I hadn’t planned to share this, but something about the quiet forest and the kind look in Becken’s eyes made the words come easier.
“They had no children of their own. Never wanted any, really. They had a fancy lifestyle, lots of social engagements.” I adjusted my grip on the reins. “They did their best, I suppose. They gave me a place to live, an education, and opportunities. But they never quite knew what to do with a child.”
Becken remained silent, listening.
“I learned to be quiet. To fit into the spaces they left in their lives.” The familiar ache bloomed in my chest, an old companion I’d never quite managed to evict. “I got good at figuring out whatpeople wanted and providing it. I became the perfect guest in my own home.”
I glanced at him, expecting pity, but his expression held something deeper. The lines around his eyes had softened, and his mouth was set in a thoughtful line rather than its usual stern press.
“Orcs raise younglings differently,” he finally said. “The whole community participates. My parents…” He paused, navigating Peeka around a fallen log. “They celebrated each milestone. Each achievement. My father taught me to track, to hunt. My mother showed me how to care for sorhoxes and how to prepare our favorite foods. Every youngling is considered a gift.”
He held my gaze across the space between our mounts. “I’m sorry yours died. Sorry you weren’t raised by people who could love you for who you were, not who they wanted you to be.”
The simple honesty in his words made my throat tighten. I looked away, embarrassed by my oversharing, focusing instead on a cardinal that flashed red in the underbrush.
“It was a long time ago.” I already regretted bringing up personal history. The last thing I wanted was his pity. “Tell me about Christmas in Lonesome Creek. Will the rodeo operation contribute?”
He allowed the change of subject, though his eyes held a new awareness I couldn’t decipher. The forest thinned slightly, allowing more light to filter through the canopy above.
“I’m not sure yet. I’d be curious to hear your suggestions.” He ducked beneath a low-hanging branch dusted with snow, straightening after.
“Will there be a parade? You could include costumed sorhoxes,” I said, my professional mode engaging like armor to hide behind. “And maybe an old-time photo booth with sorhox-themed props.”
“Hmm.” The sound wasn’t dismissive, but considering.
“Azool would be perfect for a meet-the-sorhox children’s event. People love baby animals, and most have never seen a sorhox up close, let alone such a small one.”
Dester navigated around a rocky outcropping, his movements so smooth I barely had to adjust my balance. The leather of the saddle creaked with each step.
“You’ve given this thought.” Becken’s voice held a note of surprise.
“I’m used to it.” Without much of a life of my own, it was natural to think about my job during off hours.
“You’re an expert on something you’ve never experienced?” A hint of amusement colored his voice.
“I observe. Research. Adapt.” I smiled, remembering the countless festival proposals I’d created over the years. “That’s what consultants do.”
I ducked under a low-hanging branch, pine needles brushing across my back. “I’ve never experienced a small-town holiday festival myself. My aunt and uncle preferred exclusive holiday parties, and I wasn’t invited to those.”
Remain in your room, they’d say. We’ll share some of the leftover treats tomorrow.
He frowned before his face smoothed, and I reminded myself not to share anything more. No one wanted to hear my childhood sob story.
The trail narrowed, though we could still ride side by side, our legs occasionally brushing. I was acutely aware of his presence, from the breadth of his shoulders to the confident way he sat on Peeka’s back.
“We’re planning a starlight ride on Christmas Eve.” Becken guided Peeka around a branch sticking out into the trail. “We build sleighs.”
“Then the snow will come in handy. It sounds magical.” The image of sorhoxes adorned for the holidays, moving beneath a starlit sky, sent a shiver of anticipation through me. “What kind of decorations do you think you’ll use with the sorhoxes?”
“Ribbons. Metal bells. Woven leather with sigils for protection and good fortune.” His voice took on a softer quality. “In the orc kingdom, decorated sorhoxes carry messages between clans during winter celebrations.”
We crested a small rise, and the forest opened to reveal a stunning view of the valley below. Lonesome Creek sat nestled in the middle of the valley, smoke rising from chimneys in thin gray ribbons. I could barely make out people moving along the main street, and even from this distance, I could see the Christmas decorations sparkling on the storefronts. The town looked like a scene from a Christmas card.
We sat there, staring at the beauty around us.
When I turned to comment on something, I found him watching me instead of the scenery. Something in his expression made my pulse quicken, an intensity that hadn’t been there before. A snowflake landed on his dark eyelashes and clung for a heartbeat before melting.
He looked away first. “Hungry?”
