Page 37 of Christmas at Wolf Creek

“What are you going to wish for?” I ask Nora, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

She clutches the star tightly in her small fist, closing her eyes dramatically. “Can’t tell or it won’t come true,” she says with absolute conviction. Then she opens her eyes and grins. “But it’s a really good wish.”

“I bet it is,” I agree, helping her thread the charm onto a piece of ribbon Rory produces from his pocket. “There. Now you can wear it.”

“Breakfast is ready!” Declan calls from the kitchen. “Special Christmas pancakes!”

Nora races toward the kitchen, her new necklace bouncing against her chest. I follow more slowly, steeling myself for awkwardness after last night’s revelations.

But the kitchen holds no tension, only warmth and the controlled chaos of a family meal in progress. Declan stands at the stove flipping pancakes shaped vaguely like Christmas trees, while Kane arranges bacon on a platter. The table is set with mismatched plates and mugs, syrup and butter, and bowls of fresh berries arranged haphazardly down the center.

“There she is,” Declan says, spatula raised in greeting. “Coffee’s fresh. Pancakes are almost ready.”

No mention of Mikhail. No sideways glances or whispered consultations. Just breakfast on a snowy December morning.

I accept the mug of coffee Lana hands me, warming my hands around its comforting heat. “This looksamazing. I didn’t know you could cook, Declan.”

“I contain multitudes,” he says solemnly, then ruins the effect with a boyish grin. “Actually, my housekeeper taught me pancakes when I was ten. It’s literally the only thing I can make that doesn’t come with microwave instructions.”

“They’re really good,” Nora assures me, already seated at the table with a stack of pancakes drowning in syrup. “Try one!”

We gather around the table, passing platters and pouring juice, the conversation flowing easily from topic to topic. Plans for the day—sledding on the hill behind the lodge, finishing the decorations for Nora’s and my cottage, perhaps a movie night later. Normal things. Christmas things.

“I was thinking,” Kat says, waving her fork for emphasis, “we should do a proper Christmas cookie baking marathon. With those cutters that make fancy shapes, and icing, and those little silver ball things that break your teeth.”

“Dragées,” Mia supplies. “And yes, they’re dental hazards disguised as decorations.”

“We have cookie cutters at our cottage,” Nora pipes up eagerly. “Reindeer and stars and trees and stuff. Mom, can we get them? Please?”

I hesitate only briefly. My cottage feels exposed now, vulnerable in a way the lodge doesn’t. But it’s broad daylight, and Kane has already increasedsecurity patrols around the property.

“Of course we can,” I decide, pushing down my fear. “We’ll need to grab some other things anyway, if we’re staying here a few more days.”

“I’ll come with you,” Kane offers casually, though I know there’s nothing casual about it. “Been meaning to check on that loose porch rail anyway.”

I nod, grateful for his tact. “After breakfast?”

As we finish eating, I find myself relaxing incrementally, drawn into the easy camaraderie around the table. Connor and Rory debate the merits of different sledding techniques with the seriousness of Olympic commentators. Wren and Lana discuss Christmas cookie recipes, pulling up photos on their phones to show Nora increasingly elaborate designs.

For a moment—just a moment—I let myself believe this could be real, that we could be a normal family preparing for a normal Christmas, with no shadows from the past lurking at the edges.

After breakfast, Kane, Nora, and I bundle up for the short drive to our cottage. The snow-covered landscape is postcard-perfect, untouched except for deer tracks crossing the winding road. Scout bounds ahead of us as we approach the cottage, diving into snow drifts with puppyish enthusiasm despite his age.

“It looks like a gingerbread house!” Nora exclaims as our cottage comes into view, its roof and eavesoutlined in pristine white snow.

“It just needs some decorations,” Kane agrees, helping her navigate a particularly deep drift in the pathway. “Good thing we bought all those lights yesterday.”

Inside, the cottage feels smaller after the grandeur of the lodge, but it’s home—the place Nora and I have built our quiet life together. Family photos on the walls, Nora’s artwork proudly displayed on the refrigerator, the comfortable mismatched furniture we’ve collected over the years.

“I’ll grab our things,” I tell Nora. “You get the cookie cutters and whatever else you think we need for baking.”

As she races to the kitchen, Kane does a casual but thorough check of the cottage, moving from room to room with a practiced eye. “Everything looks normal,” he reports quietly when we meet in the hallway. “No signs of disturbance.”

Relief washes through me. “Thank you. For checking. For everything.”

He shrugs, uncomfortable with gratitude as always. “It’s what family does.”

Such a simple statement, yet it lands like a revelation. Family. Not just a biological connection, but a choice. A commitment.