Prologue
Jake Brennen
Christmas. What a fucking joke.
I pour my third—or is it my fourth? — glass of Alberta Premium and relish the feeling of the rye burning a path down my throat, because it’s the only thing I can feel on Christmas Day. The only family I have to celebrate with, my brother Caleb, is probably lost in a jungle somewhere. The bottle was a Christmas gift to myself, wrapped in newspaper, and I opened it the moment I came in from checking the horses.
Outside my window, snow keeps falling, blanketing the world in pristine white, burying everything ugly underneath it. But it can’t bury my ugly memories from that fateful night. Five years ago, this coming New Year’s Eve is the anniversary of the accident. The night I lost Avril and Melanie. I should have been with them. I should have been the one driving Melanie to the hospital. She had been sick for over a week with measles, and her symptoms were getting worse, but no, I was toobusy working a job I hated. All because my boss threatened to fire me if I didn’t. The worst part was that Avril had begged me to stay home. And I’ve kicked myself every day since for not listening to her.
I turn away from the window, and my eyes come to rest on the chair where a photo of our last Christmas together sits. I raise my glass in a bitter toast. “Merry Christmas, sweethearts.”
The house feels especially hollow tonight. Only the crackling fire and the occasional howl of wind across the mountains break the silence. I should have gone to Dave’s, my hired hand, house when he invited me. Should have accepted the MacGallans’ Christmas dinner at the lodge when Ella asked at the Rusty Nail.
Ella. Just thinking about her sends another wave of self-loathing through me. The way she felt in my arms during that dance—small and warm and real. The way she looked up at me with eyes that somehow saw right through my carefully built walls.
A sharp knock at the door snaps me out of my thoughts, jolting me, and I slosh whiskey onto my jeans. I ignore it, lifting the glass again. Whoever it is can go to hell. I’m not fit for company tonight.
The knock comes again, harder this time.
“Jake?” A familiar voice calls. “It’s Ella. Are you home?”
Panic and anger spike in my gut. What the hell is she doing here? On Christmas night? In a fucking snowstorm?
“Jake, I know you’re in there. Your truck’s outside, and I can see lights on.”
I set my glass down too hard—whiskey splashes over the rim. Goddamn it. I don’t want this. I don’t want her here, seeing me like this, smelling the booze on my breath, noticing the red-rimmed eyes I spotted in the mirror an hour ago.
The third round of knocking finishes me.
“For Christ’s sake,” I mutter, pushing up from the chair. The room tilts slightly—proof that I’m well past tipsy and headed straight for drunk.
I yank the door open. Cold air slices through my whiskey-warmed skin. Ella stands on the porch, snowflakes clinging to her hair and her cheeks pink from the cold. She’s bundled in a green wool coat that matches her eyes, holding a covered plate in gloved hands.
“What do you want?” I manage, voice rough with liquor and grief.
If she’s taken aback, she doesn’t show it. “Merry Christmas to you, too,” she says, eyebrow raised. “I brought dinner from the lodge.”
“Not hungry.” I stay planted, not stepping aside. “Go home.”
“You should eat.” She holds the plate towardme. “Turkey, cranberry sauce, corn, stuffing, Kane’s famous mashed potatoes, even Declan’s apple pie—though he won’t admit he baked it himself.”
“I don’t need your charity.” The words taste sour, but they come anyway. “Or your pity.”
Her eyes narrow. “It’s not charity or pity. It’s Christmas dinner. Neighbors do it.”
“Well, I’m not your neighbor.” I lean into the doorframe. “So, you can take your neighborly gesture back to your perfect family Christmas.”
Hurt flashes across her face—then determination. She gestures behind herself, “I live right over there, so, yes, we are neighbors, and you’re drunk.”
“Brilliant observation.” I pick up my glass and toast her with it.
“Are you going to let me in, or do I have to stand out here freezing while you act like a jerk?”
Her bluntness throws me. I expected her to turn away. Instead, she stays, snow collecting on her shoulders, breath pluming in the cold air.
Against my better judgment, I step aside.
She brushes past, carrying the scent of snow, something floral, and a turkey dinner. Inside, the stale whiskey air hits her like a shock.
