Page 16 of Christmas at Wolf Creek

She tenses slightly, then relaxes with a forced casualness. “Not really. We moved around a lot. Never stayed in one place long enough to feel part of a community.”

Another piece of the Ella puzzle slides into place. I wonder how much of her childhood was spent on the run, hiding from the same dangers that eventually brought her to this remote mountain hideaway.

“Well, you’re part of this community now,” I say lightly, bumping her shoulder with mine. “Gingerbread construction crew and all.”

Her smile turns genuine. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

A commotion from the front of the bakery draws our attention—raised voices, followed by the bell over the door jingling violently. Ella’s head snaps up, her body instantly alert, as of a deer sensing danger.

“What was that?” she asks, already moving toward the front, her wet hands leaving damp prints on her apron.

I follow, curiosity mixing with a vague sense of unease. The front of the bakery is empty except for Helen, who stands with her hands on her hips, glaring at the door.

“What happened?” Ella asks, her voice tight.

“Just some kids trying to get in,” Helen huffs, adjusting her hairnet with irritation. “Rattling the door and pressing their faces against the glass even though the ‘Closed’ sign is clearly visible. I shooed them away.” She shakes her head in exasperation. “Parents these days don’t teach respect for business hours.”

I feel Ella’s body relax beside me, the tension draining from her shoulders. “Just kids,” she repeats, her voice returning to normal. “I thought maybe it was—” She stops herself, shaking her head. “Never mind.”

“Hooligans are what they are,” Helen continues, bustling back toward the kitchen. “Now come on, we’ve got a village to build. Frank already started assembling the first house.”

I linger for a moment, watching as Ella takes a deep breath before following Helen. The fear in her eyes when she heard the commotion wasn’t normal—it was the look of someone expecting the worst. Someone who’s spent years looking over her shoulder.

I glance out the front window at the empty street, wondering what—or who—she thought might be at the door. The Russian ex? Someone else entirely? She has secrets that's for sure.

With one last look at the quiet street, I turn and head back to join the others. The gingerbread village awaits, and for now at least, we’re all safe inside its sugary walls.

Chapter 8

Kori

Ifeel Kane’s hand on the small of my back as we watch Mia disappear toward the front of the bakery. His touch is casual but grounding, the way it always seems to be when the chaos of his newfound family surrounds us.

“Probably just some sugar-deprived locals,” he murmurs close to my ear, but I notice how his eyes follow Ella when she returns, how he studies her face with subtle concern.

“Mmm,” I agree, leaning slightly into his warmth. “Though I can’t blame them. Thisplace smells incredible.”

The scent of gingerbread has permeated everything—my hair, my clothes, probably even my skin at this point. After hours of rolling, cutting, and baking, my arms ache pleasantly, and a thin film of flour covers my forearms despite multiple trips to the sink.

“Break time!” Frank announces, clapping flour-covered hands together. “Everyone, grab some lunch. We need fresh energy before we start the next phase!”

Kane tugs me toward the door. “Let’s get some air. I saw a deli across the street.”

I nod, grateful for the chance to stretch my legs. As much as I’m enjoying this unexpected family activity, the bakery has grown increasingly warm and crowded throughout the morning.

We step outside into the crisp mountain air, and I take a deep breath, letting it clear the sugar haze from my mind. Pinecrest’s main street is bustling with weekend activity—locals shopping, tourists taking photos of the Christmas decorations that seem to multiply daily.

“This place really goes all-in for the holidays,” I observe as we cross the street toward the deli. Every lamppost sports an evergreen wreath, and workers are stringing lights between buildings, creating what will soon be a canopy of twinkling stars overhead.

“Small towns,” Kane shrugs, but there’s a hint ofwonder in his voice too. “Toronto’s decorations always felt... corporate. Like they were checking a box rather than creating something meaningful.”

“You sound almost sentimental,” I tease, bumping his shoulder with mine. “Careful, or people might think you’re actually enjoying this family Christmas stuff.”

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t deny it. Instead, he holds the deli door open for me with exaggerated chivalry. “After you, my lady.”

The deli is warm and inviting, with a menu board advertising holiday specials with names like “Santa’s Helper” and “Reindeer Reuben.” We order sandwiches and hot drinks, then find a small table by the window where we can watch the street activity.

“So,” I say, wrapping my hands around my mug of hot apple cider, “how are you really doing with all this?”