I sigh. I’m unwell and sad.
With a nervous laugh, I look at Zelda. “Mama’s delusional, right?”
In answer, she barks twice and races ahead of me.
With each step I take deeper into the woods, the snow becomes thicker under my boots. Before long, I see it. A gnarled fluffy tree with a wide base. Perfectly whimsical and weird. Small enough for me to drag back to the house.
By the time I’m parking the sled near my chosen conifer, my fingertips are numb and my legs are exhausted.
I test a branch, making sure the tree’s healthy and not too dry. After working the farm with Hank and Papa Blue for six years, I’m a pro at this.
As I finger the pine’s needles, a memory comes. Our third Christmas at Blue Mountain Farm. Hank and I sneaking off into the big red barn.
“Need you. Need you so goddamn bad, Bell.” Snow clinging to his broad shoulders, he pressed me back against a stall, lips on my temple, the move nudging my wool hat over my eyes.
“Hank.” I ripped my hands through his messy hair. We moved together frantically, hungrily. Like we weren’t fucking every night in that cabin.
He clutched my hips, yanking me to him. When he tried to shove my thick pants down, I giggled. It was a chore with all those layers. He managed it, but only after an endless struggle of determined curses.
After entirely too long, he slid inside me. “Sugar.” A pulse of warm breath. A whisper of my name.
I moaned, curling my hands over his hard biceps, and dropped my forehead to his, feeling just like that star topper on a Christmas tree. Glimmering, bright, the center of it all. Especially to Hank.
My blood thrummed. I wanted this cowboy forever. I’d never once felt like I’d thrown it all away. Like I’d given it all up for a man. It simply felt like I’d gotten everything I needed. Happiness. Love. Freedom.
He was mine. The Christmas tree farm was mine. And I loved them both with every bone in my body.
I shake my head, trying to clear it of Hank.
Damn that man. Maybe tonight, after I return victorious with my tree, I’ll apologize. Maybe we can bond over my mice dinner. Doubtful, but I’ll try.
If only I had done it three years ago.
Despite the regret that hits me hard and sharp, I square my shoulders and lay my tools on the ground. Beside them, I position the tarp. When I’ve got it where I want it, I lie on top of it, then worm myself carefully under the tree. On my belly, I saw the stump close to the ground and straight across. I can worry about clearing the underbrush when I get it back to the cabin.
When the tree starts to lean, I quickly scoot out from under it, escaping to one side.
The wind picks up.
The butt of the evergreen kicks back. Suddenly, I’m moving backward too. I twist, watching in horror as the tree, acting like a sled, begins a downhill propulsion.
Adrenaline courses through my veins as I grasp for purchase, reaching for the small, brittle plants close by. I didn’t see the steep hill on my walk, thanks to the snow. But now gravity is taking me—and my tree—down.
Panic clutches my throat as a dense slab of snow rushes past.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
And then I’m sliding.
Screaming.
Falling.
A warm wet nose on mine.
