“Is Ava joining us?” Johanna asked.
Naomi laughed. “Oh, no. She took herself to Antarctica for Christmas, if you can believe it.”
“Woman’s bullshit crazy.” Ghost followed, the bags hanging from his shoulders like they weighed nothing, a hint of a smile on his usually impassive face. Walker caught a glimpse of color from one of the bags as they passed. Gifts. The man who once refused Christmas was now bringing presents.
Movement from the path between the cabins caught Walker’s eye. A figure trudging through the snow, head bent against the wind, clutching what looked like flat boxes to her chest. Maggie Rowe, their newest resident, making her way from Johanna’s old cabin. She wore a bright red beanie pulled low, nearly covering her eyes, and a parka that seemed to swallow her whole.
“Maggie’s coming,” Walker nodded toward the path. “She looks nervous.”
Johanna glanced over, her expression softening. “Poor thing. She has every right to be nervous, but we’ll make her feel right at home.”
As Maggie approached, Walker noticed how carefully she placed each step, trying not to slip on the packed snow. Her face was flushed from the cold, or maybe nerves, as she looked up at them standing on the porch.
“Merry Christmas!” she called, voice slightly breathless. “I, uh... I made pies. Three of them. Maybe too many? I wasn’t sure how many people...” She trailed off, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
“No such thing as too many pies,” Johanna said, smiling at her. “Come on up.”
She had just reached the bottom step when Anson emerged from the forge, his heavy coat unzipped despite the cold, like he’d thrown it on in a hurry. His face was smudged with soot, dark against his pale skin. He crossed the yard inlong strides, Bramble the wolfhound following at a leisurely pace behind him.
“Here,” Anson said, his deep voice carrying across the yard. “Let me help with those.”
Maggie turned, nearly losing her balance on the icy step. “Oh! I’m fine, really, I can?—”
“Got it.” Anson reached her in two more strides, hands already outstretched.
They did an awkward dance of hands and pie boxes, Maggie trying to hand them over without dropping anything, Anson trying to take them without touching her. But as the boxes transferred, their fingertips brushed. Both froze for just a moment, eyes meeting. Something electric passed between them as clear as an arc of lightning.
Anson cleared his throat, breaking eye contact first. “Apple?” he asked, nodding at the boxes now in his hands.
“And pecan,” Maggie said, voice gone soft. “And one chocolate. I didn’t know what people liked.”
Anson nodded, jaw tight, like he was physically restraining himself from saying more. “Good choices.” He turned toward the steps. “After you.”
Bramble had caught up by now, the huge wolfhound padding silently through the snow. He bumped his head against Maggie’s hand in greeting, and her face lit up.
“Hello, handsome,” she said, scratching behind his ears. “Keeping warm?”
The dog’s tail swished once, his golden eyes adoring as he looked up at her.
Walker caught Johanna’s eye, saw the knowing smile on her lips. She’d been right about those two from the start. The sparks were obvious to everyone except them.
Another vehicle approached, an old beat-up pickup that Walker recognized immediately. Boone’s truck, the same one he’d had since he first arrived, was older than dirt and twice asstubborn. The truck came to a stop next to Ghost’s much newer vehicle, looking shabby in comparison. Boone stepped out, circled to the passenger side, and opened the door. His mother emerged slowly, one hand gripping his offered arm.
“He brought her,” Johanna murmured, surprise in her voice. “I didn’t think he would.”
Walker nodded, watching as Boone guided Leonora toward the house. Her steps were uncertain, her gaze darting around as if she wasn’t quite sure where she was. The deterioration had accelerated in recent months, her lucid moments growing fewer and farther between. But today she was here, bundled in a coat that had seen better days, leaning on her son.
It was still weird seeing Boone without Bishop. The old dog had passed in the spring, quietly in his sleep after years of faithful companionship. The loss had hit Boone hard, harder than he would admit. He’d carved a small wooden cross for Bishop’s grave himself, spent hours getting it exactly right. Now he walked alone across the yard, his mother on his arm, the space beside him painfully empty.
“Merry Christmas, boss,” Boone said, his voice gruff as they reached the porch. “Hope you don’t mind. Mom’s having a good day.”
“Of course not,” Walker said, reaching out to take Leonora’s other arm. “Welcome to Valor Ridge, Mrs. Callahan. Please come inside where it’s warm.”
Leonora looked at him with vague confusion. “You’re Walker,” she said after a moment, her voice surprisingly clear. “Boone’s friend.”
Boone’s eyes widened slightly at his mother’s recognition. A good day indeed. He guided her into the warmth of the house, something almost like hope in the set of his shoulders.
Another vehicle pulled up, a practical blue SUV that Walker recognized as Lila’s. She parked alongside the other vehicles and emerged with her arms full—a veterinary bagslung over one shoulder, a stack of folded blankets balanced on her hip, and a shopping bag dangling from her wrist.
