Page 15 of Christmas at Wolf Creek

Kane rolls his eyes. “I was promised coffee and cinnamon rolls. The gingerbread is purely incidental.”

Ella’s face brightens at the sight of him. “Coffee, we can definitely provide. Frank makes the best in town.”

“High praise from a woman who normally subsists on tea,” Frank chuckles, already heading toward the espresso machine. “Coming right up!”

Within minutes, the bakery transforms from a peaceful workspace to a chaotic family project. Helen emerges from the kitchen with the first massive batch of gingerbread dough, her face flushed from the heatof the ovens. “First round’s ready! Who’s good with a rolling pin?”

“I’ve been told I have excellent rolling technique,” Kat volunteers, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

“Ignore her,” Wren advises, accepting a rolling pin from Helen. “She’s physically incapable of not turning everything into an innuendo.”

“It’s my spiritual gift,” Kat agrees cheerfully, claiming her own section of dough.

I find myself at a table with Nora, rolling out dough to a precise quarter-inch thickness while she carefully places the paper templates on top. Her little face is scrunched in concentration, the tip of her tongue poking out between her teeth as she works.

“You’re really good at this,” I tell her, watching as she expertly traces around the template with a pastry wheel.

“Mom and I make gingerbread houses every Christmas,” she explains, not looking up from her task. “But they’re usually small. This one’s going to be big enough for me to stand inside!”

“That’s the goal,” Frank confirms, passing by with a tray of coffee mugs. “Life-sized, structurally sound, and delicious-looking, if not actually edible.”

“Speaking of delicious,” Kane says, appearing at my elbow with a plate of cinnamon rolls, “anyone hungry?”

“Yes, please!” Nora abandons her pastry wheel tograb a roll, her fingers already sticky with dough.

“Wash first, then eat,” Ella reminds her, pointing toward the sink.

I accept a cinnamon roll from Kane, taking a bite and immediately closing my eyes in bliss. “Oh my god, this is amazing. Like, illegally good.”

“Frank’s secret recipe,” Ella explains, accepting her own roll. “He won’t even share it with the staff.”

“A baker must have some mysteries,” Frank says with a wink. “Keeps people coming back.”

The morning passes in a blur of rolling, cutting, baking, and more rolling. The scent of gingerbread permeates everything, and I find myself humming Christmas carols under my breath as I work. It’s oddly therapeutic, this methodical process of creating something together.

By noon, the first batch of gingerbread panels has been baked and cooled, ready for assembly. Frank’s carpenter friend—a burly man named Cole with impressive forearms—arrives to help attach the gingerbread to the wooden frames.

“Now comes the fun part,” Helen announces, producing what looks like industrial-sized piping bags filled with royal icing. “Decoration station is open!”

Nora practically vibrates with excitement, abandoning her rolling duties to race toward the candy table. “Can I start with the train station? Please?”

“Hold your horses, little bit,” Frank laughs. “We need to get the structures assembled first. Then you can go wild with the gumdrop shingles.”

As Cole and Frank begin the delicate process of attaching the first gingerbread panels to the wooden house frame, I find myself beside Ella at the sink, washing rolling pins and cookie cutters.

“This is quite the production,” I observe, nodding toward where Kat is now attempting to balance a peppermint stick on her upper lip while Nora giggles uncontrollably. “Do you do this every year?”

Ella shakes her head, a soft smile playing at her lips as she watches the scene. “Not like this. Usually, it’s just a window display of traditional houses. But Frank’s determined to win this year.”

“What’s the prize anyway? Besides bragging rights?”

“Feature in the tourism brochure, a trophy that looks suspiciously like something from a bowling alley with a Christmas tree glued on top, and a hundred-dollar gift card to the hardware store,” Ella lists. “It’s more about the honor than the actual prizes.”

“Small towns,” I laugh, shaking my head. “I love how seriously everyone takes this stuff.”

“It’s nice, though,” Ella says quietly. “The way everyone comes together. The whole town gets involved—schools, businesses, families. For a fewweeks, it’s like everyone’s working toward this common goal of making the place magical.”

There’s something wistful in her voice that catches my attention. “You didn’t have that growing up?”