My Kind of Christmas (The Christmas Tree Ranch #1)(46)

The word struck Maggie like a slap. No one had ever called her such a thing before. She felt the sting of tears.

Francine laid a gentle hand on his arm. “You can’t blame Maggie for this, Hank. Her telling you wouldn’t have made any difference. Besides, she and your son, Travis, are friends.” She met Maggie’s eyes with a knowing expression. “I’d say, more than friends.”

“I don’t care a lick about that!” Hank sputtered. “I would’ve helped my son if he’d so much as given me the time of day. But you heard him. He doesn’t want anything to do with his old man.”

“Listen to me, Hank.” Maggie kept her voice low and calm. “I heard what you and Travis said to each other today. For what it’s worth, you were right, and he was wrong. He’s the one who needs to learn—and to forgive.”

“Well, I’m not expecting that to happen anytime soon.” Hank pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. “Meanwhile, I’ve got to deal with things as they are—a son who hates me and wants to run me out of business. So if you ladies will excuse me, I need some time to work out a plan.”

He motioned them toward the exit of the Christmas tree lot and closed the gate behind them. The two women walked together to their cars.

“I’m so sorry, Francine,” Maggie said. “Hank is the nicest man I know. I wouldn’t hurt him for the world.”

“Like I told him, honey, it’s not your fault.” Francine patted her shoulder. “We’re dealing with two mule-headed men. All you and I can do is wait and hope they’ll work things out. Call me if there’s any news, and I’ll do the same for you.”

Maggie watched her drive away. Francine was a good person. So was Hank, and so was Travis. How could well-meaning people get themselves into such a mess?

Walk away, she told herself. There’s nothing you can do. But Maggie knew better than to think she’d take her own advice. She cared about these people, and she wouldn’t rest until she found a way to help them.

Slowly she walked to her car and drove home.

*

“You didn’t introduce us to your father, Travis.” Rush lifted the last tree onto the loaded cart.

“He’s my biological father. My real father was the man who married my mother and raised me. How was I supposed to explain that in an introduction?”

“He didn’t seem like a bad sort,” Rush said. “Just angry and hurt. You were pretty rough on him.”

“You wouldn’t blame me if you knew the whole story. Come on, let’s go.”

Travis climbed into the back of the ATV, leaving the front passenger seat empty for Rush. He checked the hitch on the loaded cart as Conner started the engine. This was the last of the trees they’d cut for sale at the house. Other trees had been trimmed and left in the ground for folks who, for an extra $10, wanted to ride out and choose their own. After some deliberation, they’d decided to sell all the trees for the same $30 price, with free pine boughs left over from the trimming.

By the time they reached the house, it was getting dark. In the east, a full moon was rising over the low hills. Clouds, smelling of moisture, were rolling in from the west.

All three men were dragging, but there was more work to be done before they could rest—unloading the last trees, putting up signs along the highway and in town, setting up the refreshment table for hot chocolate, and laying logs in the fire pit for marshmallow roasting.

“Thank heaven for Maggie and that food she brought!” Conner said. “Otherwise, we’d be half-dead of starvation. Travis, if you ever decide you don’t want that woman, I get dibs on the next place in line.”

Travis shook his head. “After today, Maggie might not want me anymore. I sounded like a real horse’s ass, didn’t I?”

“That you did, old friend.” Conner said. “What do you say we wrap this up? I’ll volunteer to unload the trees and set them up. Rush, you can put up the lights and tables. Travis, since you know the town best, why don’t you take the Jeep and put up the signs?”

“Fine with me.” Travis took the half dozen signs they’d made earlier, some heavy tape, a hammer and a box of tacks, loaded them in the Jeep, and headed for town. A stiff breeze had sprung up. He would need to fasten the signs securely in place to keep them from blowing away.

Driving into town, he passed Hank’s Hardware. Except for the outside security lights, mounted on poles, the place was dark and deserted. Rows of Christmas trees cast jagged shadows on the bare ground.

What if he’d been friendlier to Hank—maybe invited him to sit down and try to resolve their differences.

But that wouldn’t have changed a thing. If they hadn’t been enemies before, they would be tomorrow when their trees went up for sale against each other.

The signs were painted on white Masonite, sturdy enough to hold up to wind and weather. Travis put up one big sign outside the entrance to the Shop Mart parking lot and a smaller sign next to the park on Main Street. Two larger signs, mounted on sturdy poles, went next to the highway at the north and south ends of town, where anyone driving into Branding Iron would see them.

The stenciled text read the same on all the signs:



FRESH CUT CHRISTMAS TREES, $30

CUSTOM CUT TREE FROM OUR FARM, $40