I woke in my old bed the next morning, rested but not. The hospital had discharged me after several hours of observation, and whatever they’d put in my IV had helped me sleep, but the night was filled with horrid dreams. I levered my stiff body off the bed and used the steam and massage of a hot shower to loosen my kinks. Recalling the looks on my parents’ faces when they’d arrived at the hospital was almost as dreadful as the reason I was there. I’d fallen asleep vowing not to worry them when I woke.
I took my time getting ready, sorting through my muddled thoughts and list of lingering questions while choosing something appropriate but comfortable to wear. A soft white cashmere sweater and my favorite black leggings seemed to fit the bill. It was Christmas after all, and people tended to stop by throughout the day for a taste of Mom’s custom cocoas and snickerdoodles. I was thankful in advance for the inevitable distractions. It hurt to bat my eyes and put on lip gloss. Fooling my mother into thinking I was less than miserable would take intense theater training that I didn’t have.
What I did have was another Christmas in my favorite place with the two people I loved most in the world, three if Cookie came to visit. I worked at my vanity for a long while, until even I couldn’t tell how shaken I still was by last night’s adventure.
Emotion clogged my throat, but I cleared it away. Mr. Nettle was a criminal. He’d badgered me, chased me, and threatened me, but in the end, he’d lost. Justice had prevailed. Karma had broken both his legs, and he’d spend his holiday in the infirmary ward at the county jail. I suspected his trial wouldn’t be much more fun. Good luck finding a sympathetic jury of his peers in this town. Those were my happy thoughts. They helped me deal with the other ones. The ones where I hated him for what he’d done to Mrs. Fenwick and for what he’d tried to do to me. I rolled my shoulders back and forced the anger away before I ruined my makeup. There’d be time to wallow later. Besides, letting him haunt me would be like letting him win. And I’d won.
Once there was nothing more to be done about my appearance, it was time I showed my parents that I was okay. I set my good foot on the top step and puzzled. The murmur of voices had risen into a low, happy roar. I took the stairs carefully, ever mindful of my fractured ankle and now booted foot. The crowd came into view as scents of cinnamon and coffee lifted up the staircase to my nose. Every face I’d ever met in Mistletoe seemed to be gathered in our living room, standing around the tree and in front of the fire, along narrow tables that had been erected at the front window and loaded with food in the mismatched dishes of a dozen homes.
I reached the landing before the crowd of faces turned to me.
Mom beetled into view. “There you are.” She waved me down while jogging up to meet me. “Merry Christmas, sweetie.” She offered her arm for balance and pressed warm lips to my cheek, surely leaving a print of puckered red lips behind.
Slow applause began at the center of the room and rolled outward in waves as Mom helped me into the midst of our neighbors and friends.
I sat on the couch, and Mom brought me a plate. Dad delivered the coffee, and Cookie fielded the trickle of questions about my recent ordeal for more than an hour. It was the closest thing Mistletoe had ever had to a press conference. Fortunately for me, the press seemed to be elsewhere.
I gave all the details I had freely, baring myself in an attempt to put worried minds at ease and dissuade gossip from springing up later. Better to issue the facts now than sort a thousand lies in the future. I didn’t want Mr. Nettle to become an urban legend. He didn’t deserve the honor of being remembered. It was bad enough he’d made history as Mistletoe’s first killer in forty years. I wouldn’t allow him to become infamous.
Mom sat beside me and stroked hair off my shoulders. “I still can’t believe Mr. Nettle did something like this. I should’ve seen him for what he truly was.”
“Why would you have known?” I asked. “He was your accountant.” The obvious fell onto my head like a sack of bricks. “I’ll bet he’s the reason you and Dad never had anything extra. He probably took as much as he could without drawing your suspicions.”
“We think so,” she said. “Your father’s hiring someone to review the Reindeer Games financial records and an attorney to insist on restitution if we find Mr. Nettle was stealing from us too. That will all take time. Right now, I’m just glad you’re okay.”
I tipped my head against her shoulder.
The doorbell rang just after lunchtime, and the nearest guest answered it for us, as had been the custom all morning.
Caroline darted inside, carrying stacks of bakery boxes and knocking snow from her boots. “Merry Christmas!”
Cookie went to help with the boxes.
“There’s more on the porch,” Caroline said, nodding over her shoulder. “You could grab those.”
Cookie opened the door and stared out. “That’s enough cupcakes to feed an army.”
“Four hundred dollars’ worth.” Caroline passed her boxes into Mom’s waiting arms, then came to hug my neck. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you losing that big deposit because of some idiot’s decision to break off your engagement five minutes before the wedding.”
I glanced around the room, wondering who had heard her and who had already known.
Dozens of disgusted faces nodded in agreement.
Caroline peeled her coat and gloves off with a smile. “I used your deposit and the supplies we’d already purchased for the cake and made cupcakes instead. There are some sugar cookies and cutouts in there too, but those aren’t as good as your mom’s.”
“Thank you.” I hugged her back. “You’re a good friend.”
She rolled her eyes. “If that were true, you’d think I’d have more friends.”
“Me and you, then.” I smiled. “A team of two.”
Her face lit and her eyes twinkled. “I like that.”
Mom crammed the hot dishes together on the buffet tables, making room for Caroline’s bakery boxes, which were pushed into the free space and pried open immediately.
Glistening white cupcakes traveled through the room, passed hand to hand.
Caroline brought a little pink one to me. “I’m glad you’re home,” she said with a bright smile.
“Me too.”
“Me three,” Cookie added, rubbing frosting from the tip of her nose. Her eyes crossed as she worked. “Hopefully you’ve had such an exciting time this week, you’ll think of staying awhile.”
I scanned the room for my parents and found them laughing together near the fire. “I’m not staying for the excitement,” I said, “but maybe I could see how the jewelry-making business goes.”
Caroline settled beside me on the couch with a second cupcake. “To revived friendships and young female entrepreneurs.” She tapped her treat against mine and curved an arm around my shoulders.
“Hear, hear!” I smiled, then ate my cupcake with shameless enthusiasm.
It was late in the afternoon when Sheriff Gray arrived. I’d secretly hoped he’d make an appearance, and the sight of him stole my breath. A bad habit that seemed to be getting worse instead of better.
He made his way to me, hat in hand, and lowered into the place where Caroline had spent an hour regaling me with the funniest moments from her all-nighter of cupcake baking.
“Holly,” he said slowly.
“Sheriff Gray.”
His cheek kicked up in the boyish way I loved.
“Why do you call me that?”
I flicked my gaze to the place where his nametag hung on his uniform. “It’s your name.”
“My name is Evan.”
I smiled, feeling suddenly awkward. “I know.”
“How’d you sleep?”
The smile fell from my face, pulled away at the mention of my night. “There were nightmares,” I whispered. I glanced around the room, unsure why I’d admit such a thing and hoping no one else had heard.
Evan leaned closer. “They’ll pass,” he whispered in response. “I promise. Nightmares, anxiety, all sorts of reactions are perfectly normal in the aftermath of an experience like yours.”
I bobbed my chin, willing his words to be true. “Okay.”
“You’re very brave,” he said. “The odds were against you, and you persevered. No light. No coat or boots. No phone. No plan.” The final word was clipped.
“Why did he do it?” I asked, altering the subject slightly. “Why did Mr. Nettle kill Mrs. Fenwick? Did she find out about the stolen grant money and confront him? Why would he steal from her to begin with?”
A number of listening ears turned our way.
Evan gave the room a passing glance before answering. “According to his confession,” he said, “Nettle was financially overextended and thought borrowing some of the grant funds was the answer to his problems. His intentions weren’t sinister, though they were certainly illegal. He was desperate and thought he had a good plan. He told the Mistletoe Historical Society that the mill grant was denied so he could use the money to get himself out of debt. He assumed he’d have plenty of time to put the money back before spring, which was the soonest the work on the mill could begin anyway. Once he’d repaid the money, he planned to surprise Mrs. Fenwick with news of a reconsideration. He’d hoped she’d be too thrilled to question the reason.”
“That’s sad,” I said. “None of this should’ve happened.”
“You’re right.”
I hated the troubled expression on Evan’s face and the fact I could sympathize with Mr. Nettle. One bad decision had led him to commit a whole slew of crimes. I knew firsthand how things could get out of control when you started down a questionable path. I’d begun asking questions about Mrs. Fenwick’s murder in an attempt to make Evan look beyond our farm for a suspect, and when I couldn’t stop, I’d nearly gotten myself killed. “I’m sorry I pushed this so far.”
“I should’ve gotten here sooner.”
“It’s not your fault,” I said.
His jaw clenched and pulsed. “I was building a case against France when I realized what had likely happened and turned my interest to Nettle. I’d been to his home and office looking for him last night. When I saw your parents at the square without you, I got worried. When they said Nettle had just spoken to them, I knew it wasn’t a coincidence. I tried contacting Phillip while I beat a path through the square to my cruiser, but he didn’t respond. I was terrified by the thought of what might be happening to you because I’d been too slow to put the clues together, but then you called.” He released a slow breath.
“And I confirmed your fears.”
One stiff dip of his chin said what he couldn’t: he’d thought I was going to die.
“Why couldn’t I have just let you finish building your case?” Frustration built in my chest. I’d asked myself the same question a thousand times.
A tiny smile budded on Evan’s lips.
“Why are you smiling?” I sniffled.
“I was sitting around building a case. You trapped him in a hole. Your way was faster.”
A low rumble of laughter drew my attention away from Evan. I hadn’t noticed the room grow still around us with interest in his story.
The bottom line to all of it was that if Evan hadn’t been en route when I called, it wouldn’t have mattered that Mr. Nettle fell in a hole; I would’ve frozen to death. Evan had saved me. I turned back to him, full to the top with gratitude, and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. I buried my face into the curve of his neck and squeezed him tight. “Thank you for coming for me.”
He ran broad hands over my back and tightened his fingers against me. “Always,” he promised in a fervent whisper.
Someone cleared his throat obnoxiously, and we sprang apart.
I expected to find Dad glaring at us but instead found Ray Griggs with a pile of daily newspapers. “Hello,” he said. “Holly. Sheriff Gray. Merry Christmas.”
Evan released me. He stood to shake Ray’s hand. “Sorry for the trouble I gave you last night. You did all right.” He clapped Ray on the back, then saw himself out without a good-bye.
I did my best to hide the sting of disappointment plucking at my skin. “What was that about?” I asked.
“He caught me following him around, and he was pretty mad, but I got a picture of Nettle stuck in that pit.” A wide smile split his face.
“Did you get your story in the paper?” I asked, pointing to the stack of Mistletoe Gazettes tucked under his arm.
“Yeah.” He turned the papers around, giving me a clear view of the headline.
“‘The True Meaning of Christmas,’ by Ray Griggs,” I read. “This isn’t about Nettle.”
“Nope.” He slid the top paper onto my lap, then passed the rest of the papers through the room.
A tear fell onto the paper as I finished the article on the guaranteed revitalization of Pine Creek Bridge. “Really?” I raised my eyes to his.
“When these people heard about what happened last night and why”—he opened his arms to indicate the crowd filling my parents’ home—“they started forming a mob outside the Historical Society.”
Bright smiles and blushes spread over the faces of our town.
“I don’t understand,” I admitted.
Ray rocked back on his heels with a goofy grin. “When I finished the article at dawn, donations of time, supplies, and cash totaled over seventy-five thousand dollars,” he said. “More than enough to restore the bridge and dedicate it to Margaret Fenwick and her family.”
My mouth fell open with a gasp. I covered my mouth to stifle a sudden sob.
“In the true spirit of Mistletoe,” Ray continued, “there will be a formal ceremony in her honor next Christmas when the restoration is completed.”
A hearty round of hoots and applause broke the silence. The folks before me patted one another’s backs and exchanged handshakes and hugs.
Ray’s headline was right—this was the true meaning of Christmas.
“Thank you,” I said, first to Ray for the article, then more loudly to the room of celebrators. My gaze slid to the front door, wishing Evan had stayed a moment longer to see this with me. This was Mistletoe.
A number of guests abandoned their snacks and donned their coats, forming a sudden exodus through our front door.
“Don’t go,” I said, struggling onto my good foot.
Ray moved back into view. “I have one more thing to show you.” He offered me a hand and steered me to the end of the exit line.
I checked the crowd behind me to see if I was in anyone’s way.
The lingering bunch smiled and waved.
“I don’t understand,” I told Ray.
“The article was from me, but this is the work of your people.” He propped me against the doorjamb and moved away, allowing me an unobstructed view of the world outside.
A crowd of carolers began to sing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” They filled the porch, front steps, and lawn. Behind me, guests in our home joined along with the chorus.
I blinked to make sense of the sheer numbers. I’d thought everyone who knew me had been in the living room, but there were many new faces singing in the snow.
Mom unhooked my coat from the rack and handed it to me. “Come on,” she said. “You’d better get out there and invite them in.”
I slid my arms into the coat sleeves and hobbled through the open door. A thrill pinched my chest as I took in the beautiful sight.
Slowly, a handsome tenor emerged from the pack. Sheriff Evan Gray climbed the porch steps with a gentle smile. “Holly?” he asked, casting a pointed look at the mistletoe over my head.
“Yeah,” I answered, catching two handfuls of his coat in my hands.
“Merry Christmas,” he whispered, and he lowered his lips to mine.