It's a Christmas Thing (The Christmas Tree Ranch 2)

rds circling high above the stripped fields, swooping low in tandem with the air current.

Reaching the final leg of the circular driveway, she eased around a sharp curve, then stopped the car abruptly at the edge of lush grass. Large oaks towered toward the stormy sky, framing an aging two-story farmhouse with a wide front porch and large windows. Tall, red chimneys were aligned on each side of the white structure and Gothic trim along the porch roof added an elegant air.

Kristen whistled low as she climbed out of the car. “Nothing out here, huh?”

That wasn’t altogether accurate. She strolled across the expansive lot, her tennis shoes squashing the soft grass and thunder rumbling overhead. The magnificent oaks swayed with the approaching storm, their leaves ruffling. Ducking beneath the lower branch of one, she reached up and trailed her palm across its rough bark as she passed.

Tall and sturdy. Broad, thick trunk. Long, sprawling branches.

“You’ve been around a while haven’t you, beauty?” Kristen whispered.

She looked at the house, its details clearer from this vantage point. Time and the elements had chipped the white paint of the house and faded the deep red tones of the chimneys. The wooden front door had lost its luster and a hole was punched through the flimsy screen door covering it. An orange cat weaved in and out of the exquisite—but rotted—porch balusters.

Rather than strengthening with age like the old oaks, the structure presented a tired, resigned veneer. One at odds with the sweet aura of home beckoning from the wide, welcoming steps. One which clearly said the glory days of this house had passed.

Her fingertips jerked at her sides as she imagined breathing it back to life on canvas—a dab of yellow ochre here and there to recreate the shingles, long sweeps of ivory to define the walls, several pushes and drags of crimson to erect the chimneys. The structure was so reminiscent of the house she’d dreamed of as a child, when she’d lived in shelters and longed for a home—and family—of her own.

Kristen shook her head, a heavy ache pulling at her chest. Oh, but it’d be impossible for anyone to deny this place must have once been majestic.

“Emmy!”

The screen door slammed and a man stumbled out onto the porch, clutching a briefcase to his chest and fumbling his way backwards to the front steps. A second slam, then a wiry woman stomped out after him, leaning heavily on a cane.

Kristen eased back beneath the cover of the tree’s branches, watching.

“Now, Emmy,” the man sputtered as he reached the grassy lawn. “There’s no need to get upset—”

“Mrs. Hart.” The woman—owner Emmy Hart, Kristen supposed—clomped down the stairs, her cane clacking along the way. “My sweet Joe, God rest his soul, may have died over thirty years ago but I’m still his wife, and if he were here right now, he’d toss you out on your butt for making such an insulting offer. Joe wouldn’t stand for it. He gave his life to this place, raised it from ruin. This land was in his blood.”

“I didn’t come out here to cause trouble, Mrs. Hart. I came to help.”

“No, you didn’t. I agreed to humor you on account of thinking you were a decent man, but you suits are all the same.” Emmy stopped on the bottom step, gripped the thin handrail, then sagged against it. Her chest lifted beneath her worn T-shirt on heavy breaths. “You came to take my land. To tear down my home.” Blue eyes flashing, she stabbed a gnarled finger at him. “To steal from me.”

The Suit held up a placating hand. “Now, that’s not true at all. I’m offering you a more than fair price for this . . .” He waved careless fingers toward the second floor of the house. “Establishment.” He grimaced. “Believe me when I say you won’t find a better offer. No one else would be willing to pay what I am for this place, and if it weren’t for Mitch, I wouldn’t even be out here.”

The man’s cheeks reddened. He drew his head back and clamped his mouth shut.

“My Mitch?” Emmy’s mouth opened then closed silently, the gusty wind blowing her short gray hair against her wrinkled cheeks. “What’s he got to do with this?”

He sighed. “Mitch is a friend of mine. He’s the one who asked me to come out here and make you an offer. I was surprised he wasn’t here when I arrived. Said he was flying down today himself and wanted us all to sit down and talk it over. He knows it’s just a matter of time before—”

“He wouldn’t do that to me.” A wounded light entered her eyes.

Kristen cringed and shrank back, feeling like an interloper. Sporadic raindrops smacked against the leaves overhead, shaking them.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hart,” the man continued. “I know this is hard for you, but Mitch is just doing what any decent grandson would. He’s trying to get you something to live on for a short time at least.” He blinked and jerked his head as rain hit his face. “This place is done and you’re the only one who won’t admit it.”

“No.” Expression contorting, Emmy straightened and stepped toward him. “You’re just like all them others. You came to steal from me. And you’re lying about Mitch.”

He hissed out a breath, mumbled something involving the word ridiculous, then frowned up at the black cluster of clouds. “This is my final offer. You’d do well to take it.”

She poked her cane at his chest, shoving him back. “Get off my land.”

“Please reconsider.” His tone softened. “For Mitch’s sake if not your own. He deserves the chance to put this place behind hi—”

“Go!” Her voice broke. “You don’t know nothing about Mitch—or me. This is my home. My family still lives here. You probably never worked a day in your life. Don’t have a clue what real work is.” She continued stabbing her cane at him, backing him up until he fell into the gleaming bumper of a sedan. “You’re a thief. And a liar. Nothing but a damned lying th—”

“This place is dead and buried.” He slapped her cane away, voice curt. “Mitch is trying to help you, though hell if I know why he even bothers anymore. He won’t tell you like it is, so I’ll do it for him. Dead and buried, Mrs. Hart.”