LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter One

      Grinning, Jonas Stone snapped a quick photo of his son. In a pint-size Stetson and cowboy boots, four-year-old Hunter looked adorable sitting in Santa’s lap.

      From the mounted loudspeakers at the edge of the town square, strains of “Winter Wonderland” provided a festive note. Friends called out greetings to each other.

      Pretty much the entire population of Truelove, North Carolina had turned out for the annual Christmas parade. And also for the free hot chocolate, courtesy of the Mason Jar, the local diner on the other side of the green.

      Nursing a cold, Jonas’s mother had remained at the ranch, opting to skip the parade and the visit with Santa. Per tradition, the Truelove Christmas parade always landed on the Saturday after Thanksgiving.

      But it seemed to Jonas that Christmas came earlier every year. At least, the trappings of Christmas. If it wasn’t for his son, he’d just as soon bypass the holidays.

      Or maybe he was getting old. Old, alone and—according to his also widowed mother—dangerously close to being forever set in his grumpy ways.

      Enthroned in the gazebo, Santa—aka Truelove’s mayor—patted Hunter’s jean-clad knee. “Have you been a good boy this year?”

      “I think so, Santa.” Hunter’s dark brown eyes swung to Jonas. “And a weally good cowboy, too. Wight, Dad?”

      His son’s breath fogged in the crisp, mountain air. The cold front and plummeting temperature had necessitated pulling out their winter coats before they’d left the ranch this morning.

      Jonas smiled at his little cowboy. “A very good cowboy.”

      “Mrs. Santa will be so pleased.” Mayor Watson’s pale blue eyes twinkled. “And what is it you’d like Santa to bring you this Christmas, my boy?”

      Hunter’s eyebrows drew together like twin caterpillars. “It’s some-ding I weally, weally want, Santa.” Cupping his mitten, he whispered in Santa’s ear.

      Jonas scanned the Blue Ridge vista surrounding the small Appalachian community. Low, thin clouds enveloped the mountains. The chill in the air hinted of coming snow.

      And if it wasn’t already snowing on the mountain at FieldStone Ranch, it soon would be. They’d need to get on the road soon.

      “You’re sure that’s what you want for Christmas, Hunter?”

      At the note of concern in Mayor Watson’s voice, Jonas turned from his contemplation of the dreary skyline. Hunter’s head bobbed. “I’m sure.”

      With the freezing temperature, Mayor Watson’s rather bulbous nose had turned an appropriate cherry-red. “Not a new rope? Or a saddle? Or—”

      “Dat’s the only ding I want for Chwismas, Santa.” Hunter’s face turned unusually solemn.

      Watson tugged at his snow-white beard. “That sort of gift is kinda hard to come by.” His eyes darted to Jonas.

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