CHAPTER NINETEEN
KRISTIN
The air in the bedroom was still warm from the fire Linc had kept going through the night. The smell of smoke lingered faintly, sweet and earthy, curling around the quilts and into the folds of the curtains. I stretched under the covers, muscles pleasantly sore from a day spent trudging through snow, hauling trees, and laughing harder than I had in months. My body felt heavy in a good way—the kind of exhaustion that comes from joy rather than worry.
For once, there was no noise. No trucks starting outside. No phones buzzing on the nightstand. Just the soft crackle of cooling embers and the steady rhythm of Lincoln’s breathing beside me.
He lay on his back, one arm bent behind his head, the other resting near my hip like it had forgotten to let go. The sheet tangled low around his waist, the morning light catching on the curve of his jaw and the faint scar that cut across it. Every inch of him looked too peaceful for this world.
I should’ve gotten up. I had orders waiting, emails to answer, and at least a dozen messages from the warehouse asking for decisions. But right then, I just watched him, tracing the outlineof his hand with my eyes, memorizing the slow rise and fall of his chest.
Yesterday had felt like a reprieve, a bubble of laughter and cocoa and snow where nothing dark could reach us. The ranch families, the tree farm, the kids squealing when the sleigh hit a drift, it had been the kind of day you wanted to bottle and keep forever.
But forever never lasted long around me.
Lincoln stirred beside me, a low sound escaping him as he blinked awake. His eyes found mine almost instantly, and the slow grin that followed could’ve melted frost off the windows. “Mornin’, Mrs. Felder.”
I groaned into the pillow. “You like saying that way too much.”
“Maybe I just like reminding you it’s real.” His voice was rough from sleep, gravel deep, but soft around the edges.
“Still feels strange.”
He reached out and brushed a stray piece of hair off my face. “Strange good or strange bad?”
I hesitated, then smiled. “Strange good.”
He leaned in and kissed me slowly, unhurried, the kind of kiss that made the world shrink until there was only the two of us: the fire, the sheets, the steady thump of his heart beneath my palm.
When he finally pulled back, his voice was low. “Coffee or breakfast first?”
“Both. In bed. Please.”
He chuckled and rolled out of bed, pulling on his jeans. “You get one. Pick.”
I threw a pillow at him. “Coffee then. And don’t you dare burn the bacon again.”
He shot me a look over his shoulder that promised trouble. “No guarantees.”
While he clattered around in the kitchen, I pulled on his flannel shirt and padded barefoot to the window. The wood floor was cold under my feet. I pressed a palm to the frosted glass and stared out over the pasture. The view hit me right in the chest—frost-silvered fields, the barn roof gleaming white, the tree we’d brought home leaning against the porch rail waiting to be dragged inside.
It should’ve looked peaceful.
But something about the yard felt off.
At first, I couldn’t name it. Then I saw the tire tracks.
Two sets. One from our truck. The other thinner, newer, cutting across the end of the drive and looping near the barn before turning back toward the road.
We didn't have any visitors last night. Everyone had gone home from the tree farm, and Linc had locked the gate after we drove in. I was sure of it.
A chill crept up my spine.
I told myself it was nothing. A neighbor, maybe, cutting across the property by mistake. But the feeling didn’t fade. It hung there, heavy and stubborn, like fog refusing to lift.
When Linc came back in with two steaming mugs, I tried to sound casual. “Did anyone stop by early this morning?”
He handed me a mug and shook his head. “Not that I saw. Why?”
