Page 8 of A Crawford Family Christmas

quinn & amber

Amber

By five o’clock, the farm looks like a snow globe come to life—minus the snow, of course. Not that it never snows in Texas, but it’s rare, especially in December.

Strings of lights wind through the rows of pines, the smell of kettle corn hangs thick in the air, and half of Saddle Creek is drinking cocoa from cups stamped Crawford Family Christmas Tree Farm.

Everything is perfect… until it isn’t.

“Quinn!” I yell across the clearing. “We’ve got a problem!”

My husband’s by the main generator, sleeves rolled to his elbows, clipboard tucked under one arm, scowl firmly in place. “Define problem.”

“The problem,” I say, marching toward him, “is that Roe was testing the lights on the main tree, and they lit and just went out. The gates open in just a few minutes, and we’ve only got a couple of hours until the official lighting ceremony. Also, Johnny tried to fix the speaker, and now we’re stuck listening to Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer on repeat.”

He mutters a word that definitely isn’t in any Christmas carol. “Where’s Hayes?”

“Trying to convince the goats not to eat the Santa photo backdrop.”

“Harrison?”

“Not sure. He and Birdie disappeared a while ago.”

Quinn scrubs a hand down his face. “Of course they did.”

I try to hide my grin. “You love them.”

He shoots me a look. “My family?” He shakes his head. “I tolerate them. You, I love.”

“Well, lucky me.” I plant my hands on my hips. “You going to fix it, or should I?”

“Amber,” he says, low and warning. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting. You’ve been running around all day like a foreman on a construction site instead of letting people help you.”

“Someone’s got to make sure it runs right.”

I step closer, close enough to smell cedar and that clean-sweat scent that always makes me forget my own name. “And that someone doesn’t have to carry the whole ranch on his shoulders. You might be the oldest, but this is a group effort. This entire Christmas tree farm and tonight, it’s on all of us, not just you.”

He opens his mouth to argue—then the power goes out completely. Except, of course, the music that is still playing Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.

The entire farm plunges into darkness.

“Goat on the loose,” Hayes yells.

For a heartbeat, I can feel Quinn’s stress vibrate in the air. His control, his pride, his need to fix everything—none of it helps right now.

I find his hand in the dark. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Breathe.”

He exhales hard, shoulders loosening just enough. “What now?”

“Now,” I say, “we go get the backup generator.”

“And if that one blows too?”