Page 3 of Christmas at Wolf Creek

There’s a pause, and I can feel her uncertainty hanging in the air between us. Good. Maybe she’ll take the hint and leave me alone.

“Well, if you change your mind...” she trails off. “We’re just over there. I made pumpkin bread, too.”

The little girl pipes up then, her voice high and sweet. “It has chocolate chips in it! It’s the best kind.”

Melanie used to say the same thing. The hammer slips in my grip, nearly crushing my finger. I swear under my breath.

“We should let Mr.—I’m sorry, what was your name again?” Eleanor says.

“Jake,” I answer curtly, still not looking at them. “Jake Brennan.”

“We should let Mr. Brennan finish his work, Nora,” she continues. “Come on, let’s go hang the ghost on the porch.”

Thank God. They’re leaving. I wait until their footsteps retreat before risking a glance over my shoulder. The little girl—Nora—is looking back at me, her expression curious rather than hurt by my rudeness. She waves, the pumpkin clutched against her chest with her other arm.

Something twists in my gut. I turn away quickly, focusing on the fence with renewed intensity. I don’t need their kindness or their pumpkin bread. I don’t need neighbors or friends or anything except this land and the work that keeps me too tired to think.

Tomas MacGallan bought the place next door about eight years back, but they’re hardly ever around. Just the woman and her kid in that cottage, and occasionally some security types patrolling theperimeter. There were rumors in town about who owned it—some said a wealthy foreign investor was using it as a tax write-off, others said a reclusive tech billionaire owned it.

I didn’t care then, and I don’t care now. As long as they keep to themselves and keep their cattle off my land, we’ve got no quarrel.

Except now there seems to be more activity over there. Cars coming and going this past week. Voices carrying across the fields. Changes in the routine that’s been predictable for years.

I hammer the last nail into the post, testing it with a firm shake. It’ll hold through winter, at least on this section. I’ve got another quarter mile to inspect before sundown.

As I load my tools back into the truck, I can’t help glancing toward the cottage again. They’ve got a string of orange lights going up around the porch now, and what looks like a scarecrow propped in a rocking chair. The woman is laughing as the little girl tries to position a plastic skeleton.

Melanie would be eleven this year. Would she still love Halloween? Would she still want me to carve pumpkins with her, or would she be too old for that now?

The familiar ache spreads through my chest, the hollow feeling that never really goes away. I slam the truck’s tailgate closed with more force than necessary and climb into the driver’s seat. The engine roars tolife, drowning out the sound of the little girl’s laughter carried on the wind.

As I drive along the fence line to the next section that needs work, I catch myself checking the rearview mirror, watching the cottage grow smaller in the distance. The orange lights twinkle like fireflies against the darkening afternoon sky.

For a split second, I allow myself to imagine what it would be like to accept their invitation. To taste homemade pumpkin bread again, to hear a child’s excitement about Halloween.

Then I remind myself why I’m here, in this isolated corner of Alberta. Not for connection. Not for healing. Just for survival, one day at a time.

I turn my attention back to the fence line, to the work that keeps the memories at bay. At least for a little while.

Chapter 3

Ella

“Mom, please? Everyone at school goes trick-or-treating,” Nora begs for what feels like the hundredth time this week. She’s sprawled across my bed, watching me fold laundry with those wide, pleading eyes that make my resolve weaken.

I sigh, setting down a stack of towels. “Nora, sweetheart, we’ve talked about this. We don’t have many neighbors out here, and it’s different than in town.”

“But Jake is our neighbor! We could go to the main house, and maybe afterthat go to Pinecrest.” She sits up, determination written across her face. “Uncle Kane said when he was little, he used to dress up every year.”

Since my half-siblings arrived three weeks ago, Nora has been collecting tidbits about their childhoods like precious gems. Kane, especially, has become her favorite storyteller.

“That was different. He lived in the city,” I explain, though my excuses sound hollow even to my ears. The truth is, I’ve spent years keeping us invisible, hidden away. Halloween—parading around in costumes, knocking on doors—feels dangerously exposed.

“Please, Mom,” she whispers, her bottom lip trembling slightly. “I already have my costume idea. I want to be a cowgirl, like the ones in the books Uncle Declan gave me.”

My heart clenches. For eight years, I’ve denied her this simple childhood joy out of fear. Fear of Mikhail somehow finding us, fear of drawing attention, fear of the outside world touching our carefully constructed bubble.

“What if...” I hesitate, hardly believing what I’m about to suggest. “What if we just did a small version? Maybe visit Jake, then go to the main house to see your aunts and uncles, but that’s it.”