Chapter 1
Faith
Thetiresonmylittle SUV crunch over the snow as I wind up the mountain road, windshield wipers squeaking in protest against the thickening flurries. The higher I climb, the more the world narrows to white. The trees are heavy with snow, the road is barely visible beneath fresh powder, and the sky presses down like a wool blanket.
According to the GPS, I'm only half a mile from Beau Lawson's cabin—the reclusive toymaker of Mercury Ridge—and if the legend is true, he's the reason dozens of local kids wake up smiling on Christmas morning.
Not that I've evermethim. People in town say he doesn't come down much anymore. That he's gruff, quiet, and prefers thecompany of sawdust to people. Holly Jones at Sweet Mercury Bakery calls him "troubled but talented." Mikki at the pizzeria just shakes her head and mutters something about “stubborn mountain men.”
Which is exactly why I volunteered to pick up the toys myself.
"Operation Christmas Spirit," I say out loud, because talking to myself is better than thinking about how steep this road looks or how the guardrail disappeared half a mile back. My Christmas-patterned travel mug rattles in the cup holder, half-empty of lukewarm cocoa that's gone from comfort to cold disappointment. "We've got this, Faith. Just a quick pickup, then back down before the storm hits."
Except the storm isn't waiting.
Snowflakes drift past the windshield, thick and lazy at first, then swirling with intent. By the time I reach the turnoff, marked only by a weathered wooden sign carved withLawson, they're coming down in sheets, erasing the world behind me.
The cabin materializes through the snow like something from a fairy tale. Log walls stained dark with age, windows glowing amber, smoke curling from a stone chimney in lazy spirals. A carved wooden reindeer stands beside the porch, dusted in white snow, its antlers so delicate they look like lace made solid. Wind chimes hang from the eaves, carved wooden birds that click and whisper in the wind.
Beautiful,I think, stepping out of the car into air so cold it steals my breath.And totally intimidating.
The wind bites my cheeks and slips down my collar despite my scarf. I haul a tote of wrapping supplies from the back seat—emergency reinforcements in case he needs help making the toys gift-ready—and march up to the porch. My boots squeak with every determined step, leaving prints that fill with snow before I've taken three more.
I knock.
Once.
Twice.
The wind answers, howling through the pines.
I try again, louder this time, knuckles stinging from the cold. "Mr. Lawson? It's Faith Evans from the Mercury Ridge Holiday Fund! I emailed you last week about picking up the toys!"
Nothing but the creak of wood and the whisper of falling snow.
"Okay," I mutter, brushing accumulating flakes off my sleeve. They melt immediately against my red coat, leaving dark patches. "Not letting a little mountain man moodiness ruin Christmas."
I try the handle, and the door creaks open a few inches. Warm, pine-scented air rushes out. I catch a glimpse of a tall man inside, broad shoulders bent over a workbench, wood shavings curling on the floor around his boots like pale ribbons. Tools hang on the walls in neat rows, catching lamplight. Half-finished toys line shelves—trains and dolls and animals mid-creation, waiting for their final touches.
"Hi!" I call brightly, pushing the door open wider. Cold air rushes in with me, making the fire in the hearth flicker. "Sorry to barge in. I'm Faith, from—"
"From the charity," he finishes without looking up. His voice is deep, like gravel wrapped in butter, with rough edges that catch on something low in my belly. "You weren't supposed to come until tomorrow."
I blink, snowflakes clinging to my lashes. "Oh. Well, the forecast said the storm would hit early, so I figured I'd beat it."
"Guess you didn't."
He finally looks up, andwow.
Messy dark hair curls just past his collar. A scruffy beard highlights a carved jaw. And he has the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. Blue, like a glacier about to crack—cold on the surface, but with something dangerous moving underneath.There's sawdust on his dark green flannel, caught in the weave and dusting his shoulders. His hands—big, strong, and scarred across the knuckles—rest on a half-carved rocking horse, fingers still wrapped around the knife handle.
He's got to be six-three, maybe taller. Broad-shouldered andsolid.The kind of solid that comes from years of physical work.
Every warning bell in my head saysgrumpy, danger, proceed with caution.
But every other part of me—the parts that appreciate a man who looks like he could split firewood with his bare hands—saysyum.
"I can help load them up and get out of your hair," I offer, trying to keep my smile from wobbling under the weight of that stare. "I brought extra boxes and—"
