Free Christmas At Copper Mountain (A Copper Mountain Christmas) by Jane Porter

right over her head, and told them we’d help them if they wanted to cut the tree down. They said they didn’t need help so we left. But later the tree was still there, and the ax was on the ground, and we saw blood in the snow. We got worried they’d cut off their fingers or something.”
    Harley’s stomach rose. Her heart fell. So that’s how Molly got hurt. She got hit by the ax.
    Brock would flip.
    The kids would be in so much trouble.
    She struggled to smile. “The twins are fine, but thank you so much for checking on them. If you’ll tell me where they left the ax, I can go pick it up.”
    “No need, we already did it,” Paul said. “And we finished cutting the tree down, too. We’d rather do it than see them get hurt. They’re just little kids still.”
    Harley shut the kitchen door, wondering if she should tell Brock about the ax episode or not. He should know, but it should also be the twins who told him.
    She glanced down at the beautiful rustic wreath the ranch hands had made her. It was wonderful, thoughtful, and charming and it’d actually look perfect in the kitchen, hanging on the big river rock fireplace above the mantel.
    She carried the wreath toward the mantel, and was standing on tiptoe, trying to decide where the wreath would look best, when Brock entered the kitchen.
    He’d changed into black plaid flannel pajama pants and a gray knit long-sleeved shirt that clung to his muscular chest and torso, before tapering to a narrow waist. “Thought I heard some of the boys,” he said, glancing around.
    She nodded, trying to ignore how his flannel pajamas hung from his lean hipbones, revealing several inches of bare skin and taut, toned abs between the pajama waistband and the hem of his shirt.
    Her mouth dried. He had quite a hot body. Goodness knows what else all those layers of clothes hid...
    She licked her upper lip, moistening it. “Lewis and Paul just left. They brought back the dishes, and this.” She lifted the wreath. “The boys made it for me.”
    “They made you a wreath?”
    She nodded, remembering how he wasn’t one who liked Christmas fuss. “It’s a thank-you for taking care of them.”
    One of his black brows lifted. “They know you’re leaving then?”
    She carefully placed the wreath on the seat of the rocking chair. “No.”
    “They just made you a wreath for the hell of it?”
    “I think they like my cooking.”
    He made a rough sound deep in his chest. “I think they like you .”
    “I’m not encouraging them—”
    “Didn’t say you were. I meant it as a compliment. They do like you, and I don’t blame them for being appreciative. Maxine kept their bellies full but she didn’t care too much about making them comfortable, or trying to make anyone happy. That wasn’t her job.” His lips curved ruefully. “Or so she’d say when the boys complained.”
    “I can’t imagine those boys complaining about anything,” she said, filling the tea kettle with water and putting it on the stove.
    “They certainly didn’t complain about her cooking ever again after she poured a cup of salt in their stew, and overcooked their biscuits by an hour or two, so that when the biscuits reached their table, they were hard as bricks.”
    Harley laughed. “She didn’t!”
    “She did. You don’t mess with Maxine.” The corners of his mouth lifted. “You eat what she cooks, you stay out of her way when she’s cleaning, and you wear your clothes however you find them... wet, dry, stinking of moth balls, or smellin’ of bleach.”
    “That sounds horrible.”
    “She definitely runs a tight ship. JB calls her Warden behind her back.”
    Harley spluttered. “As in a prison warden?”
    “That’s the one.”
    “No wonder they’re hoping Maxine won’t return,” she said, glancing at the kettle, waiting for it to come to a boil.
    “They said that?”
    She shrugged. “More or less. But it was probably just a joke—”
    “It probably wasn’t.” He sighed, and rubbed