Page 2 of Mountain Man in my Stockings
He moved away to place my order, giving me time to scan the place more carefully. A bulletin board dominated the wall behind the bar, covered in what looked like miniature Christmas stockings in every color imaginable.
The bartender returned with a frosted glass of amber beer. "Pine Peak Amber. Brewed twenty miles up the mountain."
"Thanks..." I paused, waiting.
"Deacon," he supplied. "Deacon Pike. I own the place."
"Eve Cameron." I took a sip—notes of caramel and hops with a clean finish. "This is excellent."
"We don’t mess around with beer." He nodded toward the bulletin board. "Eyeing our local tradition?"
"What's the deal with all those tiny stockings?"
Before he could answer, a cheer erupted from the other end of the bar. A young woman stood on a chair, her face flushed crimson, belting out what had to be the most gloriously awful rendition of "Jingle Bells" while the crowd hooted and applauded.
"That," Deacon said with a half-grin, "is the Stocking Pull tradition. Want to see how it works?"
My curiosity won out over my introvert instincts. I nodded, and he moved around the bar to stand beside me, close enough that I caught the scent of pine and woodsmoke with hints of cinnamon.
"Each stocking," he explained, gesturing toward the board, "contains a dare written by someone in town—locals, staff, travelers passing through. You pull a stocking, complete the dare, you get a free drink."
"And if you don't?"
His grin widened, revealing a slight dimple in his right cheek. "Then you buy a round for the house."
The karaoke queen finished to thunderous applause, took an exaggerated bow, and hopped down from her perch. Deacon handed her a whiskey, which she raised triumphantly before rejoining her friends.
"Not a bad system to keep winter nights lively," I admitted.
"Been a Promise Ridge tradition since before my time. My predecessor started it, and I kept it going when I took over a couple years back." He pointed toward the board again. "Addedmy own twist, though. As owner, when I complete a dare, I get to assign a stocking to anyone I choose."
The door suddenly burst open with a gust of frigid air, and a whirlwind of a woman who had to be in her seventies blew in, shaking snow from hair dyed the exact electric blue of a summer sky. Her puffy coat, decorated with hand-sewn patches of snowmen, seemed to enter the room three seconds before the rest of her, and her voice boomed like a loudspeaker.
"It's colder than a well digger's ass out there! My pipes are threatening to freeze solid. Harvey's out there now with a hairdryer, poor fool." She stomped snow from her boots and barreled toward the bar, stopping short when she spotted me.
"Well now! A new face!" She claimed the stool next to mine without invitation. "Mabel Kovacs, honey. Run the general store up the street, which means I know every bit of gossip in this town, including when fresh blood arrives."
"Eve Cameron," I said, offering my hand, which she ignored in favor of a bone-crushing hug.
"Hot toddy, Mabel?" Deacon asked, already reaching for a mug.
"You read my mind," she replied, then turned back to me. "Passing through or staying a while, dear?"
"Just arrived today," I said. "I’m only in town through the holidays."
Deacon set a steaming mug in front of her, and Mabel took a long sip. "What brings you to our mountain five days before Christmas? Most folks are heading home this time of year, not away—and I know you’re not from ‘round these parts, otherwise we’d already be acquainted."
I shrugged. "Taking a vacation. That's all."
"Some people prefer a quieter holiday," Deacon said, throwing me a look that definitely conveyed solidarity.
Mabel snorted. "Honey, you picked the wrong town if you're looking to escape Christmas. Promise Ridge goes all out - it's practically our claim to fame." She waved a hand toward the festive decorations filling every corner of the bar. "But since you're here, you might as well enjoy it. Now, I absolutely insist you participate in our local tradition. Consider it your official baptism."
Before I could object, Mabel was bellowing over the din. "Hey, everyone! Fresh meat needs to pull her first stocking!"
The restaurant fell silent as every head turned our way. My face burned hotter than the fireplace across the room, but escape seemed impossible in the face of Mabel's well-intentioned public hazing.
Deacon leaned in, his voice pitched for my ears only. "Most dares are pretty tame. Promise."
