My Kind of Christmas (The Christmas Tree Ranch #1)(23)

Travis was staring, too. Below the ridge, covering a piece of ground that Travis estimated at a little over an acre, a patch of dark, vibrant green stood out against the faded autumn landscape.

“Have you got somebody growing weed up here?” Conner wondered out loud.

“Nobody who could get away with it.” Travis shaded his eyes against the bright sunlight. “No, it’s trees. A whole damned forest!”

“Let’s check it out.” The engine roared as Conner started the ATV and gunned it down the hill. They stopped at the edge of the trees. Bucket jumped to the ground, trotted over to a spruce, and lifted his leg on the trunk. A blue jay scolded raucously from a branch.

“This is unbelievable,” Conner muttered as they wandered among the closely spaced evergreens. “It’s like coming across an alien spaceship in the middle of nowhere.”

“There’s got to be some explanation.” Travis studied the lushly green pines and firs, their uniform height—averaging about eight feet. There were no old trees here, although there were a few small trees mixed in with the larger ones, as if they might have sprouted from seed. An undergrowth of yellowed grass and weeds covered the ground, hiding the pattern that became clear only after a few minutes of walking.

Travis swore in disbelief. “This isn’t a forest,” he said. “It’s a Christmas tree farm!”

“You’re kidding!” Conner said.

“Look around! The trees are growing in rows, and they all look to be about the same age. Somebody must have planted them.”

“But who? They didn’t just fall out of the sky!”

“The ranch was leased to those people about ten years ago. They were here for about five years before they went broke and left. They could’ve planted the trees, thinking they could sell them when they got big enough. But when they moved away, all they could do was leave them to grow.”

“But why plant them clear out here?” Conner demanded. “Why not closer to the house?”

“It’s higher here, cooler nights and summers for the trees. And maybe—” Travis paused as a faint sound reached his ears. “Come on.” He strode ahead, with Conner and Bucket following close behind.

The spring was little more than a trickle, flowing out of a rocky outcrop. The shallow trench dug from the foot of the rock was all but eroded away, the black plastic hoses leading from the trench cracked with age and buried by grass and weeds.

“The young trees would’ve needed water,” Travis said. “But by the time the people left, the roots would’ve been deep enough to get it out of the ground.”

Conner was silent, his forehead creased in thought. Suddenly he burst out laughing—laughing so hard that he had to bend over and clutch his sides.

“What is it?” Travis stared at him, wondering if his friend had lost his mind.

Conner took a deep breath, bringing himself partway under control. “I just figured it out, Travis,” he said. “Those folks weren’t just growing Christmas trees. The trees were camouflage and cover for the real crop. In between those trees, they were growing illegal weed!”

“And when they moved, they harvested the crop, hauled it off, and left the trees!” Travis shook his head. It was a crazy idea, but it made perfect sense. He should have figured it out himself.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Conner asked.

“Uh-huh.” Travis smiled. “You said something about finding a gold mine out here. I think maybe we just found one.”

*

By midday, they had explored the stand of trees and estimated their number at around two thousand. They had also discovered an overgrown dirt road winding down from the trees to the hayfields—easier than the route they’d taken over open ground. They were in high spirits as they parked the ATV in the shed next to the covered sleigh.

“We owe ourselves a celebration,” Conner said. “Since you made breakfast, what do you say you let me buy you a late lunch at that place in town you mentioned.”

“Sure,” Travis said. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.” And they did. The trees they wanted to sell would need to be shaped and groomed. They’d need tools, a way to haul the trees, a place to set up their business, and probably a business license. They were facing a mountain of work—starting now.

Since Conner’s Jeep was still hitched to the trailer, they took Travis’s pickup into town. They’d meant to leave Bucket behind, but as the truck pulled out of the gate, Bucket took a flying leap and landed in the truck bed. When Conner glanced back through the rear windshield, the perky, black and white face was looking back at him.

“Well, at least nobody will bother the truck,” Conner said. “Folks will be able to smell that dog halfway down the block.”

Travis chuckled. It had occurred to him to wonder whether Bucket would be all right in the truck. But half the pickups he’d seen in Branding Iron had dogs riding in the back. Also, he’d scrubbed Bucket’s collar, with the license attached, and put it back around the dog’s neck, so if he did jump out, people would know he wasn’t a stray.

Travis knew he worried too much. But it was a lifelong habit he couldn’t seem to shake. He worried about his friends; he worried about strangers; he even worried about fool dogs. It couldn’t be helped.