“They thought traditions were messy. Sentimental.” I drew a card, focusing on it instead of the ache in my chest. “The only Christmas tradition I really remember was from before, when my parents were alive. My mother had a snow globe that played “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” when you wound it up. I loved it so much. Snowflakes would swirl around a little evergreen forest with one decorated tree and a tiny rabbit sitting underneath, looking up.”
“What happened to it?”
“It got lost when we moved.” The words came out bitter. “Aunt Misty said it was packed away somewhere safe, and they’d find it after we settled into the new house. We never did. When I asked about it later, Uncle Bart said they’d buy me a new one, but…” I huffed out a breath. “They never got around to doing that either.”
Becken’s jaw tightened. “They threw it away.”
“Maybe? I hope not. Although, come to think of it, it didn’t match their decor.” I forced a smile. “Anyway, that’s why I get excited about Christmas now. I’m trying to create what I never had.”
“Is that wrong?”
“Some people think it’s childish. Overcompensating.” I played another card. “They say I should get counseling. My last boyfriend said I was exhausting during the holidays.”
“He was an idiot.”
The flat certainty in Becken’s voice made me look up. His dark eyes held something fierce, protective. Like the idea of someone criticizing my Christmas enthusiasm personally offended him.
“You really think that?”
“Wanting joy isn’t childish. Creating traditions for yourself isn’t overcompensating.” He drew a card and studied his hand. “It’s brave.”
The word settled into my chest, warming me through. “Tell me about orc winter celebrations.”
“We call it the Deep Season.” His voice took on a different quality, softer, more reverent. “When our world grows cold, we celebrate the warmth we create together. Clan gatherings that last for days. Story circles around glowing pools. Contests of skill and strength.”
“It sounds wonderful.”
“Food is important. Everyone contributes something special.” He smiled, the first real one I’d seen from him. It made him look…gorgeous. I shouldn’t notice, yet I couldn’t hold myself back. “My mother made threethorn cakes with honey from cave bees. My father brewed koranak from fermented root vegetables.”
“What did you contribute?”
“Carved wooden toys for the younglings. Small sorhox figures, mostly.” His expression grew distant. “Wexla helped design them. She had better artistic sense than I did.”
“Your family sounds close.”
“Orcs value community. Children belong to everyone, not just their birth parents.” He discarded and gestured for me to draw. “A child watching from doorways, hoping for attention, wouldn’t happen among us.”
“Different worlds,” I said.
“Very different.”
We played some more, evenly matched, while the wind provided a steady soundtrack to our thoughts. Around midday, Becken disappeared to the supply shed and returned with another canvas bag.
“Trail mix for the longer rides,” he said, emptying the contents onto the bed. “Zhek nuts, dried makra fruit, and velkun seeds.”
The zhek nuts were deep purple, about the size of walnuts but with a sweeter, almost chocolate-like flavor. The makra fruit tasted like a cross between apricots and berries. They were chewy and intensely flavorful. The velkun seeds provided a satisfying crunch with a hint of salt.
“This is incredible,” I said, sampling each item. “The flavors are so complex.”
“Orc cuisine focuses on nutrient density and flavor variety. We needed food that could sustain us during long underground journeys.” He popped a few zhek nuts into his mouth. “These grow in the deeper caverns where most light can’t reach.”
“And you just happened to have gourmet trail mix in the emergency supplies?”
“Humans find our cuisine unusual, and they’re happy to give it a try, but trail mix translates well.”
We shared the snacks while continuing our card games. I studied Becken when he wasn’t looking. The way he carefully rationed the food to make it last. How he unconsciously positioned himself between me and the door, even in our safecabin. The gentleness in his large hands as he dealt cards or arranged the pillow beneath my leg.
“Tell me more about how you became a rodeo consultant,” he said during our third game.
