A Dixie Christmas by Sandra Hill

sofa, with one extended leg propped up on an ottoman, gazing at her with smoldering eyes that promised  . . . well, trouble.
     
    Clayton Jessup, III had looked handsome this morning when Annie had seen him for the first time in his cashmere overcoat and custom-made suit. But now, sporting a nighttime shadow of whiskers, dressed in tight, faded jeans, a white tee shirt and an unbuttoned blue plaid flannel shirt that brought out the midnight blue of his eyes, the man was drop-dead gorgeous, testosterone-oozing, hot-hot-hot trouble-on-the-hoof, with a capitol T.
     
    “I need to talk with you  . . . alone ,” he whispered when Annie stepped close to get the popcorn and cranberry strings he’d been working on for the past two hours. When Aunt Liza had first suggested that he help make the homemade decorations, he’d revealed with an endearing bashfulness, “My father would have been appalled to see me performing this mundane chore. ‘Time is money,’ was his favorite motto. Over and over he used to tell me, ‘You’re wasting time, boy. Delegate, delegate, delegate.’” Then, Clay had ruined the effect of his shy revelation by asking Aunt Liza the crass question, “Don’t you think it would be cheaper, time wise, to buy these garlands, already strung?”
     
    Clucking with disapproval, Aunt Liza had shoved the darning needle, a ball of string and bowls of popcorn and cranberries in his lap. “You can’t put a price tag on tradition, boy.”
     
    Along the same line, he’d observed, “I never realized Christmas trees could be so messy.” Her brothers had just dragged in the seven-foot Blue Spruce from the porch, leaving a trail of fresh needles on the hardwood floors. “Wouldn’t an artificial tree be a better investment in the long run?”
     
    They’d all looked at him as if he’d committed some great sacrilege. Which he had, of course. An artificial tree? Never! Couldn’t he smell the rich Tennessee forest in the pine scent that permeated the air? Couldn’t he understand that bringing a live tree into the house was like bringing a bit of God’s bounty inside, a direct link between the upcoming celebration of Christ’s birth and the world’s ongoing rejuvenation of life?
     
    “Think with your heart, not your brain, sonny,” Aunt Liza had urged.
     
    Now the tree decorating was almost complete, except for the star that had been in the family for three generations, the garlands, and the last of the handcrafted ornaments made by Fallon children for the past twenty-five or so years. And all Annie could think about was the fact that the man had said he wanted to talk with her, alone . About two thousand red flags of warning went up in Annie’s already muddled senses. “If it’s about your threat to sue, well, you can see we don’t have much.” The Fallons were a proud family, but her brothers were trusting souls, and in the course of the evening they’d casually divulged the dire need for a new barn roof, the money crunch caused by lower milk prices, and Roy’s tuition woes. They’d even discussed in length how every year at Christmastime the Fallons performed one good deed, no matter how tight they were for money. One year it had been a contribution to a local farm family whose house had burned down. Another year, they made up two dozen baskets for a food bank in Memphis, complete with fresh turkeys, home-canned fruits, vegetables and preserves, crisp apples and pure maple syrup. Still another year, when the till was bone dry, they’d donated ten hours each to Habitat for Humanity. This year, they hadn’t yet come up with any ideas. But they would before Christmas Eve. Tradition demanded it.
     
    “You can sue us if you want, but it’s obvious that we barely have two dimes to spare. I’ll fight you to the death if you try to take our farm.”
     
    “What in God’s name gave you the idea that I want your farm?” he snapped. Then his voice lowered. “It’s not your farm I’m