Page 11 of Mountain Man in my Stockings
I couldn't help but smile, despite myself. "I noticed. Every building looks like Santa had an explosive spree."
"And that's just the exteriors. Wait till you see the market."
We drove in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the scenery a winter wonderland passing by my window.
"So," he said finally, "not big on Christmas this year?"
I considered deflecting, but something about his straightforward manner made me answer honestly. "I used to be. This year's... different."
He nodded, not pushing. "Sometimes seasons are like that."
His simple acceptance felt refreshing after weeks of pitying looks.
"I thought maybe we could hit the market, grab lunch at the Timber & Spoon," he continued, "and if you're up for it, there might be a tree with your name on it at Fred's lot."
"I don't need a tree."
"Everyone needs a tree."
"I'm only here for a few days."
"All the more reason to make it count." He glanced my way, warmth in his expression. "Just a small one. Tasteful trimmings only, I promise."
A laugh escaped before I could stop it. "You're relentless."
"It's been mentioned." His smile was contagious. "Look, I get it. Whatever you're escaping, Christmas probably reminds you of it. But maybe reclaiming some traditions on your terms might help? Just a thought."
I blinked, surprised by how accurately he'd read me. I studied his profile as he drove, wondering what ghosts had driven him from Denver to this tiny mountain town.
"Fine," I relented. "A small tree. Minimal embellishment. But I'm not posting it on social media."
"Deal."
The town square had transformed into a holiday wonderland. White tents with red and green banners lined the perimeter, each sheltering local vendors from the light snow. Strings of lights crisscrossed overhead, and seasonal scents filled the air—gingerbread, mulled wine, fresh pine, and the sweet tang of cranberry.
"Wow," I breathed as we parked.
"Told you. Yuletide ambush." Deacon came around to my side, offering his hand to help me navigate the slippery path. "Best to surrender now."
His hand was warm and rough, engulfing mine completely. I couldn't remember the last time someone had held my hand—really held it, not just for a posed photo. Hayden and I had stopped such casual touches months ago.
The market bustled with life—locals greeting each other by name, children darting between stalls, the hum of cheerful conversation layered over holiday music from hidden speakers. Deacon kept my hand in his, guiding me through the crowd with occasional introductions.
"First stop," he announced, steering me toward a tent releasing wisps of fragrant steam, "sustenance."
The elderly man behind the counter beamed at Deacon. "Well if it isn't our resident lawman-turned-barkeep! The usual?"
"Two, please, Walt."
Walt turned to a copper pot bubbling on a portable burner, ladling steaming liquid into two paper cups. He handed them over with a wink in my direction. "On the house for you and your lady friend."
Before I could correct him, Deacon handed over cash. "Not on your life. Retirement fund needs all the help it can get."
I accepted the cup, which contained spiced apple cider that warmed me from the inside out. Each sip delivered layers of cinnamon and clove with a hint of orange zest.
"Walt's secret recipe," Deacon explained. "Best cider in Colorado, hands down."
Walt tapped the side of his nose. "Trade secret."
