Page 44 of Christmas at Wolf Creek

“It’s beautiful,” I murmur, feeling a lump form in my throat. I’ve always tried to make Christmas special for Nora, but our celebrations have been modest—just the two of us in our small cottage. This... this is the kind of Christmas I dreamed of as a child, locked awayin that isolated Irish cottage with only occasional visits from distant Tomas.

“Can we go down?” Nora asks, practically vibrating with anticipation.

“Of course,” I laugh, and she’s off like a shot, taking the stairs two at a time despite my reflexive “Careful!”

We all follow at a more sedate pace, though Kat manages to slide down the last section of banister with a whoop that makes Declan roll his eyes fondly.

The great room is even more magical up close. Someone—probably Kori, given the artistic arrangement—has sorted the presents into color-coordinated piles for each person. Scout lies beside the fire wearing a ridiculous reindeer headband, looking surprisingly content with his festive indignity.

“Stockings first, then breakfast, then presents,” Declan announces, clearly establishing the order of operations. “Family tradition.”

“Since when?” I ask, amused by his authoritative tone.

“Since right now,” he replies with a wink. “I’m making it up as we go.”

Nora doesn’t need to be told twice. She makes a beeline for her stocking, carefully unhooking it from the mantel. The rest of us follow suit, creating a circle of pajama-clad MacGallans around the fire.

“Youngest goes first,” Kat declares, nudging Nora. “Show us what Santa brought!”

Nora needs no encouragement. She upends her stocking, gasping with delight as treasures tumble out—chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil, tiny, wrapped packages, an orange in the toe (a tradition I started our first Christmas together), and a small velvet pouch that catches her attention immediately.

“What’s this?” she asks, carefully untying the drawstring.

“Only one way to find out,” I encourage, as curious as she is.

She tips the pouch, and a delicate silver bracelet falls into her palm. It’s a charm bracelet, with a single charm already attached—a tiny silver star that matches the one from Rory’s puzzle box.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathes, turning it to catch the light. “Look, Mom! It matches my necklace!”

“So, it does,” I say, glancing at Rory, who gives me a subtle nod. The coordination couldn’t be a coincidence. “Shall I help you put it on?”

As I fasten the bracelet around her small wrist, I’m struck by how perfectly it fits her—delicate but strong, with room for more charms as she grows. A bracelet that can evolve with her, marking milestones and memories.

“My turn!” Kat announces, diving into her stocking with childlike enthusiasm. One by one, we all explore our stockings, exclaiming over thoughtfully chosen small gifts—luxury hand cream for Lana,who complains about dry skin from gaming, a rare fountain pen for Connor, who collects them, artisanal hot chocolate bombs for Kori, who has mentioned missing her mother’s recipe.

My own stocking yields unexpected treasures—artist-quality-colored pencils in a tin case, a small leather-bound sketchbook, lavender hand lotion from a boutique in town I’ve admired but never splurged on. And at the very bottom, wrapped in tissue paper, a delicate ornament—a glass globe containing what appears to be a perfect miniature of our cottage, snow falling gently when shaken.

“This is...” I trail off, staring at the exquisite detail.

“Kat found the artist,” Kane explains, watching my reaction. “Sent her photos of your place. Do you like it?”

“It’s perfect,” I whisper, turning it to see every angle of our tiny home captured in glass and magic. I blink back sudden tears, overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness.

“Breakfast!” Declan announces, saving me from embarrassing myself. “I smell cinnamon rolls.”

The kitchen reveals another Christmas miracle—a feast laid out on the counter, far more elaborate than anything we could have prepared this morning. Freshly baked cinnamon rolls dripping with icing, a breakfast casserole steaming in a ceramic dish, fruit arranged in festive patterns, pitchers of orange juice, and coffee carafes.

“Helen dropped this off at dawn,” Mia explains, seeing my confusion. “Apparently, she does this every year for special guests at the lodge.”

“That woman is an angel,” Rory declares, loading his plate with enthusiasm.

We eat quickly, Nora barely touching her food in her excitement to get back to the presents. I can’t blame her—I’m feeling the same childlike anticipation, something I haven’t experienced in decades.

When we return to the great room, Declan once again takes charge. “We’ll take turns. Youngest to oldest, one gift at a time.” He hands Nora a large box wrapped in paper covered with prancing reindeer. “You start, princess.”

For the next hour, the room fills with exclamations of delight, laughter, and the sound of tearing paper. Nora’s pile grows steadily—books, art supplies, a telescope “for stargazing from the meadow,” a handmade quilt with constellation patterns that Wren apparently commissioned from a local artisan.

My own gifts leave me speechless—a professional-grade camera from Declan “to capture memories properly,” a set of watercolor paints I’ve been eyeing for months from Kane, a weekend spa package “for when you need a break” from Lana and Wren.