Tradition. In my dictionary, tradition is roughly defined as the handing down of customs and beliefs from generation to generation by word of mouth or practice.  In my family, tradition means fattigmann. For those of you without any Viking longboats docked at your family tree, fattigmann is a traditional Norwegian Christmas cookie. A pain to make, not to mention a little dangerous with all that boiling oil, but it wouldn’t be Christmas without fattigmann. Or would it?

I decided to explore the notion of traditions in this novella, creating one character, Lori Beth Whittaker, for whom traditions equal security, and another, Jackson Hooper, who finds nothing but painful reminders in the traditions synonymous with Christmas in Hoopers Creek, Texas. Amidst the trying aftermath of a flood, can Lori show Jackson that there is nothing like down-home tradition to heal the heart?

Regardless of what traditions are important to you, be they generations old or brand spanking new, may they bring you peace, joy and love this holiday season.

Happy Holidays!
Leah Vale 

~ Keep reading for some delicious recipes and have fun with downloadable holidy clip art ornament! Simply click on the image to the right to download a PDF of the clip art (a pop-up window will appear).

Word count was tight, so my detailed description of what the tables were laden with had to hit the cutting room floor, so to speak, but here is what you might have found on the festival table during the town’s Christmas celebrations:

Patsy’s Thumbprint cookies recipe

• 1 cup butter, softened
• 3/4 cup granulated sugar
• 2 teaspoons vanilla
• 1 teaspoon almond extract
• 2 1/2 cups flour 
• finely chopped pecans, almonds, or other nuts, but only if you want a little crunch
• jam, your favorite (mine is raspberry)

If you have the patience, beat butter (with an electric mixer on medium speed, no point wearing yourself out!) until creamy. Personally, I just toss the first 5 ingredients into the bowl and mix them all at once. Go ahead and add more flour if dough is thin. Chill dough 2 to 4 hours.  Shape dough into small balls, then roll in the chopped nuts, if using; place on lightly greased cookie sheets. Make an indention in the middle of each cookie and fill with jam. Bake at 300° for about 25 to 35 minutes, or until firm and lightly browned on the bottom.

Makes about 6 dozen--enough to satisfy at least one hardworking cowboy with a sweet tooth.

Little Bites of Heaven

• 1 package (19-21 ounces) fudge brownie mix and ingredients to make them
• 2 squares white baking chocolate
• 2 tablespoons milk
• 1 8 oz. package light cream cheese, softened
• ¼ cup powdered sugar
• 1 cup thawed, frozen nonfat whipped topping
• 1 pint small strawberries, sliced

1.  Preheat oven to 325 degrees.  Spray cups of mini-muffin pan with nonstick cooking spray for baking.  Make brownies according to directions on package.  Fill each muffin pan(s) cup 2/3 full with brownie batter.  Bake 14 minutes or until edges are set.  Slightly gooey centers are better than overbaked mini-hockey pucks.

2.  Remove pan from oven and immediately tap indentations for the filling into the top of each mini-muffin with the handle end of a wooden spoon.  Set aside to cool in the pan for about 15 minutes.  Loosen edges of muffins and carefully remove brownies from pan, then allow them to cool completely on a rack. 

3.  Combine white chocolate squares and milk then microwave uncovered on HIGH 1 minute; stir until smooth.  In a separate bowl, combine cream cheese and powdered sugar, mixing them together well.  Gradually stir in white chocolate mixture until smooth.  Add whipped topping, mixing gently.

4.  Fill each brownie cup with white mixture.  Stick two slices of strawberries, tips up, on each filled brownie.  Place in airtight container and refrigerate at least one hour before serving.

Makes 4 dozen

Will probably be eaten in a day :)

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CHAPTER 1

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Perez, but there won’t be a Hooper Creek Christmas festival this year.”

Trying to slip into the December evening town meeting, Lori Whittaker nearly stumbled against the rain slicker-clad people standing in the back. Her gaze jerked to the man at the podium whose answer to the question clearly on everyone’s mind amounted to blasphemy in this little chunk of central Texas.

Considering who that man was, she couldn’t possibly be the only one in the grange hall wondering if she’d heard right.

Lou Cambell stood, his green and black plaid quilted jacket spattered with the same muddy residue that coated the buildings on Main Street to knee height. He scratched at his balding head. “No Christmas festival this year?” he asked, confirming Lori’s suspicion.

A pair of strong hands that still had the power to set her heart racing with need gripped the podium. “That’s right, Lou.” Jackson Hooper, great-grandson of Hollis Hooper, the founding father of Hooper Creek and creator of the annual Hooper Creek Christmas festival, met the room’s collective gasp with only a twitch of muscle in his hard jaw.

Those who didn’t know him as well as Lori might miss the tension in his broad shoulders that had filled out since she’d last seen him ten years ago. Probably from carrying the burden of his late father’s legacy this past year.

Sympathy squeezed Lori’s heart so hard she grimaced. What a blow Walter Hooper’s fatal heart attack must have been for Jackson. If only she hadn’t been out of state when they’d held Walt’s funeral. Dallas was far away enough as it was, but at least she could have reached Hooper Creek in time to pay her respects.

And maybe even have been there for Jackson, if he’d needed her.

Heck, there was a first time for everything.

Except, that is, for canceling Hooper Creek’s Christmas festival. There’d never be a good reason for that. Especially not now, when there was so much healing to be done.

What was Jackson thinking?

Using the playful phrase from their past that had started many spirited discussions, she called out, “That has to be the most hare-brained thing you’ve ever suggested, Jackson Hooper.”

Lou turned toward the back of the grange and his bushy gray brows became one. “Who--?”

Lori could tell Jackson knew who had spoken. And his reaction wasn’t what she’d been hoping for in the slightest. No exclamation of delight. Not even brows raised in pleasant surprise over her return. He simply stiffened further and his eyes, the exact deep green as her grandfather’s endless fields of alfalfa she’d once needed escape from, narrowed. Tense and squinty-eyed, Jackson searched for her amongst those standing in the back.

She shouldn’t be surprised he wasn’t glad to see her. Not after she’d chosen the kind of life she’d thought she wanted over him. She’d wanted to experience the world, and his world was Hooper Creek. And neither one of them were known for being compromising.

“Lori Beth?” Her grandfather, Clifford Whittaker, turned and rose from his seat three rows from the front on the right hand side.

As the men she was standing behind, who turned out to be Darrell Swanson and Jeff Hadridson, shifted to look back at her, she went up on her toes to compensate for being only five and half feet tall. “Yes, it’s me Grandpa.” She raised her hand. “Back here.”

Grandpa adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses as if he didn’t trust what he saw. “What are you doing here?”

Lori tugged her black sweater back down from where it had ridden up, and answered, “I--Excuse me Mr. Swanson, Mr. Hadridson.” She squeezed her way forward. “I’ve come to help you, like I said I would.”

“And I said there’s no need,” Grandpa blustered.

Painfully aware of the acute interest of what appeared to be the entire adult population of her home town, most of whom she hadn’t seen for ten years, her throat threatened to close on her. “I’ve been by your place, Grandpa.” She didn’t have to say more. Nor could she keep the self-recrimination from her tone.

She shouldn’t have believed him when he’d told her the small ranch she’d been raised on had been completely spared from the worst flood to hit Hooper Creek in a hundred years. He’d always been so willing to give to her, but turned stubborn as a mule when she tried to give back. She should have known he wouldn’t want to “bother” her, never wanting to take her away from her big city life.

If only he knew how empty she’d come to realize that life was.

After hearing from her grandfather and learning of his losses--that she now knew had been drastically underplayed--she’d looked around her downtown Dallas high rise apartment and acknowledged there was nothing there she’d mourn if she’d been the one caught in a flood. Even after being gone ten years, her strongest ties were to what she’d left behind in Hooper Creek.

She’d known then it was time to see if it was possible to truly go home again.

Determined to regain her place here, she raised her chin. “I’ve come to help. Any way I can.”

Jackson interjected, “Then start by keeping your opinions to yourself.”

Lori countered, “Considering the cancellation of the Christmas festival hare-brained isn’t an opinion, it’s a fact. How can you not see that the festival is exactly what this town needs right now after being so...so ravaged by the worst storm--”

“Storms,” Jackson corrected darkly.

“Storms to hit here in a century? I think the traditions from better days will give everyone a much needed sense of normalcy.” And a sense of security from ties that couldn’t be swept away in a muddy torrent. The same security Lori realized she didn’t have in her big-city life.

The ties she desperately wanted back.

Nodding until her short graying black curls bobbed, Mrs. Perez said, “Amen,” and tugged closed the front of her vibrant red Southwestern-style jacket.

The line of Jackson’s mouth hardened. “Repairing the water main will do that better than any festival.”

Outbursts of agreement, mostly masculine, punctuated Jackson’s statement.

But various disagreements sounded loudly enough to encourage Lori. She moved up the center aisle a few steps. “I’d wager the annual Christmas festival was held long before the town even had a water main.” She spread her arms wide and appealed to the rows of people she’d known all her life. “And who says we can’t do both?”

“I do,” Jackson answered succinctly.

Baffled, she let her arms go limp at her sides. “How can you, when your own father--”

“That’s enough, Lori.” Jackson moved from behind the podium and stormed down the aisle toward her, the heels on his worn black cowboy boots pounding against the grange’s rough wooden floor.

She stood stuck like a fence post when she probably should have been back-peddling, because the memory of Jackson Hooper in all his denim-clad glory had nothing on the reality.

Two years her senior, he’d been a gorgeous, confident young man when she’d left town seeking confidence of her own. The intervening ten years and everything they’d held had turned him into a stunning man, hardened less by certainty than a gritty determination.

His blond hair had darkened and bore the marks of fingers thrust through it. Weariness had deepened the grooves on his forehead and on either side of his full mouth, but his straight nose and square jaw where the same as on the face which haunted her dreams.

When he reached her, he said in a low, rough voice, “Let’s take this outside,” and snagged her elbow. Without breaking stride, he pulled her around and hauled her back the way she’d come, only this time the crowd quickly parted to let them through.

He slowed just enough to say to Mr. Swanson, “See if you can get a list of names of those willing to pitch in and work on the main, will ya, Darrell? The County has turned all the valves off, so it’s good to go.”

Mr. Swanson nodded. “Sure, Jackson.” There wasn’t so much as a flicker of concern for her in his dark brown eyes even though Jackson was bodily removing her from the premises.

Lori glanced over her shoulder at her grandpa, but he’d bent to speak with an animated Mrs. Perez. No one appeared particularly concerned about little bitty her being escorted outside by great big Jackson Hooper.

Probably because she’d spent the end of her senior year in high school and every summer and holiday home from Baylor College hanging on his strong arm, and now he was the area’s most influential rancher, inheriting the role from his father.

Or maybe they just thought she deserved whatever she was going to get for butting in after being gone for so long.

She doubted many knew that once she had an apartment of her own her grandpa had insisted on being the one to do the visiting, claiming a need to get away from isolated Hooper Creek now and again. Sadly, thanks to her traveling for work--visiting various airports to facilitate the training of Southern Skyway’s ticketing agents--Grandpa’s visits hadn’t occurred often enough.

Deep down, she suspected he didn’t want her making the long drive between Dallas and Hooper Creek, so rife with horrible memories for her. As if his making the drive was any better. Although, more often than not, he caught a ride with Darrell Swanson when he hauled stock to the city in his big-rig.

Jackson led her out the door and onto the covered wooden boardwalk outside the small grange hall. As was the case down most of Main Street, the boardwalk’s planks were so warped from water damage it resembled an undulating fun-house bridge. Thanks to the gathering fog, the dank smell of creek backwater was heavy in the air.

She still had a hard time wrapping her mind around the damage. The large creek the town shared its name with was normally relatively shallow and docile.

Even though the door swung closed behind them, he didn’t stop until they were several uneven steps away from the entrance. He released her and planted his hands on his lean hips. “What was all that about, Lori?”

“Hello, to you, too, Jackson. I’ve been fine, thanks for asking.” She made a show of rubbing her elbow, despite the fact he hadn’t hurt her.

His nostrils flared. “I repeat, what was that all about?”

She sighed. The road to reconnection was not paved with sarcasm. She had to remember to curb her tongue in the future. But it was too late this time, and she craved the traditions of Christmas past more than anything. Well, almost anything. “Exactly what I said. Canceling the festival is a hare-brained idea.”

“In case you haven’t noticed,” he waved a hand at the mud and water-stained buildings and occasional pile of flood debris next to the battered boardwalk, all illuminated by the occasional working street lamp, “this isn’t exactly a laughing matter.”

“I know. Which is exactly why you can’t cancel Hooper Creek’s Christmas festival. The people of this town need it, Jackson.”

His hands dropped away from his hips. “What the people need is to concentrate their efforts on cleaning up and rebuilding.” He turned away from her to look out at the battered, lone main drag of little Hooper Creek. Not all that much had changed since his great-grandfather’s era, the town’s heyday. “They don’t have the time or energy to waste on some festival.”

“It’s not just some festival, Jackson. It’s the Christmas festival. The one that brings everyone in town together for a few nights a year, regardless of beliefs or cultural background, and makes everyone feel as if they belong to something bigger and better.” It certainly had for her. She hesitated a moment, then risked adding, “The one your father loved.”

She wanted to reach out and touch him, but something very real--the fact that she’d left--stood between them, so she settled for speaking gently. “The Christmas festival is his legacy.”

He whirled toward her, his green eyes blazing. “I am very aware of what my father’s legacy is, Lori. I certainly don’t need you to remind me. Just as I don’t need you butting in when I’m trying to organize work parties.”

Never one to be cowed, she planted her fists on her hips, mimicking his earlier stance. “Organizing work parties has nothing to do with the Christmas festival.”

He leaned toward her. “It does when the same able bodies are needed to make both happen.”

She raised her chin. “Who says they can’t do both?”

“Who says asking too much of people won’t break their backs once and for all, and drive them away for good?”

Her anger left her in a rush. “Is that what you’re afraid of? That people will move away from Hooper Creek?”

He straightened, his chest expanding as he took a deep breath. “Like I said, I’m well aware of the legacy my father, and his father, and his father before left for me. I can only ask so much of the people around here.”

Clearly he cared so much about this town and its inhabitants. She squared her shoulders. “Then I’ll do it.”

His dark blond eyebrows came together. “Do what?”

“Put on the festival. I’ll make it happen.”

“I thought you came back to help your grandpa.”

“I did. I’m going to. But I can do both.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then faced the street again. He remained silent for so long that she was about to repeat herself, but before she could he pronounced, “No.”

Truly confounded by his stubbornness, she pleaded, “Why?”

“It’ll be a distraction we don’t need right now.”

“Says you.”

He whirled on her. “That’s right.” Leveling a finger at himself, he glared down at her. “I’m not the one who took off for a more exciting life, who hasn’t lived through the last few brutal storms and their aftermath.”

His recrimination deserved, she swallowed her pride and offered simply, “I’m here now.”

“Yeah, but for how long?”

She wanted to shout forever, only she wasn’t so sure anymore. Not if she’d never be welcomed by the one person she wanted to be welcomed by the most.

Her hesitation was damning. Jackson scoffed. “I thought as much. Don’t fill your plate with more than you plan on finishing on your little Christmas vacation, Lori Beth.” He turned and went back into the grange hall, the door slamming behind him.

Tears welled unexpectedly in her eyes. She’d always been just Lori to Jackson. A woman in her own right, not the sad little girl raised by her widowed grandpa after her parents were killed in a car crash on their way to Hooper Creek from Dallas.

Maybe Jackson was right. Maybe she couldn’t go home again.

LIKE IT! ORDER IT!

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