Page 1 of Her Christmas Lumberjack

1

AURORA

Snowflakes drift lazilyto the ground outside, blanketing downtown Denver in a sheet of white. I feel a stab of regret as I turn away from the window. My parents invited me to spend the holidays with them at a mountain lodge out in the Rockies, but I declined so I could focus on work. Now, after another morning of drafting wills and organizing case files, I wish I’d taken a break like they suggested. I can just imagine them holed up in a cozy winter wonderland, baking cookies and decorating the tree while I’m stuck in the city going cross-eyed from looking at my computer.

Despite my holiday regrets, I usually love my job at Hamilton Estate Law. I worked my butt off in college and landed the paralegal job right after graduation. But I’m not done yet. My dream is to pass the bar exam and become a real lawyer, and working for Liz Hamilton is my first step toward that goal. She’s one of the best estate lawyers in Denver, and I’m determined to prove myself to her, even if it means missing out on a fun family Christmas.

“Aurora?” My head snaps up and I see Liz leaning out of her office door, beckoning me toward her. “Come in. There’s a client I want you to meet.”

I do as she says, following her into the large, wood-paneled office. It’s filled with framed certificates and awards, and Liz exudes authority as she takes a seat behind her desk, her steely gaze fixed on the man sitting across from her. He’s not looking at her. Instead, he watches me warily as I enter, his brow furrowing.

“Who’s this?” he asks as I take a seat beside him.

“This is Aurora.” Liz nods at me. “She’s the paralegal who will be helping me research your case.”

The man’s frown deepens. He looks about fifty, but there’s something sullen in his expression that makes me think of a stubborn child.

“I don’t want some kid handling my case.” He eyes me disapprovingly and my teeth clench tight.

“Aurora is an excellent paralegal,” Liz says. Her voice is calm but firm, the voice of a woman who has dealt with thousands of difficult clients without breaking a sweat. “I’ll be handling your case, but she will play an important part in gathering information.”

The man makes a noise of irritation in his throat, but Liz ignores it and turns to me. “Aurora, this is Mr. Samuel Thorne. He believes he may have a claim to a substantial plot of land in the town of”—she pauses, looking down at her papers—“Cherry Hollow in Crave County.”

“It’s mine,” Mr. Thorne says bitterly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Uncle Abe left it to his sons when he died back in March, but it wasn’t the stupid old man’s land to give away. The land belonged to Abe’s brother, Ralph.” He points emphatically at himself. “My dad. Ralph Thorne.”

“Yes, I understand your claim, Mr. Thorne—” Liz begins, but he’s already reaching into his messenger bag, rifling through it. He pulls out a sheet of paper with a flourish and holds it out to me so that it’s almost touching my face.

“The will,” he says triumphantly. “See? This will is dated June 2004, just a couple of months before my grandpa died. It clearly states that the farm should be left to Ralph Thorne, not Abe! It’s been my father’s land all along.”

He’s breathing hard as he wrenches the will out of my face, puffing his chest like he’s made his point. Liz blinks at him, then looks at me and continues speaking as if he never said a word.

“Abe Thorne’s sons, Nolan and Declan, are currently in possession of the land,” she says.

“Bastards,” Mr. Thorne hisses under his breath.

“I understand it is currently being operated as a Christmas Tree Farm.” Liz hands me a folder full of papers. “These are your copies of all the relevant documents. I want you to head to Cherry Hollow and gather some intel about the land’s history. Find records, check out the local archives, and talk to the Thorne brothers.”

I take a cursory look at the papers before I ask, “Do you really think they’ll talk to me? I doubt they’ll want to chat to somebody who’s trying to prove they don’t own the farm.”

“Figure something out,” Liz says, looking at me pointedly. “We need facts.”

I nod, feeling a shiver of excitement as I leave the office. I’m used to doing the legwork for Liz’s cases—interviewing clients, doing background research, digging through local archives—but this is the first time I’ve been sent out of the city to gather intel. Liz is starting to trust me with bigger tasks, and I grin to myself as I hurry down the snowy city streets toward my car.

Next stop, Cherry Hollow.

Wherever the heck that is.

As I leaveDenver behind me, the scenery outside my window gets wilder by the mile. Mountains tower around me, jagged peaks capped with snow and lined with bushy green trees. The rivers have all frozen over, and they glitter like silvery diamonds in the winter sun as I finally pass the sign for Cherry Hollow.

My cell phone leads me through the quaint mountain town and out the other side until I reach a giant plot of Christmas trees. They stretch as far as the eye can see, with several gaps in the rows where trees have been cut down. A wooden sign lined with holly boughs reads:

Mistletoe Christmas Tree Farm

I park my car, surprised at the number of vehicles already here as I get out and walk toward the main building—a giant wooden barn. The sound of Eartha Kitt crooning Santa Baby drifts toward me as I head inside. It’s stupidly cute. Decorations and lights are draped over every surface, and there’s an honest-to-God Santa Claus waving at me from an armchair across the room.

“Ho, ho ho! Welcome to Mistletoe Christmas Tree Farm!”

I wave back. The place is bustling with people buying last-minute trees and taking photos of the festive barn for Instagram. I wander around, my heart warming at the magic of it all before I force myself to snap out of it.

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