Page 19 of Christmas at Wolf Creek

“Kane and Kori saw you from the deli window.” She shrugs. “Small town. Hard to have private conversations on Main Street.”

“It was nothing,” I insist, though the memory of Jake Brennan’s cold stare makes my skin prickle. “Just a misunderstanding.”

What I don’t tell her is how he’d cornered me outside the hardware store where I’d gone to grab some extra piping tips Frank needed. How he’d asked pointed questions about who we were, why we were suddenly all over town, and what our “real” connection to Ella was.

“You MacGallans showing up out of nowhere doesn’t make sense,” he’d said, his voice low andsuspicious. “And I don’t like things that don’t make sense in my town.”

The possessiveness in his tone immediately raised my hackles. “First of all, it’s not ‘your’ town,” I’d shot back. “And second, our family business is exactly that—family business.”

His eyes had narrowed, calculating. “Ella Shaw has lived here for years without a single family visitor. Now suddenly there’s a whole clan of you. Right around the time, strange cars have been spotted on the back roads near her property.”

That had sent a chill down my spine. “What strange cars?”

He’d ignored my question. “Just know that people here look out for their own. Ella and the kid are good people. If you’re bringing trouble to their doorstep, you’d best reconsider.”

The memory of his warning makes me press too hard on my piping bag, causing a glob of royal icing to obliterate my gingerbread person’s face.

“Damn it,” I mutter, setting the ruined cookie aside.

“Here,” Wren says, handing me a fresh one. “Start over. Works for cookies and life in general.”

I smile despite myself. “When did you get so wise?”

“I’ve always been wise,” she says loftily. “You just never listen to me.”

Across the room, Nora’s delighted laughter draws my attention. She’s perched on a stool beside Ella, the two of them working on what appears to be a miniature Christmas tree made entirely of stacked star cookies. Their heads are bent together, red and blonde, their profiles so similar despite their different coloring. The love between them is palpable, even from across the room.

“They’re good together,” Wren observes, following my gaze. “Makes you wonder about nature versus nurture. We didn’t even know they existed a month ago, but there are these... moments. Gestures or expressions that are pure MacGallan.”

I nod, understanding exactly what she means. I’ve noticed it too—the way Ella tilts her head when she’s thinking, just like Kat. The stubborn set of her jaw when she’s determined about something is identical to Kane’s.

“Blood tells,” I murmur, then frown as I realize I’m quoting my mother—a woman whose parenting philosophy boiled down to “appearances matter more than happiness.”

“Sometimes,” Wren agrees. “But choices matter more, I think. Ella chose to protect Nora, to build a life here. Tomas chose to be absent from all our lives. Those choices shaped us more than shared DNA.”

Before I can respond, the bell over the bakery door jingles. I look up, expecting to see another curious local peering in despite the “Closed” sign, butinstead find myself staring at Jake Brennan. He stands awkwardly in the doorway, his tall frame seeming too large for the cozy bakery. He’s removed his cowboy hat, revealing dark hair that curls slightly at the nape of his neck.

The room falls quiet as everyone notices our visitor. Ella straightens, her body language instantly alert.

“Jake,” she says, surprise evident in her voice. “Did you need something?”

He clears his throat, looking uncomfortable under the collective gaze of the MacGallan clan. “Got a call from Cole,” he says, nodding toward the carpenter who’s been helping with the wooden frames. “Said you might need an extra pair of hands with the heavy lifting.”

Frank steps forward, wiping flour from his hands onto his apron. “Perfect timing! We’re about to start mounting the larger panels. Could definitely use someone of your height.”

Jake nods, his eyes scanning the room until they land on me. His expression hardens slightly before he looks away.

“I’ll just wash up,” he says, heading toward the sink in the corner.

As activity resumes around us, Wren leans close to whisper, “What exactly happened between you two? He looked at you like you’d kicked his dog.”

“I have no idea,” I mutter, watching as Jake rolls up his sleeves, revealing tanned forearms corded with muscle. “We exchanged maybe ten sentences, and most of them were hostile.”

“Well, this should be interesting,” Wren says with a smirk. “Nothing like forced proximity to smooth over first impressions.”

“I’m not interested in smoothing anything over,” I inform her, picking up a fresh piping bag with more force than necessary. “He can keep his cryptic warnings and small-town suspicions to himself.”

Wren’s eyebrows shoot up. “Warnings? About what?”