embroidered across the fabric. “You need to at least take your phone with you. What if I had to get ahold of you?”

  “Then you could send Tilly out to fetch me.”

  Marla snorted. “That old dog is half deaf, all blind, and completely senile.”

  “And still, she’s a more useful dog than Rascal.”

  As though he could comprehend the defamatory conversation, Rascal lifted his head from his curled up position next to Marla’s dog in front of the pellet stove and let out an indignant groan.

  “Not everything needs to be useful to be worthy. Rascal’s a fine dog. Jenny sure loved him.”

  The hairs on Deacon’s neck stood on end like he’d rubbed them with a static-covered balloon. Ignoring the unpleasant sensation and his mother’s equally unpleasant statement, he scraped the dining chair out from underneath the table and plopped down with a huff.

  “I’ve got the new farmhand coming tomorrow.” Marla switched subjects, passing off a filled bowl of steaming, hearty stew and then gathering another to prepare one for herself. “Need you to see to it that the barn loft is tidied up and good to go. Clean sheets are in the dryer and extra TP is in the basement.”

  “Another one of the Carlton boys?”

  Every holiday season, the tree farm would employ a few extra hands to help out during the inevitable rush. Deacon appreciated the additional support and hoped to have a returning worker join them again this year. Training someone entirely new often proved to be more trouble than it was worth.

  “Not exactly.” Marla’s voice pitched an octave.

  “What does ‘not exactly’ mean?” Deacon didn’t like the knowing glint in his mother’s eye. He studied her with scrutiny but her expression didn’t give away much.

  “Nothing.” She shrugged as she took her seat across the table and collected her sons’ hands, readying to say grace. “But it might not be a bad idea to spruce up the place a bit. You know, make it a little more inviting. Cozy.”

  “Why would it need to be inviting?”

  Marla’s mouth spread into a slow, steady grin before she shut her eyes to give thanks for their meal. “I think once you meet this particular farmhand, you’ll understand.”

  Kate

  “I don’t like the angle of this footage.” Kate Carmichael chewed on the cap of her ballpoint pen and spoke around it when she added, “You were right, Toby. We should have filmed in the morning and not the late afternoon. Those shadows are seriously so harsh. Looks like I have two raccoon eyes.”

  “I knew you weren’t going to like it, which is why I had a separate camera set up off to the side the entire time.” Toby Peyton moved the mouse across the pad and clicked out of the current window to maximize a different file. Another video clip from their latest assignment filled the entirety of the computer screen. “Do I know you, or do I know you?”

  “After working together for seven years, I would say you know me better than anyone.” Kate stood from the office chair and gave Toby’s shoulders a quick, friendly squeeze. “Sometimes I think you might even know me better than I know myself. Now, where did I…?”

  “Bookcase.” Reading her mind, Toby flicked his index finger to point toward the shelving unit against the opposite wall. “Third shelf.”

  Kate’s gaze zoomed about the room and locked in on her momentarily misplaced car keys, right where she’d left them at the start of her shift. “See? Seriously, what would I do without you?”

  “I hate to say it, but you’re about to find out. Courtney hasn’t told you yet?”

  “Hasn’t told me what?” Brow drawn, Kate narrowed her gaze on her favorite cameraman the very moment Courtney Druthers, their Channel 14 News producer, waltzed into the room, stiletto heels clicking sharply across the tiled floor. The woman’s ears must’ve been burning because her timing was nothing short of impeccable.

  “Thought you were heading up the hill soon.” Courtney came to a stop right next to Kate. She pressed her backside to the large work desk, crossing her legs at the ankles as she cocked her head to eye her employee. Courtney had two hairstyles in her arsenal—a sleek ponytail pulled so taut it made her eyebrows lift several inches higher on her forehead, or a flat-ironed bob that didn’t shift even when her head did. Today, her blunt cut hung down to her outdated shoulder pads. “I expected you to be on the road by now.”

  “I was just about to head out when Toby dropped a rather disappointing bombshell. He’s not going to be working with me on this assignment?”

  “Correct.” Courtney’s glossy lips pressed into a flat, decisive line. “I moved him over to the election fraud piece.”

  “Why? I thought Diego was on that.”

  “Diego’s out of commission for the unforeseeable future. Snowboarding incident. Broke both legs and four ribs. Six teeth, too.”

  Kate winced. “Ouch.”

  “Yes. Ouch,” Courtney deadpanned. The woman had always been no-nonsense in an off-putting and unapproachable way. That made for working relationships filled with noticeably more friction than harmony.

  “Then who are you going to assign to my piece?” It wasn’t that Kate didn’t like working with the other cameramen at the station. Channel 14 had the best in the Sacramento valley, no question about it. She just loved the camaraderie she’d easily developed with Toby. In this industry, she found that was often hard to come by, even harder to keep around.

  “That’s the thing, Kate. I’m not assigning anyone.”

  “You’re not assigning anyone.” Kate chuckled an incredulous laugh that lifted the blonde wisps of hair framing her face. She curled her hand around her ear to tuck away the errant strands. “Right.”

  “I’m serious.” Courtney’s features hardened along with her tone. “We’ve started the hiring process, but it’ll be at least two weeks until I have someone I can throw at your assignment.”

  Kate did the quick math. “Two weeks puts us out too far. This is a holiday special. It won’t give us enough time to get everything buttoned up and ready to air before Christmas.”

  “Exactly. Which is why I’m putting the ball completely in your court.”

  “What does that mean?” Kate was unquestionably confident in her reporting skills; she always had been. She’d graduated summa cum laude from college, double majoring in journalism and communications, and the many awards she earned as the area’s top reporter only bolstered her self-assurance. She was excellent at reporting the news, but that did little good if she didn’t have someone there to film her while she reported it.

  “I’m relying on you to see this project through from start to finish.” Courtney clicked her holiday-colored nails on the ledge of the table, a tap-tap-tapping sound that made Kate’s jaw tick. “On the Job with Kate Carmichael is about to become a one-woman show. You’ve been a sushi chef, an embalmer, a sommelier. Surely you can do this, too.”

  Kate’s head spun faster than a pirouetting Sugar Plum Fairy. “You do realize I didn’t really become those things. Just reported on what it’s like to be them. Plus, I still don’t even understand what you’re saying. Without a cameraman, how am I going to capture life as a Christmas tree farmer? Do you just expect me to film everything with…what? My phone?”

  “That’s exactly what I expect you to do.” Courtney pushed off the table and sauntered back toward the door before pausing in the frame. “Cora in IT will help you manage the social media aspect of things. All we need is for you to provide her with the daily content.”

  “Daily content?”

  “That’s correct. We’re thinking of trying something new with your segment. We’ll be taking it completely online. Rather than creating a packaged piece to deliver at the end of your assignment, we want to follow you day-to-day. It’s no secret people are going online for their news more often than not lately. We think your piece is a perfect fit to test this out.”

  “I’m not some social media influencer, Courtney. I’m a seasoned, awa
rd-winning reporter.”

  “Then this should be a piece of cake for you.” Flipping her wrist over, Courtney tapped on the face of her watch. “And you really should be on the road by now. They are expecting you by three.”

  Kate had clenched her teeth throughout the entire drive and felt the repercussions of that as a throbbing ache in her molars. Even when she rubbed her jaw, the pain didn’t subside. Killing the engine of her sedan, she reclined in the driver’s seat a moment, meditating on her situation and breathing deep like she’d learned to in her yoga classes.

  A wooden sign bearing the name Yuletide Tree Farm hung over the entrance immediately to her left. It swayed on its hinges from a gusty wind that rocked it back and forth like an abandoned swing. It would’ve been eerie if not for the festive, holiday lettering and the clumps of snow that capped the corners in just the right places.

  Kate rolled her window down a crack and inhaled the fresh mountain air that seeped into the cab of her vehicle. She had always loved the Sierras. As a little girl, she would often vacation in the Lake Tahoe area with her family, spending her summers on the crystal blue waters and her winters on the powdery slopes. But travel outside of work was a luxury she hadn’t been afforded in recent years. Maybe that was the reason she had subconsciously picked this particular tree farm, located just minutes from Tahoe near the neighboring town of Truckee. She knew her jam-packed calendar wouldn’t allow for a winter getaway, so she would have to fit one into her work schedule instead. It was a win-win. Or it had been, until Courtney pulled the rug out from under her.