I stand at the kitchen window, hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, watching Wyatt's cousin Remy teach his twin boys how to build a proper snowman while Aunt May directs the operation from the porch. The older woman has been here since yesterday, filling every corner of the house with warmth and stories about Wyatt as a mischievous child.
"You're thinking too hard," Wyatt murmurs behind me, his arms sliding around my waist from behind. He's wearing the cable-knit sweater Aunt May knitted him for Christmas, forest green wool that brings out his eyes.
"Just watching your family turn our peaceful ranch into a winter battlefield," I say, leaning back against his chest.
"Our ranch," he corrects, pressing a kiss to my temple. "Our family."
The words still give me butterflies, even after a year of waking up in his arms. Especially after the conversation we hadlast night, when he got down on one knee beside the Christmas tree and asked me to marry him with his grandmother's ring.
I hold up my left hand, watching the vintage diamond catch the morning light. "Mrs. Callahan," I murmur, testing the sound.
"Not yet," he says, but I can hear the smile in his voice. "But soon."
Through the window, I spot movement in the barn. Matty and his family arrived an hour ago for our second annual Christmas morning celebration, and the kids are already exploring the space where Emmy's Satellite Clinic officially opened six months ago. The sign above the door reads "Dry Creek Veterinary Services - Main Office Hope Peak, Satellite Location Dry Creek Ranch."
It's been the best year of my professional life. The satellite clinic allows me to treat large animals without the stress of transport, and the community has embraced the expansion wholeheartedly. Three other veterinarians have asked about establishing similar partnerships with local ranchers.
"The Hendersons' mare is due any day," I tell Wyatt. "I might need to check on her this afternoon."
"On Christmas?" He turns me in his arms, eyebrows raised. "Dr. Sinclair, you're officially off duty."
"Babies don't follow holiday schedules."
"Then Dr. Harrison can handle it. You promised Aunt May you'd help with dinner, and I'm not facing her wrath when you disappear to deliver a foal."
I laugh, going up on my toes to kiss him. "Fine. But if that mare goes into labor during dessert, I'm blaming you."
The kitchen door bangs open, bringing a rush of cold air and Remy's booming voice. "Em! Aunt May's asking for you. Something about gravy consistency and family secrets."
"Gravy secrets?" I raise an eyebrow at Wyatt.
"The Callahan family recipe," he says solemnly. "She's officially adopting you if she's sharing that."
In the kitchen, I find Aunt May standing over the stove, gray hair pinned back and flour dusting her green cardigan. She's a small woman with sharp eyes and an endless supply of energy, and she's taken over meal preparation with military precision.
"There you are, dear." She hands me a whisk without preamble. "Now, the secret to proper gravy is patience and constant stirring. My late husband used to say..."
I listen to her stories while stirring, stealing glances out the window where Wyatt has joined the snowman construction project. He's laughing at something Remy said, his face more relaxed than I've ever seen it. The isolation that defined him when we first met has been replaced by this easy comfort with family and community.
"He's different, you know," Aunt May says quietly, following my gaze. "After Sarah died, we thought we'd lost him forever. But you brought him back to us."
"He brought himself back," I correct. "I just gave him a reason."
She pats my arm with a flour-dusted hand. "Same thing, dear. Same thing."
By noon, the house is packed. Matty and Avery arrive with their three kids, followed by Carly and her new boyfriend from Billings. Mayor Patterson stops by with his wife, and even Dr. Harrison makes an appearance, joking about how much quieter his Christmas is without emergency calls from Dry Creek Ranch.
We gather around the massive dining table Wyatt and Matty built specifically for occasions like this, extension leaves added to accommodate the crowd. Aunt May sits at one end like a matriarch surveying her kingdom, beaming as conversations flow around platters of turkey, ham, and enough side dishes to feed a small army.
"I'd like to propose a toast," Wyatt says, standing with his wine glass raised. The table quiets, all attention turning to him. "A year ago, I thought Christmas was something to endure. This ranch felt more like a prison than a home."
His eyes find mine across the table. "But sometimes the best things come disguised as problems. A limping foal, a demanding town council, a veterinarian who refused to let me stay isolated."
Laughter ripples around the table, warm and knowing.
"This year, Dry Creek Ranch hosted twelve families for Christmas Eve sleigh rides. Emmy's clinic treated over three hundred animals. We've got wedding plans, expansion plans, and more love than I know what to do with."
He raises his glass higher. "To family, chosen and born. To the community. To second chances and new beginnings. And to Emmy, who taught me that opening your heart doesn't make you vulnerable. It makes you strong."
