Kissing Under the Mistletoe - By Marina Adair Page 0,46
is out here. We could always use one for the front porch.” Isabel gave the tree a swift kick. “This is nice, but I imagine it would take quite a while to chop down. Even for someone Paul’s size. Too bad you don’t have a man to help out. Well, happy hunting.”
Regan almost shot her a happy greeting in return, but that finger would cost her a whole lot more than a quarter.
“Do we need a man to get a tree, Mommy?” Holly whispered, looking up at Regan as if her answer could forever change the course of her little five-year-old life.
“Are you kidding? Just look at these guns.” She flexed her arms. When Holly didn’t look so confident, Regan dropped to her knees and cupped her daughter’s face with both hands. “No, baby. We just need each other.”
Which was what Regan was still telling herself three minutes later when she gripped the handle of her ax and looked down the line at her competition. Tall, built, and swinging axes, these guys took their Cut-and-Run duties seriously. As Jordan had explained earlier, it wasn’t so much about getting the tree.
The Cut and Run had become a way for the local families to compete on a scale outside of acres, vines, and Wine Spectator scores. For Regan, this was about proving to her daughter that Martin women could do anything they set their minds to. And a tiny bit of it was about sticking it to Isabel, who was standing directly behind her.
“I wanted to let you know that I told Paul not to chop down the tree you were looking at. Holly has been talking nonstop about her dream tree, and I would hate to think that we took something from her that obviously meant so much.”
Regan wondered when Isabel was going to lay it on the line. Yesterday, the list of who was being considered for the musical had been posted. It had Holly and Lauren going head to head for the role of Christmas Kitty.
“You know, I can always lend you Paul after he chops down our tree,” Isabel offered with about as much sincerity as a rabid Chihuahua.
Regan looked at Holly, seated next to the three Mrs. Clauses, and back in the direction of her tree. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll have to pass.”
“That’s a shame.” Isabel toyed with the fluffy ball on the end of Regan’s rainbow cap. “I really wanted Holly to have her tree come Christmas.”
“Oh, she’ll get her tree.”
Regan had never had a father growing up, but her mother always had a Christmas tree. It may have been a different kind of childhood than the rest of the people here, but Regan had never gone hungry and she always felt loved.
She was going to cut down that tree and Holly was going to have an incredible Christmas.
“Just remember,” Isabel added, “you have fifteen minutes to cut it down and drag it across the finish line. Oh, and once you enter the forest there are no rules.”
Regan’s head whipped around just in time to watch her smirk and saunter away, but not before she whispered in Paul’s ear.
Holy crap! She would need the entire fifteen minutes just to get to the tree and chop it down. Plus the thing was a whole three feet taller than she—and that was if she had on her stilettoes.
Regan looked back at the stands and found Holly. Holding a thumbs-up and a bright smile plastered on her face, Holly let loose a “Go Mommy!” and the Mrs. Clauses started doing the geriatric version of raising the roof.
Axes ready for battle and feet planted firmly on the ground, the line prepared itself as Sheriff Bryant raised his gun. The shot exploded and Regan, even though she’d watched him pull the trigger, jumped, costing herself a good three seconds.
Chaos erupted, and good lord, Regan couldn’t find a single other woman in the herd. It was all muscle and testosterone and ego-driven men fighting for the dominant position. Then she received a hard shove to the back and she sprang into action. Okay, it was more like a stumbling start, but it was a start.
“If you are going to represent,” Frankie hollered, swinging the blunt end of her ax and taking out a man the size of Adonis at the kneecaps, “then do our sex proud.”
Regan grunted and, shoving the fuzzy tassels from her hat out of her eyes, zeroed in on her tree. Boots slammed into the packed mud