Hartley (Mail-Order Brides For Christmas)

Mine.

Damn, I’ve never thought of a woman like that before, as something that belongs to me.

I run a hand over my beard, wondering what the fuck I am going to do with such precious cargo.

I step forward, my boots making imprints in the snow that’s already nearing six inches deep. She notices me, and her eyes widen — surprise written in them. And I tense, wondering if she doesn’t like what she sees. If she was expecting something else. A different sort of man.

I’ve never been called gentle. Never talked about my emotions. Never bought a girl flowers or called her back the next day. I am not marriage material, yet here I am, walking toward my bride-to-be.

I’ve never been so utterly over my head.

“Are you here for me?” she asks. “Holly Huckleberry sent me and—”

I cut her off. “Yes, I’m here to pick up my mail-order bride.”

She draws in a big breath, lifting her shoulders, then letting them fall as she exhales, taking me in. “Wow. I didn’t expect…”

I frown.

She grimaces. “No, I meant… I mean, you’re just so handsome.” She laughs, shaking her head. “Did I really say that before I even introduced myself?”

“I’m Hartley Mistletoe,” I tell her.

“And I’m Hattie. Well, Henrietta, but everyone calls me Hattie.”

Hattie. It’s a cute name, and it suits her. “We should get out of the cold,” I say. “You have luggage?”

“Oh, right. Of course.” She grins, her bubbly personally the utter opposite of mine. “Yes, two suitcases. Over there, the red and green plaid ones.”

I smirk, thinking how my mother would have picked those ones too. She packed light, though, I have to hand it to her. I lift both bags from the luggage trolley and tell her my truck is the forest green one on the end.

“It’s snowing so much,” she says. “It wasn’t like this in Southern Oregon.”

“That where you’re from?”

She nods. “Yep, born and raised, on a little farm in the middle of nowhere.”

I think how that bodes well for her. Snow Valley is no metropolis. Hell, the closest Starbucks is a two-hour drive.

I place the luggage in the bed of the truck and remember my manners, walking over and opening her door for her. “Thanks,” she says, smiling warmly. Her good mood is hard to ignore. And I wonder what her expectations are for this marriage. As I climb into my seat on the other side of the truck, I wonder how in the hell I might meet them, considering I never asked for this.

“Do you live far from here?” she asks as she buckles herself up. As I turn on the engine, the radio blasts. “Oh, it’s Frank Sinatra, ‘The Christmas Waltz,’” she says with a sigh. “I feel like that’s a sign. A good one.”

“Oh yeah? You believe in signs?” I turn out from the airport parking lot, wondering what else she believes.

“I suppose I do. I know we just met, but I feel like I am here for a reason. When I was out of hope, I found Holly. And it makes me think… maybe things are going to work out.”

Her voice is soft, sweet, and filled with so much longing I’m goddamn terrified of fucking this up. I’ve never felt like this before — like the person next to me needs to be handled with care.

“Fuck,” I say, turning on the windshield wipers. This snow is falling in buckets now.

“What?” Hattie asks, alarm in her voice.

“Nothing,” I say. “Just want to get home.”

“Home,” she repeats. “I like the sound of that.”

Not knowing how to answer, I turn up the radio, hoping like hell we don’t get stuck. And I’m not talking about the snow. I mean her and me.

I have a history of ruining things when it comes to women… and I can already tell this girl isn’t like Jo-Anne or Laura or the rest of the women I’ve crossed in Snow Valley.

No. She is something special. And the trouble is, I’m not sure I’m the man for her.

4

Hattie

First impression? Hartley is a man of few words. Handsome as heck, but I have no idea how to read his body language. He like to frown, curse and speak in one-word answers.

But he did open my car door. He did drive carefully. He did carry my luggage. And now, as we park in front of a cabin that is nestled in the mountains of Snow Valley, I try to muster up courage. Kind heart, fierce mind, brave spirit. I can do this. I can figure out who Hartley is.

He sets down my luggage and walks straight to the wood stove in the corner.

“Do you need any help?” I ask, stepping toward him.

He just grunts back. “I got it.”

“Okay,” I say, looking around, trying not to take his clipped tone personally. He adds kindling and a few logs to the fire. He is focused, strong, and looks like a man who was carved from the mountain. The fire catches and he closes the stove’s door.