Roxanne had, of course, never been in a Snowcat. Part truck and part tractor, the Snowcat seemed weirdly powerful as it waited, engine purring in the snow, as Mark helped her climb up into the passenger seat and closed the door behind her. Big, square, and rumbling, it was by far the oddest vehicle she had ever ridden in. As Roxanne settled in to the bucket seat her gaze followed Mark’s path as he moved around the nose of the cab to the driver’s seat, her peripheral vision examining the interior of the Snowcat in tandem. The Snowcat felt less like a vehicle and more like a machine, and it was hard not to be amazed by how many knobs and gauges decorated the wide dashboard of the truck. Roxanne had thought her BMW 430i had an excessive number of bells and whistles, and it did, but the cockpit of her car did not compare to that of the Snowcat, which had more pedals and levers than she could dream up uses for.

It was larger and roomier inside than it appeared from the outside, with enough space in the floorboard of the front seat for Roxanne’s luggage to sit comfortably and still leave plenty of room for her feet. A large center console and two long gearshifts separated the bucket seats, and Mark had neatly piled all of the children’s gifts into the backseat of the red cab. Underneath the cab rubber tracks wrapped over rubber wheels like the body of a giant, black caterpillar, which gave the entire machine an odd, rocking type of stance as it rumbled impatiently as Mark climbed into the driver’s seat and buckled in. One of those pine scented tree air fresheners hung from the rearview mirror, and an old AM/FM radio had been fitted into the dash. It apparently only picked up two stations, both of which blasted Christmas carols. 

“Which do you prefer, navigator?” Mark asked her, handing her matching yellow legal pads—one of which was a list of children’s names and ages, the other an itemized inventory of all the gifts they’d wrapped—as he adjusted various mirrors and turned on the defroster. With a gloved hand, he twisted the knobs on the old analog radio. “Classics,” he asked, pausing as Burl Ives’ rich vibrato filled the cab, and then spinning forward until Mariah Carey’s smooth soprano warbled through the airwaves, “or modern?”

“Classics,” Roxanne decided. They’d been playing Mariah’s album on repeat in the lobby of Vogue headquarters when she’d left the City, and she would do just as well never hearing it again.

Mark nodded in agreement, adjusting back to Burl and then lowering the volume so they could talk easily over the music. “Can’t beat an old favorite.”

Roxanne settled one of the pads on each of her knees, and admired Mark’s neat penmanship. The lists were long, but not overwhelming, and Roxanne knew her way around a good list. “Okay, Santa, what’s the plan?”

Mark pulled a lever, adjusted a knob, and shifted out of neutral. The Snowcat purred gratefully as it lurched forward into the snow, crunching powder under its tracks as it moved forward confidently. “I’ll drive the sleigh if you take care of the lists,” he winked at her and smiled. “Make sure to check them twice.”

For the next several hours, they moved through the snow, visiting small homes and delivering the gifts that Mark carefully selected from the stash in the back seat. They made a great team: Mark would recite the address of each home as they arrived and Roxanne would give the names and ages of the children from the first list, then after he’d picked up, shaken, and pondered several gifts, she’d strike the number from the bottom of the package he’d chosen from the corresponding second list as Mark slipped out of the cab and jogged to the front door with his selections in hand. He took his time choosing the perfect gift for each of children on the list, and Roxanne wondered if he knew all of them personally. When she asked he said no, but she wasn't sure she believed him.

Each time Mark delivered a gift he was received with warm hugs and firm handshakes by everyone who greeted him, furthering Roxanne’s suspicion that he was no stranger to the people on his Christmas list. He never returned to the Snowcat empty handed either, bringing back freshly baked bread and pies, and even a lovely knit blanket and a candy cane tree ornament. Sometimes he didn’t knock on the door at all but hid gifts underneath the front door mat or beside a pair of work boots on the stoop, holding his finger to his lips as he ran in a crouch back to the Cat and backed as noiselessly as possible out of the driveway.

Mark’s enthusiasm for his role as Santa was infectious, and sometime between the first house and the fifteenth Roxanne realized she was singing along with the radio and enjoying picking out the perfect gifts as much as he was. In fact, she’d almost completely forgotten that she was due back at her family’s cabin or that Hunter hadn’t bothered to check on her after her trip. She’d stopped checking her phone around the time that they’d unwrapped one of the pies—a cinnamon apple crisp—and dug in with two plastic forks Mark had pulled from the center console. It wasn’t as delicious as the maple pie, but it still tasted amazing.

When at last they pulled into a long stretch of gravel that was the entrance to the final house on their list, Mark crept slowly up the drive and killed the engine. “Come with me on this one,” he invited her, moving the last three gifts off the backseat and laying them in her arms.

“Oh, I don’t think I should,” she protested, but he waved her away, slipping out of his seat and closing the door behind him before she could conjure up a believable reason why she shouldn’t. Roxanne was still objecting when he opened her door and reached for her hand. Clutching the presents against her chest, she slipped her glove into his and bit her lip, but she allowed herself to be led out of the Snowcat.

“Don’t be shy,” Mark teased as she stepped down the guardrails and sank one foot into ankle deep white. “They don’t bite. I promise.”

“It’s not biting I’m worried about, it’s—” The air outside was cold and smelled like snow, and Roxanne was still saying something about feeling weird delivering presents to people she didn’t know when her left foot slipped suddenly on patch of ice.

It happened faster than she could have expected. First she was looking at the trees and ground blanketed in peaceful white calm, and then she was against Mark’s chest, clinging to his jacket as she struggled to regain her footing in his arms. The presents tumbled unceremoniously into the snow, thudding as they fell onto the ground, but he held her easily, his right arm around the small of her back and his left hand on her elbow as he griped her tightly against him. “I’ve got you,” he said softly, reassuringly, and there was the first hint of something unsaid in his voice as Roxanne tilted her head to his and lost herself in the deep green of his eyes. It was suddenly so warm—hot even—that the wintery weather might as well have been replaced by a summer heat wave as Roxanne stared into the ranger’s eyes.

Mark’s lips were inches from hers, and she wanted to taste them more than all the pies that were tempting her in the cab of the Snowcat. She could feel his arms tightening around her, the hand that had been on her elbow joining his other wrapped around her back, and she let her eyelids flutter shut as he lifted her against him, closing the distance between their bodies through the soft press of their thick winter coats.

Mark’s breath was tickling against Roxanne’s lips when she heard the shrill sounds of a child’s voice calling across the snow. “It’s Officer Mark,” it said, “hey Mikey and Clara, Officer Mark is here!”

This was followed by a banging sound of a front door and the patter of several pairs of little feet pounding across the snow. Roxanne pretended to brush a lock of hair out of her eyes as she hid the blush in her cheeks from Mark and diverted her gaze, anchoring her feet in the slippery patch so she could safely let go of her grip on his coat and peel herself away from him. He cleared his throat and unwound his arms, then bent to retrieve the presents strewn across the snowy ground.

By the time he stood back up, gifts cradled in the crook of his left arm, the tension between them was gone, and Mark hooked his right palm on her elbow as they moved in the direction of the children, who were slowly making their way toward them over the snow-topped lawn.

“Hey Costas!” he called brightly and Roxanne smiled as politely as she could at them. She’d never spent much time around kids, except for the occasional few that appeared on the set of a photo shoot in her building. They were generally sticky and prone to tantrums, and they had a particular habit of making Roxanne very, very uncomfortable. It wasn’t that she didn’t like kids, it was more than she was mildly frightened of them. She could barely even remember her nieces and nephews names, and she was pretty sure she’d never hugged any of them.

The two boys—Charlie, the one who’d called from the door, and Mikey—looked like twins. Clara, the youngest, ran up with her brothers but hid her face shyly behind a raggedy baby doll when she looked at Mark, and it wasn’t hard to miss the pink in her cheeks when she looked at the strapping ranger. She was holding a sprig of something green in her hand, but quickly hid it in her pocket. Naturally, he pretended not to notice his youngest fan’s ardor and, after handing off the presents to her brothers, swept her up in his arms. “I think you’ve gotten even prettier since the last time I saw you, Clara Costa,” he cooed at her, which made the pink in her cheeks turn scarlet. “Santa left this at my house by mistake”—he continued, handing her a small, lumpy package from inside of his coat—“but I think it was meant for you.”

Her face lit up by smiles, the little girl tore off the wrapping paper to expose a doll with strawberry curls and a gingham dress. She grinned at Mark and squeezed her arms around his neck, her eyes falling on Roxanne as she laid her head in the hollow of Mark’s shoulder. “Who’s she?” she asked with the thinly veiled jealousy of a little girl in love.

Mark turned his back on the boys so that he and Clara could face Roxanne while she shook in her borrowed winter gear. “That,” he said, winking conspiratorially at Roxanne, “is my friend Roxy.” Clara looked skeptical as Roxanne attempted a casual wave. “She lives in New York City,” Mark went on, and the skepticism in the little girl’s eyes morphed immediately into interest, “and she works for a big fashion magazine with lots of beautiful people. She’s very smart. I bet if you ask her real nicely, she’ll help you pick out a name for your new friend.”

Clara wriggled out of Mark’s arms anxiously and sped to Roxanne, then thrust the new doll in her hands. Roxanne gave a panicked look to Mark, who nodded at her encouragingly. “Hi Clara,” she said, clearing her throat when her voice cracked on the little girl’s name. “I used to have a doll just like this,” she said. “I even sewed it a dress that looked very similar to this one.” Clara was now looking up at her with the same sort of admiration she’d given the ranger, and it made Roxanne’s insides feel like jelly. Suddenly, more than anything, she wanted to deserve it. She wasn’t sure anyone had ever looked at her that way before, and she felt so weirdly maternal she almost reached out and hugged the little girl. If Spencer had seen her like this, he’d have teased her mercilessly…forever.

As Roxanne turned the doll over in hands, something cold whizzed passed her head. Then another. A third hit Mark square in the back and Clara flung her arms around Roxanne’s waist as Mark spun in front them, his arms spread wide and defensively. “It’s an attack,” he yelled in an exaggerated, playful voice. “Quick! Get behind me girls, I’ll protect you.” No sooner had he finished his vow than another pair of snowballs flew over a makeshift dune in the snow. One hit Mark in the arm, the other in the leg. The girls ducked behind him as he scooped up a palm-full of snow and prepared to return fire.

Twenty minutes and dozens of snowballs later, everyone was caked in melted snow. Roxanne had initially hidden behind Mark, then the Snowcat, but when Clara had tossed her dolls down in the snow and made miniature snowballs of her own, Roxanne had been moved into battle, too. At first it was hard to tell who was winning, but the speed and tirelessness of the twins had been edging above Mark and the girls’.

At the moment, Mark had his hands on his knees and was pleading for mercy while the boys hid behind their dune, either making more ammunition or considering the ranger’s surrender—it was impossible to know which.

Roxanne saw her opening to be a hero and turn the tables. She gathered up her snowballs and Clara’s into the curve of her arm. The twins had been banking on Mark as their most dominant component and had underestimated the women behind the Snowcat. If she could run up in front of Mark, she could pelt the boys behind the dune with handfuls of snowballs at once, then scurry onto the front porch and slip behind a rocking chair that had been designated as neutral territory.

Her plan was good, but her timing was off, and the scrunching sounds of her leather pants gave her away. No sooner had she emerged from behind the open passenger side door of the Snowcat the top of the boys’ heads appeared behind the curve of the snow bank. She saw that they had not been considering Mark’s surrender after all, but had been busy rolling a snowball the size of a snowman’s belly, which they had loaded into a slingshot fashioned from one of their scarves.

The next few seconds passed in slow motion. Roxanne was carried forth by her own momentum, Clara squealed out in warning, and Mark turned then dove in front of Roxanne. The giant snowball hit him in the stomach, slamming into Roxanne, and throwing them both into a tangled heap of arms and legs on the snow.

It took them both a minute to catch their breath, but when they did Roxanne was very aware of the way his body felt on top of hers. The boys were cheering somewhere near them, and Clara ran up to stand over them, giggling.

“My hero,” Roxanne whispered, the volume of her voice cut in half from the fall and the faraway sensation she felt under the weight of Mark’s body.

Whatever Mark was saying back was lost inside a heavy exhale of breath, but it sounded like he was torn between a “you’re welcome” and an apology. One of his hands was wedged against the side of her cheek, and she could feel its heat despite the icy glove.

In her peripheral vision, Roxanne saw Clara hovering above them, holding something in her hand. It was green with white berries, tied in a red bow. Roxanne realized with a heart thump that the little girl was holding a sprig of mistletoe. It was crumpled and looked like it had been in her pocket for a long time, but it was still clinging dearly to life. She held it above their heads, but the doll in the gingham dress did the talking for her.

“You have to kiss her now,” Clara mumbled in a sweet ventriloquist’s voice, bobbing the doll around in the air with the hand not holding the mistletoe.

From his position above her, Mark looked at Roxanne apologetically, his brows furrowed in a look that said plainly he did not know how to proceed. It was the first time she’d seen the capable ranger lost for words, and at no point in the past twenty-four hours they’d spent together had he looked so completely irresistible. “It is mistletoe,” she managed to whispered around the lump in her throat.

The tension in Mark’s eyebrows loosened and his thumb brushed across her cheek as he lowered his face to hers.

“It is mistletoe,” he agreed, his voice a deep rumble. This time when Roxanne heard the sound of sleigh bells they were clear and distinct, and then Mark pressed his lips against hers.