Page 38 of Christmas at Wolf Creek

“Found them!” Nora announces triumphantly, emerging from the kitchen with a tin box rattlingwith cookie cutters. “And the special sprinkles! And Mom’s recipe book!”

“Perfect,” I smile, taking the items from her while Kane grabs our duffel bags. “Anything else we need?”

Nora thinks for a moment, then gasps. “The stockings! We need our special stockings for the fireplace at the lodge!”

She darts back into the living room, returning with the hand-knit stockings I bought from a local artisan our first Christmas here. They’re simple but beautiful—deep green with our names embroidered in silver thread.

“Can’t forget these,” Kane agrees seriously. “I think there’s room on the mantel between mine and Declan’s.”

Nora beams at the idea of our stockings mingling with the others, another symbol of belonging that makes my heart swell.

As we load everything into Kane’s truck, Scout happily settles in the back seat beside Nora, and I find myself looking forward to the rest of the day with genuine anticipation instead of dread. Cookie baking. Sledding. Decorating our cottage. Simple pleasures that suddenly seem precious beyond measure.

“Ready?” Kane asks, hand on the ignition.

I take one last look at our cottage, nestled among the pines like something from a storybook. Whatever happens next, whatever storm is brewing, we’ll faceit after Christmas, after we’ve given Nora the holiday she deserves.

“Ready,” I confirm, and mean it.

Chapter 18

Jake

Islam my truck door and stare at the Rusty Nail’s weathered sign, wondering why I agreed to this. The parking lot’s packed with trucks and SUVs, most with Wolfcreek Ranch staff inside, blowing off steam. Friday night tradition, they call it.

A tradition I’ve avoided for four years.

But Cole wouldn’t take no for an answer. “You can’t keep hiding on that mountain forever,” he’d said while we were fixing the fence line yesterday. “Besides, everyone’s gonna be there. Eventhe MacGallans.”

That last part is why I’m here, though I’d never admit it, not to Cole, not to anyone.

I push through the heavy wooden door into a wall of warmth, laughter, and Merle Haggard from the jukebox. The place is packed, Christmas lights strung haphazardly across the ceiling, adding a festive glow to the usual dim atmosphere. I spot Cole at the bar and make my way over, nodding at the locals who recognize me.

“Thought you might chicken out,” Cole grins, sliding a beer my way. “Glad to see you still remember how to socialize.”

“Don’t get used to it,” I grumble, taking a long pull from the bottle. “One drink, then I’m heading back.”

“Sure you are,” he says, not believing me for a second. His eyes drift toward the back of the bar. “They’re over there, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

I follow his gaze, trying to appear casual. The MacGallans have commandeered the large corner booth —the one with a good view of the small dance floor. The small-town gossip has me guessing which is which. Kane, I know, and his girlfriend with the choppy haircut. The tall redhead—Kat, and the shorter plump lady, Wren, I think— the dark-haired one who’s always taking photos, and the tall guy who looks like he belongs in a boardroom, not a country bar.

And Ella. My heart does that stupid thing it always does when I see her.

She’s laughing at something one of them just said, her head thrown back, hair catching the colored lights. She’s wearing a simple green sweater that brings out the amber flecks in her eyes, jeans that hug curves I’ve tried not to notice for four years. Tried and failed.

“You’re staring,” Cole observes dryly.

“I’m not,” I lie, taking another drink. “Just surprised to see her here. She doesn’t usually come to these things.”

“Four years she’s lived here, and you still don’t know how to talk to her like a normal person,” he sighs, shaking his head. “It’s painful to watch, man.”

I scowl at him. “We talk. We’re neighbors.”

“Yeah, and that’s all you’ve been, because you walk around like you’ve got a stick up your ass whenever she’s within fifty feet.”

He’s not wrong, which makes it worse. Four years of polite nods, brief conversations about property lines and broken fences. Four years of keeping my distance because that’s what she seemed to want—space, privacy, a simple life with her daughter away from complications.

Complications like me.