Maybe it’s exactly what we both needed.
Chapter Twelve
Ryder
“Behind the barn!” Laney’s voice carries through the crisp morning air, muffled by distance and the snow-heavy ground.
I navigate around the woodpile, following the sound. Finding her already knee-deep in project mode at—I check my watch—eight in the morning, which shouldn’t surprise me anymore.
She’s using a shovel to scrape snow away from beneath a cluster of pines, hunting for pinecones like they’re buried treasure. A thermos sits in the snow beside her, steam curling from the lid.
“Morning, Sunshine,” I say, and this time the endearment rolls off my tongue naturally. No flinching from her, just a quick smile over her shoulder that makes something warm settle in my chest.
“Good morning!” She stands, brushing snow off her knees, a grin lighting up her face. “Ready to turn into a Christmas elf? We’ve got serious crafting to do. I’ve been thinking about your idea all night.”
All night. The way she says it makes me wonder if she was thinking about other things too—like the way we’d worked together yesterday, hands touching, trust building… kissing. One thing is certain; I was certainly thinking about it.
She gestures at the growing pile beside her. “There’s a treasure trove of pinecones out here. Most of them are in good enough shape for crafting. Coffee?” She offers the thermos.
I accept gratefully, the warmth seeping into my cold hands. “What’s the plan?”
“Operation Christmas Magic,” she announces with authority, eyes sparkling with genuine excitement. “Step one: scavenge for materials. Step two: turn that cabin into something that would make Martha Stewart weep with envy. Step three: try not to let Hamlet destroy—or eat—everything we create.”
As if summoned by his name, the pig emerges from where he’s been cavorting in the snow with the dogs behind one of the outbuildings. He snorts his approval at being included in the morning’s agenda.
All the dogs opted to leave the barn when Laney opened the doors to their enclosures. Even old Max is diving into the snowbanks and romping like a puppy. The goats opted to stay warm and dry.
“Your plan sounds ambitious,” I say. “What’s my assignment?”
“Berry collection duty.” She points toward a dense row of bushes behind the barn, their branches heavy with bright orange-red clusters. “Those pyracantha bushes are loaded with berries—perfect for garlands. Unless you’re afraid of thorny bushes?”
The teasing in her voice is gentle, referencing yesterday’s snake lesson without making it feel like a failure.
“I’ve pulled people out of blackberry thickets during wildfire evacs,” I say. “Pyracantha shouldn’t be a problem.”
An hour later, I’m discovering that pyracantha bushes are basically nature’s way of making you earn every berry. The thorns are vicious, and the berries are positioned as if they’re playing hard to get. But there’s something satisfying about the challenge, especially when I can see Laney through the kitchen window, popping corn and looking genuinely excited about our project.
I pause my self-inflicted acupuncture and call the dogs into the barn. Each one gets a rubdown with old towels as well as food and water in their bowls. Bonnie and Clyde haven’t figured out how to open their enclosure, so they’re both bleating for some attention. Fresh straw, food and a vigorous rub and they are both happy. After making sure Napoleon and the girls are content, I head back to picking berries.
By the time I return with my hard-earned bounty—and a few new puncture wounds—Laney’s set up a whole operation in theliving room. Popcorn cooling in bowls, needles and thread laid out like surgical instruments, and pinecones arranged by size.
“Impressive haul,” she says, examining my berry collection. “These are perfect. The color will be gorgeous with the—”
“Clashes! Clashes!” Peanut squawks from his cage, eyeing the orange-red berries with obvious disdain. “Bad!”
“If you’re not helping, you can’t be the sidewalk superintendent,” Laney mutters, but she’s smiling. “We’re going for rustic charm, not design magazine perfection.”
“Terrible!”
I can’t help but laugh. “I think he’s appointed himself as decorator-in-chief.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Laney says, settling onto the floor beside the coffee table she’s converted into our workstation. “He’s already got opinions about everything else.”
I join her on the floor, settling into the workspace she’s organized with characteristic efficiency. She doesn’t pull away when our knees brush. Progress.
“So,” she says, threading a needle with green embroidery floss, “popcorn garland first, or berry strings?”
“Your project, your rules.”
