Page 61 of Cowboy’s Christmas Baker

A moment later she pulled back and turned to Mallory’s dad again.

“Did you know we brought two treats?” she asked him.

“Two?” he echoed. “What did I do to deserve this?”

“We’re not having the second one until after we decorate,” Mallory said. “Harrison brought down the indoor bin.”

“Thanks, son,” Mr. Fisher said gruffly.

Katie asked about the decorations, and Mallory told her about the candles and the cards and the creche scene for the mantel.

The four of them finished their treats, then washed their sticky hands in the kitchen sink, chatting about baklava and Christmas decorations before heading back to the living room.

“Mallory tells me you were farming before you came to Trinity Falls,” Mr. Fisher said in a friendly way, taking a seat on the sofa.

“Yes, sir,” Harrison said. “My father heads up a big dairy farm for a corporation and I was his right-hand man until this opportunity came up.”

“He misses you then, huh?” Mr. Fisher asked.

“He does,” Harrison agreed. “But now that I’m in charge, I think I miss him more.”

Mr. Fisher’s booming laughter filled the living room. Katie snuck a peek at him from where she stood by Mallory, pulling things out of the bin, then smiled.

“And you’re a contractor?” Harrison offered when the man stopped laughing.

“I’m a handyman,” Mr. Fisher said. “I fix just about anything and everything around town.”

“What’s your favorite kind of job?” Harrison asked him.

“I don’t know about my favorite,” Mr. Fisher said. “But I’ll tell you the most common jobs are squeaky doors and leaky faucets.”

“Squeaky doors,” Harrison echoed.

“Oh yeah,” Mr. Fisher said with a big smile. “People imitate them too. If I kept my voicemails, I could let you hear half this town squeaking and squealing like a herd of guinea pigs.”

Katie giggled quietly.

“And leaky faucets too?” Harrison asked. “I guess those are common.”

“Especially in the wintertime, unfortunately,” Mr. Fisher said sadly. “And too often it’s not just one. If folks are away and they run out of oil or the heater stops working for any reason at all, they sometimes come home to frozen pipes.”

“You fix those?” Harrison asked, impressed.

“If it’s just one or two, depending on where, sure,” Mr. Fisher said. “But more often than not in that situation I’m recommending a general contractor. If I’m lucky, they remember to call me in to paint afterward, since I’m cheaper than the GCs with paint.”

“Wow,” Harrison said.

“But it’s not always something so serious,” his host said. “Sometimes it’s just a mistake.”

“Remember the Hoffsteader’s house?” Mallory asked, her eyes twinkling.

“Oh Lord,” her father said, shaking his head. “Those poor folks thought their air conditioner was broken. They were ready to pay the HVAC company to come out, but they wanted me to take a look first.”

“What was the problem?” Harrison asked.

“Nothing but a flipped breaker,” Mr. Fisher said. “The power to the outside unit was off, so the thing was blowing in room temperature air. Took me about forty-five seconds to fix it, and most of that was just going up and down the basement steps.”

“He refused to charge them, so Mrs. Hoffsteader brought us a cake the next day,” Mallory put in with a dreamy smile. “Carrot, with raisins and cream cheese frosting.”