One Night with a Nutcracker: Reindeer Falls #5, page 1
One Night with a Nutcracker
Reindeer Falls #5
Jana Aston
Copyright © 2021 by Jana Aston
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No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Edited by RJ Locksley
Cover by Michele Catalano
Created with Vellum
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
The Reindeer Falls Collection
Also by Jana Aston
About the Author
Chapter One
I’m going to say something that’s going to make some people mad.
Christmas isn’t my favorite holiday.
There, I said it.
Now, maybe this isn’t the kind of thing that people in Los Angeles or New York City would get mad about. It wouldn’t end any friendships in Dallas. But in the city I live in? Yeah, those are fighting words.
I grew up in Reindeer Falls, which is basically a city-sized love letter to Christmas. I mean, it’s in our name, for Santa’s sake. Any other place, people might talk shit about you for having a summer Santa in your yard or an all-year-round Christmas tree. But here? In Reindeer Falls, you’re basically expected to.
And look, it’s not like I’m some kind of Ebenezer Scrooge. I like Christmas a normal amount. I put up Christmas decorations and lights, and not just because my Christmas cop of a best friend would give me a violation if I didn’t. I love the twinkly lights and I like the occasional sleigh ride. But I’m not obsessed like Maggie—that’s the Christmas cop best friend.
Christmas and I, we’re on decent terms. But that’s it, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s fine.
I will say, though, that Christmas is good for business. In fact, I’ve been working nonstop for the last few weeks to try to get enough product to meet the holiday demand. I happen to make the perfect gift for just about anyone on your list. Sisters, mothers, grandmothers, co-workers. I’ve even got something for the man in your life. And, as a small business, I do it all myself.
Well, the goats help. It’s definitely a joint venture.
As if she can read my thoughts, Sharon, one of my smallest goats, lets out an indignant “bah,” like she knows I even thought of not giving her enough credit. She’s brown and white and angles her head so that she’s giving me the most judgmental expression possible. Some people might think goats can’t be judgmental, but those people clearly haven’t met Sharon.
“I’m not saying you don’t do a lot of the work,” I tell her, stirring the most recent batch of Snow in Love soap in my trusty crockpot. “I’m just saying that I do a decent amount, too, and it’d be nice if you gave me credit for once.”
Sharon huffs, tossing her head. That’s when I notice the ungrateful little snot has tossed off the adorable Christmas bows that I tied on her horns.
“Again?” I demand, abandoning the crockpot to search the ground for the red and silver bows. Nearby, Linus, the goat I’ve had the longest, joins me. You might think this is because he’s trying to be helpful, but I know it’s because he’s trying to get close enough to snag the extra treats in my pocket.
“You guys make it really hard for a girl to make her soap, you know that?” I tell them, finding the bows hidden under the work table and snatching them up.
Linus just nudges my leg and blinks up at me, looking pitiful until I finally give in and sneak him a piece of carrot. The little devil. He knows I have a soft spot for him, since he was the first goat that I ever rescued. I can still remember finding him as a baby on the side of the road, abandoned by someone and worn down to skin and bones. Which is hard for a goat, since they eat pretty much anything. But Linus was wasting away, and when he turned his golden eyes on me, I knew I was a goner. From then on, it was gonna be Linus and me against the world, no matter what. In an instant, I was a mom. Well, a goat mom, but love is love and all that.
I didn’t know anything about goats when I took him home in my car that night. A Honda Civic, if you’re wondering, because I wasn’t exactly expecting to rescue a goat that night, or ever. I used an old blanket to scoop him up and eased him into the backseat. A quick Google search and a dash into the local store to stock up on baby bottles and milk got us started. Later, I’d do more in-depth research—and trade in my Civic for a truck—but in that moment, I was just looking to keep Linus alive.
I snuck him into my parents’ place. I’d just graduated and moved in while deciding what was next for me, which, as it turned out, was goats. It wasn’t easy that first night, especially since he kept trying to bleat under the blankets, but I managed to pretend like I was singing. Then I washed him off in the tub. I stayed in there for a while, and when my parents got nosey, I told them I had food poisoning and to steer clear. It was enough to buy me some time that night, and I was able to get Linus cleaned up and then into my room.
The first night, I slept on the floor with Linus. He was in a cocoon of blankets and towels, and I was terrified that if I was too far away from him, I wouldn’t hear him if he needed me. So I stayed by, giving him the bottle whenever he needed it.
I didn’t mind. Honestly, it was enough to keep my mind off the other stuff that was bothering me. Stuff about my parents demanding to know what I was going to do with my life now that I’d graduated, and how I felt hopeless and alone. Stuff about not having a direction. Because suddenly, I did have a direction.
I had Linus, and he’d given me an idea.
Becoming a farmer doesn’t happen overnight. Even goat farms. Even reindeer goat farms. But in retrospect, it felt like that.
The next day, I started looking for a new place to live. I knew my parents wouldn’t be okay with a goat, but keeping him was non-negotiable. Besides, it wasn’t as if I’d intended to stay with my parents for long, just the summer while I figured my post-college life out. But now I had motivation. Because I had to find a place where Linus and I could live happily ever after together.
That’s when I found Ariel.
My best friends, Maggie and Lexi, don’t always believe me when I go on about fate and whatnot, but it was fate that day. I’m certain the labradorite I hung around my neck in a last-ditch attempt to find my path didn’t hurt either. Anyway, I’d gone to the feed store over in Saginaw to buy straw for Linus when I spotted the Airstream in the parking lot. An Airstream with the world’s tiniest “For Sale” sign hanging on the back.
Now, Ariel needed a lot of work. That’s what I named the Airstream after I won her in a poker game from the owner. It took a bit of alcohol to convince the guy to bet her, and even after I won, fixing her up cost me most of the money I’d gotten at graduation from grandparents and assorted aunts. But I didn’t care. I had found my path and a place to live. Once I traded in the Civic for a truck that could tow Ariel, I was in business.
Well, close enough. I still needed a place to park Ariel. And Linus needed room to roam.
That was when I remembered I already knew of the perfect place, an abandoned barn with plenty of land on the outskirts of town. It was the kind of place high-school kids went to fool around in privacy, which was exactly how I knew about it. The place had been vacant for years back when I was in high school and a quick drive past told me it was still available.
From there, the Reindeer Falls Goat Farm was born. Linus blossomed into a perfect little goat, and then I rescued a few more. Soon enough I was creating—and selling—a variety of goats’ milk products. It started with a few local sales to my friends, then on Etsy, and now my products are available in a few shops in town plus the farmers’ market. A few more rescue goats here and there, and now I’m overrun with them. Of course, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Like right now. The barn smells delicious, thanks to a batch of peppermint goats’ milk soap I’m making for my signature holiday blend. It wafts through the air, and yes, even I have to admit that I get caught up in the festiveness of the season.
Even Maggie would be pleased at how much I’m appreciating Christmas right now.
I’ve just plucked the red and silver bows from the floor when the slight smell of burning hits my nostrils. Bows in hand, I dash back to the crockpot and stir it quickly. I’m usually good about not burning any batches, especially since I’ve gotten it down to a science. See, most soap-makers use water, but I use frozen goats’ milk. The frozen part is key because if the lye heats up too much it can scorch. My secret oil combination also helps, but soap-making is a delicate process, and most soap makers don’t have the added challenge of herding goats.
“You win this round,” I tell Linus, wagging the bows at him with my free hand. “But you will be festive. We’re technically not in Maggie’s jurisdiction, but you never can be sure she won’t drop by and fine us for ‘not spreading the spirit’ or whatever she calls it.”
I’m still stirring when my phone rings, Lexi’s name flashing on the screen. I abandon the bows on my countertop and pop in my AirPods, leaving me hands-free to continue attending to the soap.
“Hey, Lex,” I say. “What’s up?”
“We need to talk about Maggie,” Lexi says, sounding more harried than usual. “I don’t know what’s going on with her, but I think she might be losing it a little with the Christmas cop stuff.”
“Lex,” I say slowly. “That entire gig is weird. You know this. I know this.”
“Weirder than usual,” she says. “I think she’s a little fixated on Ryan Sheppard and the house he inherited from his uncle.”
I roll my eyes. “I sure hope so. Maggie needs to get laid.”
“Ooooh,” Lexi replies. “I hope you’re right. That would explain why she kept clamming up when I asked her what was going on.”
As intriguing as this all is, I’ve noticed my soap is growing in volume in its pot, which basically means it’s destined for destruction if I don’t do something fast. I turn off the heat and then grab my trusty spoon and stir like mad, barely listening as Lexi says things like “at least I got to see the dog” and “fix the book club” and—
CRASH.
I nearly tip over the pot as the sound of something possibly exploding outside the barn hits me. The goats, both inside and outside the barn, immediately begin bleating and chuffing in annoyance, and it’s official. I’ve got a headache starting, right above my temple.
“Lex, I gotta go,” I tell her. “Something just fell over or exploded.”
“Something’s always falling over in the barn,” Lexi says. “You really need to fix that place up.”
She’s right, but I’m definitely not in the mood for it. I squeeze out another goodbye and hang up the call, turn the heat to low, and then bust outside, ready to give hell to whatever creature or natural force is to blame for the crash.
“Listen, if one of you took down another fence post…” I say, already starting to scold the small crowd of goats that’s gathered to bleat at me. “I know I love you, but…”
I let the threat linger in the air, even though they all know I’m full of shit. They blink at me, and I sigh, marching around the corner. I’m half-expecting it to be one of the raccoons that’ve been trying to get into the feed, so I jump around the corner dramatically, hoping to scare it away.
“Got you!” I say triumphantly, only it’s not a raccoon.
It’s a man, covered in hay, standing next to the bucket that clearly just fell on top of him.
A handsome man.
A man who’s too handsome to be allowed, actually.
A handsome man who fixes his dark eyes on me as he stands up.
Right before he opens his mouth to demand, “Who the hell are you?”
Chapter Two
Upon reflection—and after looking over my shoulder—the Porsche parked on the side of the road should’ve been my warning that an asshole had arrived on my doorstep.
How dare this man speak to me that way? Coming onto my property, upsetting my goats, possibly ruining a perfect batch of my signature peppermint soap, Snow in Love…
And yes, okay, that batch might’ve been ruined because the goats kept needing my attention to fix their bows. But I had everything under control until this guy came into my barn and caused a ruckus.
And what the hell is he doing in my barn, anyway? I take him in, from his cleanly shaven jaw to his tousled dark hair. He’s in a freaking suit, so it’s not like he’s some hiker who got lost. No, this is clearly a city guy who took a wrong turn.
“Who the hell are you?” I snap back, putting my hands on my hips. I have a momentary thought that I might look slightly crazy at the moment, with my Reindeer Falls Goat Farm apron on over a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt; my trusty tall red Hunter boots, because farm life is messy; and my hair gathered in a messy blonde knot on the top of my head.
But it doesn’t matter. I don’t care what this trespasser thinks of my appearance. I care that he disturbed my goats and, by the looks of it, destroyed some perfectly good hay.
“I am the owner of this property,” he says, dusting a clump of hay from his shoulder. “And we do not have a tenant.” He glances around at the goats milling about, happily munching up the hay that he knocked over. “Or livestock,” he says, eyes narrowing pointedly at Farmer John.
Which is just so ridiculous. Because of all the goats, Farmer John is by far the cutest. She’s honestly my favorite, and not just because of the perfect black circles around her eyes or the smattering of freckled gray spots on her back. No, she’s a perfect angel goat who can never do anything wrong, who’s been with me through thick and thin. Naturally, I had to name her after my favorite Beekman Boy. So for this prick to look at her like she’s anything less than a dream goat?
Absolutely unacceptable.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” I say. “This is my farm. My barn. You’re trespassing—”
“I promise you, you are the trespasser,” he says. “And I’ve got the paperwork to prove it.”
Paperwork? Hmm. I’ve been blissfully going about my goaty business here for a couple years now with zero problems. But I suppose if one is being technical, I might not have made any official arrangements. How was I supposed to know someone owned this land? It’s been vacant forever.
He must be lying. There’s no way this is his property. I’ve never seen him in Reindeer Falls, which means he must be a tourist.
Unless…
Oh, no.
Could it be?
“What’s your name?” I say, still hoping I sound confident. “I think I’m owed that, seeing as how you’ve damaged my barn.”
I can tell the “my” pisses him off. There’s a twitch in his sharp jaw.
“Jake,” he says, voice cold as an icicle. “Jake Sheppard.”
Well, this is just lovely. Because now I get it. Jake must be in town for the same reason the rest of the boys are here, to collect their inheritances from their uncle. But to my knowledge, Uncle Joe never owned any land.
Or did he?
“So, pack it up, please,” Jake finishes.
It’s his tone that pisses me right off. Does he really think it’s that easy? Does he routinely go around kicking people out of their homes? As though I can just pack up my whole farm at the snap of his fingers because he said so?
Well, Jake Sheppard chose the wrong girl to try to evict. Because this is my farm, goddammit, and my goats, and I won’t go without a fight.
I square my hands on my hips and glare at him. “Maybe you don’t know this, Mr. Sheppard, but I have squatter’s rights.”
He rolls his eyes. “That’s not a thing, ma’am.”
Ma’am? Did he really try to ‘ma’am’ me? Like I’m an old crone or some crazy lady?
“It’s Sutton Stewart, sir,” I snap back. “And I’ll have you know that squatter’s rights are very much a thing.”
“Not in your case,” he says. “I think I would know, considering I’m a lawyer.”
Of course he is. As if the suit and the Porsche weren’t enough to tip me off that he’s an asshole, he had to also be a lawyer.
“Listen, hippie, I know you don’t have a lease,” he says. “So let’s make this easy on all of us and—”
I scoff at him. “You know how hard it is to make a profit and pay rent? I sell goat soap on Etsy!”
He slow-blinks at me, as if waiting for me to be serious. After a long pause in which it occurs to him that I am being serious he says, “I fail to see how that is my problem.”
Dick.
He doesn’t even say it like a question. Like, ‘I fail to see how that’s my problem?’ Nope. It’s definitely a period.
