Twelve Dates of Christmas

Chapter One

Holy sh—eet rock, that’s hot! Molten plastic seared Luke Emerson’s thumbnail. He dropped his glue gun onto the veranda of his grandfather’s wilderness lodge. Yanking at the bead of burning adhesive only smeared it, scorching more of his thumb.

He gritted his teeth, resisting the stinging at the corners of his eyes. This was ridiculous. He could handle pain. A few years back, he’d been winged by a bullet while out in the woods, investigating illegal traps. The next morning, he’d been skulking through the woods, pursuing the less-than-accurate poacher.

Apparently, getting shot in the arm had nothing on branding a thumbnail with crafting glue.

And with six wide-eyed Brownies watching him affix a rainbow of feathers to the gaudiest Christmas tree he’d ever seen, he couldn’t even curse away the pain. He shook his hand out until the plastic hardened enough for him to peel it off.

Are you okay, Mr. Warden? a pigtailed girl asked. I can get Ms. Emma. She fixes owies all the—

No.

The child startled.

Luke cringed and picked the glue gun up off the wood planking. Sorry, kiddo, I shouldn’t have snapped at you. It wasn’t the Brownie’s fault the troop leader was a know-it-all who loved to make Luke’s blood pressure rise. I appreciate you trying to help, but I don’t need Ms. Emma for this.

He made a point of never needing Emma Halloran for anything.

Thankfully, she’d stopped hovering over his shoulder about ten minutes ago. She was better off over at the beverage table, serving up meticulous portions of hot chocolate to all the tree decorators who needed a warm drink to defrost their fingers. The competition was fierce for the Golden Partridge Award, given out to the winner of the Emerson Wilderness Lodge’s annual tree-decorating contest.

The sun had gone down a half hour ago, and the dozen teams were using every second of the final hour in which decorating was allowed. The Twelve Days of Christmas trees anchored the lodge’s seasonal festival, one for each verse of the song. They glittered and glowed along the length of the main building’s wide porch, festooned with creative interpretations of drummers, geese and golden rings. Starting tonight, Sutter Creek residents would come in droves to vote on the winning tree, participate in twelve days of events and walk the snow-covered light path that meandered through the nearby forest.

He glanced at the drinks table, which was untended. He frowned. Where had Emma gone? Scanning the length of the overhang for her perky brown ponytail, he went to glue another feather on the tree. It landed on his thumb, the knuckle this time.

His eyes crossed and he bit his lip to hold in his shout. He flicked his hand hard enough to make his wrist pang, trying to dislodge the bright pink feather from his skin.

If one more plume stuck to his body, he’d become the partridge in the pear tree.

You need to use your eyeballs, Warden Luke, a skinny, tall-for-her-age munchkin said. Long black twists of hair stuck out under her pink hat.

That’s good advice.

It’s what Ms. Emma always tells us.

Of course it was.

And while he didn’t get why the Brownie leader was intent on making the tree into a rainbow bird, he wanted to do right by the kids. The small troop had asked him to help—a request that had earned a storm cloud of a frown from Ms. Emma—because he was the tallest person present who wasn’t already working on a tree. The girls also seemed to think being the local game warden gave him some sort of magical knowledge about bird-themed crafts. If feather number one hadn’t proved them wrong, feather two sure had.

No matter. He couldn’t disappoint the girls, even though he had electrical cords to run, spotlights to position and a staff to organize. And at the top of his to-do list: keep his grandfather from leaving his house to survey the action.

Luke gritted his teeth at the possibility of Hank Emerson trying to hook up the power connections for the trees while hacking up phlegm from his pneumonia-ridden lungs. No. Hank was going to keep his stubborn ass fixed to his well-worn couch for the next twelve days, and Luke would do everything else that needed doing.

He got into a rhythm, fully covering the high-up branches the little girls couldn’t reach with their shorter arms and rubber cement.

Now the sparkles. A Brownie peered at him hopefully as she held out a can of spray paint. No, spray glitter.

Your troop leader didn’t mention sparkles, he said.

The girl pressed the can into his hand. We want it on the edges.

You got it. He was asking for a dressing-down from Emma for following the girls’ instructions instead of hers, but she was nowhere to be seen and time was running out. With a careful hand, he sprayed the tips of as many feathers as he could. The Brownies oohed and aahed.

Choking on the fumes, he stepped back, forcing a straight face as he took in the eyesore. It was a good thing every charity or youth group who entered the twelve-day contest received at least a portion of the total funds raised. If the money was solely awarded to the first-place team, the Brownies wouldn’t have a chance at the new canoes they hoped to afford.

The Brownies were clearly of a different mind. They gazed at their creation, faces shining as bright as the pink-and-blue lights Emma had wound through the branches at exact one-inch intervals. Feathers filled in the rest of the spaces. An extra-large papier-mâché pear, wrapped in green, raindrop-size LED bulbs, topped the kaleidoscope monstrosity.

A pear in a partridge tree.

Only Emma...

Looking great, girls, he lied.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

A text from his grandpa. How’s it coming along?

Luke: Just fine.

Grandpa: I’m feeling better. Need a hand?

God, Grandpa could type fast when he was bored.

Luke glared at his phone and dictated his reply. Come check on things one more time, and I will tie you to your easy chair.

That’s a big frown, Warden Emerson.

The mild comment came from beside him.

He spun, facing Emma Halloran and her glossy red smirk. It didn’t matter the occasion—Emma was always done up like she was anticipating an Instagram photoshoot.

And no matter how many times she shot his flannel shirts and muddy work boots a disdainful look, he still struggled to keep his eyes off her. Her wool coat hid the curves of her tall figure, but he’d been able to conjure a mental image of her sexy shape since she sat behind him in twelfth grade English class. He’d turned around so often, trying to bring a blush to her pale cheeks, he’d had to go to the chiropractor for a kink in his neck.

Not much had changed in sixteen years. Not her sleek brown hair begging to be mussed, nor her legs, longer than the Gallatin River.

Nor her love of getting under his skin.

No one calls me ‘Warden’ off the job, Emma.

And she knew it.

Something the matter? Her eyes glinted, moss-green and curious behind purple plastic glasses.

He shook his head. Emma vibrated with the sort of innate motivation Luke’s minor-league hockey coaches had dreamed he’d find somewhere deep within. For all the years Luke had known her, she never seemed to consider the possibility the world wouldn’t go her way. Most recently, she’d focused that rose-tinted lens on Emerson Wilderness Lodge.

Not happening. She could take her pie-in-the-sky intention to buy the lodge from his grandfather and shove it. Everything’s fine.

You sure? You seem stressed. Her smile turned genuine. I’m happy to help.

More like, happy to take over.

His phone buzzed again, another text from his grandfather. He clenched his jaw. He liked having a beard for several reasons, but at the moment, hiding his irritation ranked high.

See, she said. Something’s not right.

He sighed. She played cribbage with his grandfather every Monday night. Though Luke questioned her motives for the ongoing arrangement—it had to have something to do with her intention to buy the lodge—she’d been legitimately upset over the older man’s illness. Grandpa’s trying to convince me that three days of antibiotics have cured him, and he should be down here stringing lights.

Emma’s dark brows drew together. He did not.

He showed her the screen.

For crying out loud, she said. I’ll go talk to him. He isn’t contagious anymore, is he?

He isn’t. But don’t worry about it. I think he listened to me.

A faint cough rattled from the direction of the cabins.

Or not, Emma said.

Luke groaned, peering toward his grandfather’s one-bedroom cottage. The lights of the front window made a halo around Hank Emerson’s uncharacteristically stooped shoulders.

You have a mighty interesting definition of ‘listened,’ Emma said.

He opened his mouth, scrambling for a retort as the porch lights suddenly went out, blanketing the crowd in darkness.

What the hell?

Six Brownie squeals rent the air, along with a cacophony of confusion from the decorating teams. Another cough sounded from the direction of Hank’s cottage.

Luke craned his neck. Everything was shadowed in dark gray, except for the three streetlights illuminating the overflow parking lot two hundred yards to the east and the glow from the guest cabins in the distance. He could barely see the people around him, let alone monitor what Hank was doing.

What’s happening? someone called out from the other end of the veranda.

Probably a fuse! Give me a minute to figure it out, he shouted back.

Emma sprang to action rounding up her charges, reassuring them the lights would come back on soon and everyone would get to see their pretty tree.

As if that’s the priority.

Except it was, to a large extent. His grandfather had been musing about retirement. And with Hank having refused Luke’s offer to take over running the lodge on a permanent basis, Luke needed to do what he could to ensure the Emerson name stayed on the sign he’d helped Hank build out by the main road. If the festival flopped, or if Emma interfered too much, his grandpa might take those musings and turn them into reality.

Luke! The operations manager’s voice came through the darkness. She carried an industrial-size flashlight. We’re having a problem with the electrical. Not the fuses. I checked them.

And the generator? Luke asked.

The lodge’s chef was hot on his coworker’s heels. Generator’s not going to reach out here.

Awesome.

Then let’s try to—

His cell rang. He glanced at the screen. The sheriff. Concern crept up the back of his neck. Was there more to the power outage than aging wiring?

It’s Sheriff Rafferty, excuse me, he said to the crowd starting to gather around him. He answered the call. Hello?

Emerson, you still on the clock, or should I be calling whoever’s filling in for you on your vacation? Ryan Rafferty asked in his usual no-nonsense tone.

Fish, Wildlife and Parks business, then. I’m off tomorrow, and for a week starting Friday. Working today, though, he said. He’d requested his vacation time months ago, only taking two days off during the first week of the festival. But with his grandpa sick, he wished he’d booked all twelve days, not the patchwork arrangement he’d made. Evening and weekend calls were part of the job, so he couldn’t guarantee he’d be around for Wednesday’s Three French Hens chicken dinner or Thursday’s Four Calling Birds animal call competition.

Hate to interrupt your evening, but I got a call about suspicious lights over by RG Ranch.

Maybe they’d be so kind as to bring them over here, he joked. Our main building lost power a few minutes ago.

Rafferty swore. Sorry, I need to pull you away. I’m not sure if this is connected to last year’s cattle thefts or if someone’s spotlighting for deer. I’d like you there if it’s the latter.

Hunting out of season and using illegal lights? Heat singed his belly. If his job had taught him one thing, it was that people were stupid enough to try anything. I’ll meet you over there. I’ll leave in five, after I make sure everything’s safe here.

They arranged a meeting place and hung up.

He ran a hand down his face, smoothing his beard. A headache blossomed at his temples. The minute Hank found out Luke had to leave, he’d start poking around, trying to solve the lighting issue on the heritage-age building.

He looked at the ops manager and the chef. I’m going to need an hour or two, he said. Are you going to be able to deal with the electrical issues without me?

We’ll try, the ops manager said. I—

His grandfather’s growly cough echoed down the overhang. Did someone check the breakers?

Grandpa! We’ve got this. You need to rest, Luke said.

I’ll rest when the power’s back on. A deep, rumbling hack punctuated the claim.

We’re not done with our tree! someone shouted from a few yards down. Others added their complaints.

Luke’s eyes were adjusting to the dim, far-off streetlights, and the crowd of people looked less than impressed. The band of tension tightened around his head. Let me think—

Oh, good grief, came Emma’s voice from near his shoulder. Would you let me help, already? She cleared her throat and held out her hand for the ops manager’s flashlight. Listen up!

She waved her hands, and the crowd calmed. All of you, sit tight. We can extend the decorating time by however many minutes we lose waiting for the power to come back on. We’ll bribe any early crowds with free hot chocolate and cookies while they wait.

He hated giving Emma any credit, not when it was obvious she was pitching in to further ingratiate herself with his grandfather. But a time extension was a simple, smart solution. The crowd grumbled in reluctant agreement with her compromise.

Well, hold on now. Hank turned around, coughing violently.

Luke rushed over to his grandfather, holding the older man’s elbow. Easy, Grandpa. Giving out free cookies is a small price to pay.

Graydon! Emma called out for her younger brother, a firefighter with the Sutter Creek department who was decorating the tree with a lords a-leaping theme at the other end of the overhang. You and your crew can help out with the wiring. We need lights if we’re going to run this event.

Hang on, Luke protested. You don’t get to make those kinds of decisions.

Glancing at him like he had as many loose screws as the rainbow tree had ugly feathers, she addressed the grandmotherly woman who had been hanging crocheted turtledoves on the adjacent noble fir. Gail, do you mind watching these lovely ladies for ten minutes?

Of course not.

Thanks. She leaned down to her Brownies’ level. Sweethearts, wait right here for a few minutes, okay? I’m going to go with Mr. Emerson to see if he has any extra flashlights. Emma took Hank by his other elbow. You, sir, are a menace, she said in an affectionate whisper. You can either walk back to that cabin with your head held high, or I’ll play your crutch the whole way there. What’s your choice?

Hank didn’t answer, just coughed and started to make his way slowly along the path.

She cocked her head at Luke. Doesn’t the sheriff need you? I’ll make sure everything goes off without a hitch.

He knew she would.

He didn’t have to like it, even if he did need the help tonight.

Don’t get any ideas, Emma, he warned.

Like what? she murmured under her breath.

Trying to convince Grandpa to accept that asinine purchase offer you made. Hank had put too much of himself into the lodge, had created too much of an environmental legacy on the property, to sell it back to the granddaughter of the previous owners.

"I’m here to decorate a Christmas tree with children, Luke, she said. If I happen to be able to put my event planning expertise to use for the night, it’ll only be to your benefit."

His stomach ground at the truth of her statement. I’ll be back as soon as I can.

She waved a hand. Take your time.

Not likely. He pivoted on a boot heel and headed for his truck. He wasn’t letting her oversee the festival for a minute longer than necessary. She needed to understand that the Emerson Wilderness Lodge was going to stay under Emerson management.

Emma tucked a knitted blanket around Hank’s lanky frame and turned on his television. What’s your pleasure? Romance, or classic?

I recorded the new royal holiday movie. Pull that up, if you would.

She smiled, loving how the older man was as much of a sucker for seasonal films as Emma was herself.

She found the recording and passed him the remote. There. If you want to watch something festive tonight, it’s going to exist on a screen.

She kept her voice firm even though his raspy breathing sent jolts of fear through her. Hank had been her grandfather’s best friend. She hated seeing illness zap his energy and vitality. His usually tanned skin was way too pasty for her liking. If you don’t get better, we won’t be able to play cards on Monday.

After her grandparents’ fatal car accident a few years back, she’d started playing weekly cribbage with Hank in Grammy and Gramps’s stead. They’d grieved together, her whole purpose of maintaining the tradition, but all the time on Hank’s front porch had turned into something unexpected, as well. Hours and hours watching the seasons change around the rough-hewn, log-sided lodge had tugged at her.

Luke was right—she did want to own this property, to restore the glorified fishing resort to the luxurious, romance-focused retreat it had been before her grandparents had sold it to Hank. Her great-grandfather had constructed most of the buildings on the property, and that history dwelled in her DNA. A photo album of couples enjoying dance classes, movie nights and string-quartet dinners sat on her shelf in her apartment, nagging her to bring it back to life.

Even better, to add her own ideas, and offer full wedding services.

With the correct care and attention, it could be done. Not Luke’s stubborn insistence he knew what was best, even as the lodge fell to pieces.

This wasn’t the time to be worrying about that, though. She had an equally stubborn Emerson to deal with.

Hank watched the movie with a melancholy smile.

Everything okay?

He paused the recording. Thinking of Jenny.

Emma gave him a hug. His late wife had been a dynamo, much like her Grammy.

I feel like I’m letting her down. She lived for this festival. Can’t stand being useless. He hacked into the crook of his elbow. Who knows how long Luke’s call will take?

I’ve dealt with bigger surprises at the resort. She’d worked for her uncle’s ski resort since college, shifting from event planning to the development team to marketing over the years. And once she convinced Hank to accept her offer, she’d need every ounce of experience she’d gleaned to transform the lodge. It’s all under control.

Thanks, darlin’.

My pleasure. Excitement ran through her. Making sure things went well for the festival’s first day of Christmas would help Hank and Luke relax and would be a heck of a lot of fun.

She brought Hank a mug of peppermint tea from his kitchen. Need anything else?

Yeah, to get off this couch.

Sorry. Not happening, she said cheerfully.

You’re a mean nurse, Emma Halloran. You and Luke sure are a pair.

Emma’s mouth flattened. She and Luke were too different to be a pair. Opposites attract was a myth, a guaranteed heartbreak. She’d been looking for the one since high school, and she’d only gotten close to forever with men who shared her interests and goals.

Not Luke Emerson, even if their opinions on Hank’s health matched.

Someone needs to boss you around sometimes, she teased. I’d better get back to my minions. I mean, my Brownies.

"Feels like yesterday it was you in the brown uniform, with Winnie as the