Page 1 of Mountain Man's Christmas Star
1
IVY
The cheerful strains of “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” ran through my mind as I practically skipped toward my booth at the Wildwood Valley Christmas Festival. I loved this town. Everything about it—the crisp mountain air softened by a pale December sun, the way people smiled wide and meant it, and, of course, the genuine enthusiasm they showed for my little star-shaped soaps.
Yes, I sold soaps. This time of year, they were green and red, each carefully poured and molded. The kind of soaps that made children smile and adults lean closer.
I balanced my peppermint coffee as I walked. I’d thought I was early, but most vendors had already finished setup, their tarps rolled away, their displays shining with holiday spirit. My booth, by comparison, looked pathetic. The tarp sagged crookedly, leaving me looking like the one vendor who hadn’t gotten it together. A slacker. And I was anything but.
Something wasn’t right. As I drew closer, I noticed the tarp wasn’t fully covering the soaps. It looked like someone had peeled back the corner to reveal the soaps displayed there.
The music in my head slowed, like a horror movie where a cheerful tune drops to half speed, turning suddenly eerie. My footsteps, once light and quick, shifted into a careful, deliberate march.
Maybe someone just wanted a peek. Another vendor. Or an over-eager customer who’d wandered in early. But I didn’t see any customers yet. Maybe they were browsing the Christmas tree lot behind the rows of booths.
“Good morning,” the woman at the booth next to mine called out.
She raised her coffee cup. It was identical to mine—same festive sleeve and matching red lid. I recognized her from the fall festival on this very property. Her name was Paige, and she sold decorative bell wreaths and garlands.
“Got your caffeine fix too, I see,” she said.
She smiled wide, full of cheer, and I tried to match it, forcing a nod as I reminded myself to breathe.Stay calm. Don’t panic.I had a bad habit of expecting things to go wrong. It was understandable, considering there was always at least one small blip. But tarp tampering was a new one on me.
I stepped in front of my booth on the side where customers would soon stand, browsing and asking questions. And that was when I saw it.
Soaps were missing.
There was no mistaking it. Three of the display pieces—the unwrapped ones I’d set out so people could get a good look at them—were gone. They’d been plucked right from the careful arrangement I’d made the night before.
I turned back toward my neighbor. “Did you see anyone over here?”
She was on her phone now, holding it up in front of her, video-chatting with someone, her face glowing with joy.
No one was paying attention.
And three of my soaps had vanished.
I checked my storage bin full of extra soaps—still there, the bin still sealed tightly. So it wasn’t a robbery exactly. Someone had just helped themselves to three of my handcrafted star-shaped soaps. The ones I’d spent weeks perfecting, getting the swirled green and red colors just right, embedding real pine needles and winter berry essence.
My Christmas Star Soaps were supposed to be my big break. Online sales had been good, but this week-long festival was my chance to really connect with customers, to build my brand. Instead, I was apparently running an involuntary charity.
That’s when I spotted him—a tall, broad-shouldered man standing near the festival entrance, hands clasped behind his back in an official-looking stance. Even from this distance, I could see the dark jacket and what looked like some kind of patch on his sleeve.
Security. Thank God.
I marched across the festival grounds, dodging vendors arranging their displays and early shoppers with their coffee cups. The closer I got, the more imposing the man looked. He had to be six-foot-three at least, with dark hair that looked military-precise and a jawline that could cut glass.
“Excuse me,” I called out when I was still ten feet away. “Are you security?”
The man turned, and I nearly stumbled. His eyes were the color of winter pine trees, and they were currently fixed on me with an intensity that made me forget my prepared speech for a moment.
“Someone stole from my booth last night,” I continued, finding my voice. “I need to know about security cameras. This is completely unacceptable.”
He didn’t respond immediately, just studied me with that same unwavering focus. His expression was completely neutral,almost blank, like he was processing my words through some internal filter.
“Hello?” I waved a hand. “Are you listening? I had merchandise stolen. Star-shaped soaps. Someone just helped themselves to my display pieces.”
Finally, the man’s mouth quirked slightly at one corner. Not quite a smile, but close. “There’s no security overnight,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, like he didn’t use it often. “And definitely no cameras. Vendors understand that the organizers aren’t responsible for stolen items.”
