Page 17 of Christmas at Wolf Creek

Kane raises an eyebrow. “All what? The gingerbread construction? I think my architectural skills are being sorely underutilized.”

“You know what I mean,” I press gently. “The family. The ranch. Suddenly having a sister and niece. Christmas with the MacGallans. It’s a lot.”

His expression turns thoughtful as he tears off a piece of his sandwich. “It’s... strange. Good, strange, mostly. A month ago, I was alone in Toronto, drinking too much and avoiding my own thoughts. Now I havemore family than I know what to do with, a ranch I have no idea how to run, and—” He pauses, his eyes meeting mine. “And you.”

My heart does a little flip that I blame on too much sugar. “And me,” I echo softly.

“Which is the least strange part, somehow,” he continues, his lips quirking into a half-smile. “Feels like I’ve known you longer than a few weeks.”

“That’s what happens when you cram a lifetime of family drama into a month,” I laugh, though I know exactly what he means. There’s an ease between us that defies our short acquaintance.

“Speaking of family drama,” Kane says, nodding toward the window, “isn’t that your sister?”

I follow his gaze and spot Lana across the street, deep in conversation with a tall man in a flannel shirt and cowboy hat. They’re standing outside the hardware store, and something about their body language suggests the exchange isn’t entirely pleasant.

“That’s definitely Lana,” I confirm, frowning slightly. “But who’s the cowboy? And why does she look like she’s about to knee him in the groin?”

Kane squints against the sunlight. “That’s Jake Brennan. He owns the ranch that borders Wolfcreek on the north side. Bit of a recluse, according to Ella.”

As we watch, Lana takes a step back, crossing her arms defensively. Jake’s posture is equally closed off,his shoulders rigid beneath his worn jacket.

“Should we intervene?” I ask, already half-rising from my seat.

Kane considers this, then shakes his head. “Let’s wait. Lana can handle herself, and small-town feuds can be... complicated.”

I settle back in my chair reluctantly, keeping my eyes on the pair. “What’s his deal anyway? Ella mentioned him once but didn’t elaborate.”

“Not sure,” Kane admits. “He helped fix some fence line last week, but wasn’t exactly chatty. Ella said he moved here a few years ago and mostly keeps to himself. There’s some story there, but she doesn’t know the details.”

Across the street, the conversation appears to be wrapping up. Lana gives a curt nod, then turns on her heel and marches toward the bakery. Jake watches her go, his expression unreadable beneath the brim of his hat, before he climbs into a battered pickup truck and drives away.

“Well, that looked intense,” I murmur, making a mental note to ask Lana about it later. “Maybe they’re competing in the Christmas decoration contest too.”

Kane snorts. “Somehow I doubt Mr. Personality is the festive type.”

We finish our lunch and order sandwiches to bring back for the others. As we step outside, the sound of a vehicle backfiring makes me jump. Kane’sarm instantly goes around my shoulders, pulling me closer to his side.

“Just a truck,” he says, but I notice how his eyes scan the street, alert and watchful.

“You’ve been spending too much time with Ella,” I tease, though I appreciate his protectiveness. “Jumping at shadows.”

He relaxes slightly, but his arm remains around me. “Hard not to pick up on her paranoia. The way she watches every stranger, checks exits whenever we go somewhere new.” He shakes his head. “Whatever she’s running from has left deep scars.”

The observation sobers me as we cross back to the bakery. I’ve noticed it too—the way Ella tenses when the door opens unexpectedly, how she positions herself always to have a clear view of Nora. It’s the behavior of someone who’s lived too long with fear as a constant companion.

“Do you think she’ll ever tell us the whole story?” I ask as Kane reaches for the bakery door.

He pauses, his expression thoughtful. “Maybe. When she’s ready, trust takes time to build.”

“Says the man who trusted me with his family secrets after knowing me for approximately two days,” I remind him with a smile.

“That was different,” he argues, holding the door for me. “You had leverage. And very convincing eyes.”

“Convincing eyes?” I laugh. “Is that a thing?”

“It is when they’re yours,” he says with unexpected sincerity that makes my cheeks warm.

Before I can respond, we’re engulfed in the organized chaos of the bakery. The gingerbread village construction has entered a new phase—large panels of spiced cookie are being carefully attached to wooden frames with what looks like industrial-strength royal icing.