Chapter 2

“Am I turning into a cliché?” Camille asked.

Lucy paused her grooming long enough to give Camille a scornful look before returning to licking her tail. It served her right, Camille supposed, for trying to hold an existential conversation with a cat. She didn’t need to hear the answer anyway. She already knew she was hurtling right through her quirky-cat-lady phase and heading much too quickly toward full-blown hermit-ville. The problem was that she didn’t know how to change course—or even if she wanted to. Change of any sort, especially the kind that involved interacting with people, was terrifying.

With an impatient huff, Camille grabbed a peanut-butter blossom and plopped down on one of the wooden kitchen chairs. This useless self-reflection was all Steve Springfield’s fault. She’d been perfectly happy living in Borne, finishing up another year alone, only talking to people online or if she couldn’t avoid them when running errands. More than once, she’d been tempted to move to Denver or Colorado Springs, figuring that people might be more inclined to ignore her in a big city than in tiny Borne, where everyone knew everyone.

This was her town, though. She’d lived in the same house since she was six and her mom had died of an overdose. Camille’s grandma had driven to Southern California to pick up her skinny, bewildered self, and they’d lived together in the little house on Pickett Lane until her grandma had passed away when Camille was nineteen. The only time Camille had gone away was for a miserable, anxiety-ridden semester in Boulder as a college freshman. After returning to Borne for winter break, Camille had noticed her grandma had lost weight—and most of her hair. When she admitted that she was being treated for cancer, Camille had switched over to online courses and moved back into her childhood home. In six months, her grandma was gone.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Camille asked Lucy, despite the cat’s complete disinterest in the conversation. “A thirty-two-year-old woman sleeping in the same bedroom as when she was six? I know I’ve taken down the unicorn poster and put away the stuffed animals…most of the stuffed animals,” she corrected herself, since it seemed silly to fudge the truth while talking to her cat. “Still, I should be living in a trendy Denver loft or a suburban fixer-upper or a farmhouse with my husband and six kids by now, right?”

That made her think of Steve again. He and his brothers owned a Christmas tree ranch east of town, and she could picture him sitting around a big country kitchen with his beautiful children—since there was no way his kids could be anything but gorgeous—and his handsome brothers. The mental picture Camille conjured up was so Norman Rockwell perfect that it made her heart hurt, desperate for something she’d never even thought she wanted.

A chime from her laptop brought her out of her daydream, and she shook off the lingering wistfulness. Unrealistic thoughts of Steve wouldn’t pay the bills. Pulling up the new email, she entered the order on her spreadsheet. It was another ranch sign, designed to hang above a front gate, and the customer needed it before Christmas. That was doable—it wasn’t like she had anywhere else to go—but first she’d need to finish her other orders.

Scolding herself for wasting time by letting her mind wander to fanciful places, she hurried out to her workshop. It had been the garage, but her grandma had parked her twenty-year-old Buick outside and had the space renovated once Camille had gotten into metal- and woodworking.

“Watercolors are fine inside,” her grandma had said, “but anything requiring a power saw or a blowtorch stays out in the shop.”

With a shiver, Camille pulled on a sweatshirt hanging on a hook by the door. Although the shop was heated, she kept it a good twenty degrees cooler than the house. Once she started working, she didn’t notice the chill, but the first ten minutes could be uncomfortable.

Moving to her workbench, she allowed herself a small, pleased smile as she looked over her work in progress: a weather vane she was making from scrap metal and found parts. That was another reason she couldn’t leave Borne for a big city. Right now, she was surrounded by ranchers, most of whom were happy to let her pick through their scrap piles of old machinery and fencing and broken tools. She paid them for what they considered junk, and everyone was happy.

She quickly wrapped her curly blond hair into a messy bun and grabbed her welding helmet and gloves. Once she attached the wind cup assembly, she could move on to her favorite part—cutting the running horse out of the ancient truck hood she’d picked up just for this project.

A heavy knock on the outside door brought Camille’s head up, and she pulled off her gloves and helmet, frowning. She wasn’t expecting any visitors, and she tended not to answer the door if someone didn’t call or text ahead of time. In fact, she didn’t like answering the door even when they did give her advance warning. For all her complaining to Lucy and her daydreams of some ideal dream life with Steve and his perfect Von Trapp children, she generally was happiest when people left her alone to do her art and bake sweet things and cuddle her cat.

Silently placing her helmet and gloves on her workbench next to the pieces of the vane, she tiptoed across the concrete floor, careful not to make any noise to give away her presence. She held her breath as she peered through the peephole in the door, specially installed for situations like this. Unless it was a neighbor with a tray of Christmas cookies, Camille was fully prepared to quietly hide in her shop until whomever it was gave up and went away. Not for the first time, she was grateful that her workshop didn’t have any windows.

It wasn’t a neighbor bearing cookies. Instead, Ryan Springfield stood there, his hands jammed in his coat pockets and an impatient look on his face. Of the four Springfield brothers, Camille found him to be the least appealing, although she knew the women of Borne would disagree with her about that. Technically, he was the most classically handsome, and he was the most confident in his charm, but he’d always left Camille cold—not that he or any of his brothers had ever expressed much interest. She made a face, debating whether to open the door. Ryan was a big talker, and she just wanted to work on her weather vane in peace.

“Camille!” he called, leaning forward to bang on the door again, making her jump back as the loud thuds echoed through the workshop. “I have that barn wood you wanted!”

Her frown turned into a grimace. She needed that wood for five separate orders, all of which had to be sent by Christmas. If she didn’t answer the door, she’d have to get the wood by going out to the ranch, where she might run into Steve. Even just the thought of seeing him again made her wilt from humiliation. Why had she thought it’d be a good idea to tell him the story of her first period? Why?

Still peering through the peephole, she came to the reluctant conclusion that she had to answer the door and talk to Ryan. As he started to walk back toward his truck, she yanked open the door.

“Ryan, hi!” She feigned breathlessness so he’d think she’d had to run to the door. “Sorry it took me so long. I tend to play my music too loudly.” It wasn’t a lie…not really. She stepped back, giving him room to enter.

He looked a little startled by her uncharacteristic volubility but quickly recovered his normal smooth smile as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “Camille.” His gaze flicked over her so quickly that she almost missed it. “Good to see you.”

“You, too.” Now that her fake rush to the door was over, she felt her usual awkwardness settle over her, and she scrambled for something polite to say. Steve, still hanging out uninvited in the forefront of her mind, was the only topic she could think of, and she seized on it eagerly. “So…Steve’s home for a visit. That must be…nice.”

Camille thought that Ryan stiffened slightly, but then he smiled so easily that she was pretty sure she’d imagined his reaction. “It’s not just a visit.” He leaned back against the door, looking like he was settling in for a long chat, and Camille wished she’d gone with her gut and hidden until he’d left. “He and the kids are staying. Guess mountain living got too dangerous for him.”

“I don’t blame him.” Even though Borne was tucked at the base of the foothills, close to the mountains, they felt like a far-off world to Camille. She liked safe activities like dancing and swimming and yoga. Sports like snowboarding and mountain biking that involved high speeds and steep hills and possible death just didn’t appeal to her. Plus, there were avalanches and rockslides and bears and strange mountain people—not that she could say anything about strange mountain people, being an odd hermit type herself. She was only a few babbled conversations away from the townspeople crowning her the local weirdo.

She realized that Ryan had been talking while her mind wandered, and she refocused on what he was saying.

“…as soon as the fire department in Monroe hired his replacement, he joined his kids on the ranch. They’re great kids. You should stop out and meet them. I’ll give you a great deal on a tree.” His smile pulled up higher on one side than the other, giving him a sort of sly charm. That look had always made Camille feel like he was secretly mocking her, and she mentally chided herself. That was just how Ryan looked. She was a grown woman, and she needed to quit letting high school insecurities creep into her brain.

“Um…sure.” Clearing her throat, she decided it was past time to bring this little chat to a halt. “So, the barn wood…?”

“Yeah. I think you’re going to like it. We finally took down that old shed before it fell. The wood has got to be a hundred and twenty years old, but it’s in great shape.”

Camille hit the button to open the overhead door. “Go ahead and back your truck inside, and I’ll take a look.” She tried to hide the thrill that had gone through her at his description, not wanting him to see how excited she was in case he jacked the price up. Reclaimed barn wood was crazy popular at the moment. Everything she made from it—signs, furniture, decorative paintings—sold as soon as she listed the items on her website. Maybe it had been worth answering the door after all.

Once he backed his pickup into the shop, she closed the overhead door and went to check out the wood stacked in the truck bed. It was in even better shape than she’d hoped. “How much?” She tried to keep her voice casual.

He was silent for several moments, long enough for her to stop examining the wood and look over at him. She wasn’t sure how to read his expression, and that made her a little uncomfortable. It had seemed like a pretty straightforward question that required a simple answer, but apparently Ryan was in a mood to complicate things.

“Tell you what,” he finally said. “Do you still make those little metal animals?”

“Sure.” She glanced at the shelves holding her smaller pieces, pretty sure that she’d sold the last one—a whimsical scrap-metal beagle—the previous week. The animal sculptures were almost as popular as the barn-wood items. “I don’t think I have any available right now, but I can make some if you want.”

“I’d like to sell some at the ranch shop,” he said. “We sell wreaths and pine boughs now, but I think those animals of yours would fly off the shelves. Could you do some angels or maybe some nativity pieces?”

“Definitely the angels.” Her tone grew thoughtful as she considered the question. It sparked an avalanche of ideas, and she smiled, excited at the possibilities. “I’ll try some different nativity arrangements, too. Maybe some horses… You use draft horses on the ranch, don’t you?”

“We do.” His eyes lit up at the suggestion, and his usual smirk transformed into an honest grin, one that made Camille like him more. “That’s a great idea. The customers love the horses. Some people drive an hour or more to get a tree from us just because they love the feel of the ranch. Your animal sculptures have that same warm, nostalgic thing going.”

“I’ll make a variety for you to try.” Her mind was working at a hundred miles an hour now, and she really wanted Ryan to leave so she could sketch out some of her ideas before she lost them. “Back to the wood…how much per foot?”

“How about you give us a discount on the wholesale cost of the metal sculptures, and I’ll do the same on the wood?”

“Sounds good.”

They worked out specifics quickly. From Ryan’s smug smile as he unloaded his truck, it was a better deal than he’d expected, but she wasn’t bothered by that. She’d gotten a good deal on the wood, and he’d agreed to pay a fair wholesale price for the metal pieces, so Camille was satisfied—or she would be if he’d just leave. She wanted to get the conversation over with so she could immerse herself in her brainstorming.

Unfortunately, it didn’t look like that was going to happen anytime soon. He was leaning against his truck, telling her a story about a hunting trip he’d just returned from, and Camille was having a hard time continuing to pretend to care about what he was saying. Her fingers twitched with impatience, and she shifted her weight from foot to foot, yet still he talked on.

Why is he still talking? She was getting almost desperate. This was exactly why she dodged people at the post office and only went to the grocery store when she knew almost no one else would be there. Her skin felt tight and itchy, as if her soul was going to burst out and run away if Ryan didn’t shut up and leave her alone in the next five seconds. Four…three…two…one…

“Okay!” she interrupted, the word bursting from her as her patience came to an abrupt end. “Nice to see you. I’d better get started on those metal pieces for your store.”

He stopped midsentence, his mouth still slightly ajar, and she didn’t wait for him to respond. Hurrying across the shop, she hit the button for the overhead door and turned back to Ryan. Although she attempted to smile, she was pretty sure it was more of a grimace.

“Thank you for delivering the wood,” she said, knowing that her belated attempt at graciousness wasn’t going to smooth over her earlier rudeness, but she didn’t really care that much. If it had been anyone else, she might have worried about hurting their feelings, but Ryan had enough confidence to absorb the blow to his pride. When he didn’t immediately move toward the driver’s side of his pickup, she briefly considered hiring a shop bouncer. “I don’t want to keep you from your work. This must be a really busy time for you, since Christmas will be here in a few weeks.”

Finally, he pushed away from the truck. “Right. I’ll see you when you have some pieces for the ranch store, then?”

“Yes!” She was so relieved he was finally leaving that she smiled at him much more widely than the moment deserved. He paused, looking thoughtful. She made a keep moving motion with her hands, and he finally climbed into the driver’s seat, although he shot her a smirk first. Camille didn’t even attempt to interpret his look. He could make whatever faces he wanted, as long as he left.

When the engine turned over and he started pulling out of the shop, she waved, her thoughts already back on the nativity scene she’d mentally sketched out already, her mind ticking through her scrap inventory, trying to pick out pieces that would work.

The truck stopped, and the passenger window rolled down.

“Have you eaten yet?” Ryan asked.

She stared at him, the majority of her brain still focused on metalwork. “Yet? You mean today?” It was a stupid question. She realized that as soon as it was out, but it was Ryan’s fault for throwing out such a non sequitur.

His smirk was back. “Actually, I was talking about lunch. We could go to Birdie’s to celebrate our new partnership. My treat. Sound good?”

No, it sounds awful. Camille barely caught herself before she blurted out the words. They were too rude, even for Ryan, who apparently was never, ever going to leave her workshop. “I’ve eaten already. Besides, I have a pile of orders to do before Christmas, plus these new pieces, so…um. No.” It sounded so stark that she added a limp “Thank you.”

His smirk faded, his mouth drawing into a tight line that she actually preferred to his usual smile. At least it showed how he was really feeling. “Another time, then.” The window slid closed, and the truck began rolling again.

As soon as the pickup trailer hitch cleared the opening, Camille pushed the button to close the overhead door. When the bottom met the ground and the door’s motor went silent, she let out a long breath. The workshop was hers again. She took a moment to appreciate the wonderful solitude before she hurried over to her workbench and grabbed a sketch pad. The weather vane was going to have to wait until she’d gotten some of these ideas out of her head and down on paper.

Ryan’s aggressively flirty behavior niggled at her thoughts for only a second before she dismissed him and focused on the nativity scene taking shape on the paper. He was finally gone, and she’d know better the next time someone knocked.

There’d be no answering the door; she’d just hide until they left.

* * *

I didn’t think this through. Camille tapped her gloved fingers nervously on the steering wheel as she drove up the curving driveway toward the Springfield ranch. She cursed herself for not considering the fact that, once the metal sculptures had been planned out and welded and finished, they somehow had to get to the ranch shop. Since she was pretty sure Ryan wouldn’t ever come by her house again after the way she’d shoved him out the door, there was only one option left.

She’d boxed up the pieces, loaded them into her car—the same old Buick that her grandma had driven—and made the trek out to the Springfield Christmas Tree Ranch. Despite her nerves, she had to admit that the surroundings were beautiful. The drive was festooned with garland and lights and red bows, and a pristine blanket of snow covered the gently rolling pastures that made up the front of the property. The rows of cultivated evergreens provided a dark-green backdrop to the shop and the main house, and the mountains in the distance were both hazy and huge.

The whole place seemed almost too perfect to be real, like something out of a cheesy Christmas movie. There was even a snow sculpture of a horse in the front yard. As Camille parked in the almost-full lot, she craned her neck to take in the surprisingly fine detail on the snow horse. She wondered whose work it was, since it was several steps up from the traditional three-ball snowman.

Refocusing on the store in front of her, Camille blew out a breath as she pulled the key from the ignition. The shop was cute, a miniature version of the Victorian house behind it. The engine of the car ticked as it cooled, reminding her that the seconds were passing, and nothing would be accomplished if she stayed out here like a chicken—except that she’d get very cold.

“Let’s do this,” she muttered to the box of metal sculptures. The words didn’t really motivate her, but a minivan trundling up the driveway toward the store did, reminding her that the longer she waited, the more people would see her sitting out in the cold. With her luck, it’d be one of the chattier Borne residents. They’d try to talk to her, and she’d either go silent or start babbling, depending on how her brain wanted to embarrass her today, and then she’d have to pretend she was waiting for someone to explain why she was sitting like a lump in her car outside the gift shop. Then whomever she’d gotten stuck talking to would know she was lying, since everyone in town was painfully aware that she was the friendless almost-hermit.

The nightmare scenario played out a little too realistically in her mind. Hurrying to get out of the car, she circled to the other side to grab the box. It still took a mental pep talk to get her feet to carry her to the entrance, and she shifted the heavy box to her hip to open the door.

It swung open, and she braced herself for the sight of Steve, but he wasn’t there, only wreaths and decorations and people she didn’t recognize. Warm air filled with the smell of pine and cedar and cinnamon surrounded her as she used her hip to bump the door closed. Moving toward the register, she took a better look around, but she still didn’t see a single acquaintance. Thank God.

It wasn’t until her shoulders dropped that she realized how tightly she’d been holding herself. Now that she knew the only people in the store were strangers, she relaxed, and her anxiety about coming to the ranch seemed almost silly.

At the checkout, she set the box on the floor next to the counter. The person working the register looked to be in his early or midteens, with short, black hair and eyes almost as dark, mile-long lashes, and brown skin. He cocked his head slightly to the left and smiled at her, his nose wrinkling just a bit in a way that was achingly familiar.

“You’re one of Steve’s kids,” she said without thinking, wondering if Steve’s wife had been Native American. The boy hadn’t gotten Steve’s light-brown hair or his hazel eyes, although he looked like he’d be as tall as his dad once he finished growing.

The teen blinked, his welcoming expression changing to a look of surprise. “How’d you know?”

“Your mannerisms are identical,” she said, nodding at the hand that was rubbing the back of his neck. “Your coloring’s different, but your smile and the way you move are all Steve.”

“He’s not my bio-dad,” the boy blurted, looking almost guilty, as if she’d accused him of being an imposter.

Camille gave a small shrug. “Matching DNA or not, you’re still a mini Steve—well, not that mini.” He was half a foot taller than she was. “I could’ve picked you out as Steve’s from a crowd of blond kids.”

“Thanks.” He looked pleased even as red darkened his cheekbones. “I’m Will. You know my dad, then?”

“Uh…” She took a moment to hunt for the right descriptor. It didn’t seem right to claim that they were friends, but calling him an acquaintance seemed wrong, too. Her pause made curiosity light Will’s eyes, and she hurried to speak before he misinterpreted things. “I grew up in Borne with him. I’m three years younger though, so he didn’t notice me much.”

Will sucked in his cheeks, looking as if he was holding back a smile, yet again reminding Camille of Steve. “You noticed him, though?”

“Sure.” She tried to play it off in a casual sort of way, as if she hadn’t had such a monster crush. From the way Will’s grin widened, she didn’t think she’d managed. With a mental shrug, she gave up trying to sound blasé. “How could I not? He was my favorite of the Springfield brothers.”

“Really?” Will leaned toward her, clearly fascinated by the potential for old stories about his father. “From what Dad says, Uncle Ryan and Uncle Nate were the popular ones.” His attention moved to a woman holding a tree stand who was hovering behind Camille, and he turned his charismatic, Steve-like smile on her. “Don’t leave yet,” he said in an aside to Camille. “I want to hear about teen Dad.”

With a nod, she stepped out of the way so Will could ring the woman up. This visit to the ranch was going much more smoothly—and more enjoyably—than Camille had expected. Will was easy to talk to, sharing Steve’s sweetness and good-heartedness but not his reserve. With that infectious smile and his striking features, Camille knew Will had to be even more popular than any of the previous generation of Springfield guys. Their easy rapport made her wonder what would’ve happened if she’d drummed up the courage to talk to Steve in high school. Once she’d gotten past his quiet stoicism, would he have been just as comfortable to be around as his son was now?

“Camille.” Ryan’s voice made her stiffen. She turned to see him making his way through the small store. His cheeks were red from the cold, and he seemed a little out of breath as he approached the counter. “I thought that was your car. There aren’t many others like it around here…or anywhere nowadays.”

“Hey, Ryan. Yeah, that’s Bess. My car, I mean. I, um, named her Bess. Bess the Boat, actually, but I shortened it to just…Bess.” Feeling awkward about their last encounter, she gave him a small wave she knew was ultra-dorky, even before Will dissolved in a fit of teen-boy giggles that was equal parts annoying and adorable. She shot him a quelling glance, which didn’t seem to cow him at all. In fact, he leaned on the counter as if getting comfortable to watch the show. The customer was clearly finished checking out, but she didn’t leave. Instead, she also turned to watch. In a town as small as Borne, you had to learn to make your own entertainment…which was part of why Camille kept so much to herself.

This trip to the ranch was quickly taking a nosedive.

“Would you like to see what I made?” she blurted, not even giving Ryan a chance to respond before bending down and pulling out one of the smaller boxes. The only way to get through this with the least amount of humiliation was to keep the interaction as short as possible. No more chitchat with Steve’s kid, or his brother, or anyone else with the last name of Springfield. Just get the business taken care of and then leave her sculptures and this little piece of Christmas paradise behind.

Placing the box on the counter, she untied the twine holding it closed and opened the flap.

“Nice presentation,” Ryan said, and Camille gave him a small, pleased smile. It’d taken some experimenting before she’d settled on her current packaging, and she was proud of it.

“Thank you.” She picked the cloth drawstring bag containing the sculpture out of its nest of colorful shredded paper. “This keeps bits of the packing material from sticking to the metal.” She slid the piece out and set it on the counter. It was her favorite—an abstract of Mary and Joseph, their bodies curving as they leaned over the baby in the manger. To her, protectiveness and love were obvious in every line of the sculpture.

A little anxious about the Springfields’ reactions, she immediately bent to retrieve another box, trying to ignore the heavy silence.

“How much is that?” The woman was the first to speak. “I want to buy it.”

“Give us fifteen minutes,” Ryan said in what was obviously his jovial customer-handling tone. “We’ll need to prepare these for sale first, but I promise that you’ll have first dibs if you decide you want to purchase it.” When the woman nodded grudgingly, he turned his smile up a notch. “Have you picked out your tree yet?”

“My husband’s doing that now.” The woman craned her neck, as if trying to see what else was in the box, and Camille ducked her head to hide a smile. The woman’s enthusiasm was good for her ego, especially since neither Ryan nor Will had commented on the first piece yet. As much as she tried to tell herself that not everyone would like her art, it was still painful to expose her sculptures to potential criticism.

“There they are,” Ryan said as he turned to look out the window. When Camille followed his gaze, she saw Nate Springfield and another man she didn’t know tying a blue spruce to the top of one of the cars. “Looks like he picked a good one.” He paused, his forehead wrinkling with obvious concern. “Hmm.”

“What?” the woman asked, looking from the view outside to Ryan and back again. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing.” He didn’t sound convincing. “I just have a different method of securing the tree. It’ll be fine, though.”

The woman’s eyes grew wide with alarm. “I’d better go supervise.”

She rushed toward the door, and Ryan turned back to Camille with a self-satisfied grin. “That’ll give us a few minutes. Will, grab the price tags, would you? Camille, this is incredible, and it’s obviously in a higher price bracket than the animals. How much?”

She blinked, taken off guard by the question. She’d been so involved in the process of making them that she hadn’t considered the price, but Ryan was right. The nativity pieces were larger, more intricate, and had taken almost twice as long as the whimsical animals he had initially asked for. To give herself time to think, she unboxed the other five sculptures—two more nativity scenes, a horse, an angel, and a lamb—and placed them on the counter.

“Whoa,” Will said, lightly running his finger over the back of the metal draft mare that was touching her nose to her foal. “Wait until Micah sees this. He’s going to flip.”

“Micah?” Camille repeated, trying to place the name.

“My brother. He made the snow horse outside.”

“He did that? It’s beautiful,” Camille said. “How old is he?”

“Thirteen.”

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “Impressive.”

“Yeah.” Will grinned, obviously proud of his brother. “His drawings are even better.”

The other customers had noticed the pieces and were drawing closer, and the threesome outside had finished tying the tree to the car roof and were headed toward the shop door. Their moment of semiprivacy was coming to an end. The tiny hairs on the back of Camille’s neck stood on end at the thought of being trapped in the little store. Quickly averaging her work hours and material costs in her head, Camille said, keeping her voice low, “I’ll need double what we agreed on for the animals.”

“Done.” Ryan didn’t hesitate. Grabbing a piece of paper, he scribbled some numbers and handed the list to Will. “Here are the retail prices. Make a tag for each of them, and set them up in the window display. Just ring them up under miscellaneous until I get them entered in the inventory system. I’m betting we sell half of them in the first ten minutes.” He turned to Camille. “C’mon. I’ll write you a check in the office.”

Once they were out of the store, Ryan slowed and fell into step next to her. The cleared pathway was wide enough to walk shoulder to shoulder, although Camille still felt a little awkward when their coat sleeves brushed. Nate was leading a gray draft horse away from the lot, and he stopped, waiting for them to catch up.

“Hey, Ry,” Nate said. He looked surprised when he saw her. “Camille? How are you? Have you recovered from the other day?”

“Hi, Nate.” She gave him her dorky wave, which seemed to be becoming a bad new habit. “Um. Yeah. I mean, there wasn’t much to recover from. I wasn’t really out that long. There were, you know, layers.” Nate looked puzzled, and she clamped her mouth shut. If she kept trying to explain, she’d just get more and more confusing.

“That’s good, then.” He walked with them, the giant horse ambling quietly on his other side. Even though Nate was a tall guy, his head topped the mare’s withers by only an inch or two. Although he wasn’t as traditionally handsome as Ryan, he had a rugged, wholesome look, reminding Camille of an actor in an old-school cowboy movie. He’d always been athletic, playing football and baseball in high school and spending a couple of years after he graduated roping on the rodeo circuit. According to Mrs. Lin, he’d given up what was looking to be a promising career to help save his parent’s struggling ranch. “Where’ve you been hiding? Up until the other day, it’d been years since I’d run into you.”

Since the answer was that she’d been literally hiding in her workshop, Camille was stuck on how to answer without sounding like a sad little hermit. “I’ve been around. Busy. With making things. Metal things…sculptures, actually. There are some in the gift store, in fact. That’s why I came here today, to drop them off. Normally, I don’t leave the workshop much in December, except to sleep, of course, and eat and sometimes go to the grocery store or the gas station or…” She cleared her throat, knowing she needed to stop talking or she’d only make it worse.

Neither man filled the following pause, though, and the silence grew until it was thick and heavy, weighing on her chest and making it so she couldn’t breathe. Not even the horse made a sound except for the quiet plod of her dinner-plate-sized hooves. The tension built with every step until Camille couldn’t take the silent awkwardness for even one second longer. She had to say something. “What’s with the horse?”

“Buttercup?” Nate tugged affectionately at her long forelock. “She’s on duty.” At Camille’s curious look, he continued. “We use the horses to bring the trees to the lot. The customers pick the one they want, we cut it down, and then Miss Buttercup here pulls it to their car. It’s not the most efficient way, but the customers love it.” He rubbed under the strap of the mare’s halter, and she twisted her head, pushing into his hand as if he’d found an itchy spot.

“I can see why,” Camille said, pleased by the easy turn in the conversation. Despite the cold, she found that she was relaxing slightly, the beauty of the ranch easing her nerves. Behind the well-kept barn and outbuildings, neat rows of evergreens created dark-green stripes on the snowy ground, making the place look like a handmade quilt. The entire ranch seemed to radiate old-fashioned Christmas spirit. It was beautiful and charming and somehow soothing, as if none of life’s usual worries existed at the Springfield ranch. No wonder people drove for hours to get their trees here.

“Besides,” Ryan chimed in, “it gives the horses something to do while we’re tied up with selling trees and manning the shop.”

“What do they do the other ten months of the year?” Besides the Christmas trees and the store, Camille realized that she didn’t know what else the Springfield brothers did. She assumed they raised cattle like their neighbors, but she didn’t see any sign of livestock in the pastures except for horses. After Steve had moved away, Camille’s interest in the Springfield family had sharply declined.

“They skid logs for us.” Nate was the one who answered, not sounding at all offended that she knew so little about her almost-neighbors.

“Horse logging?” Her doubt was obvious in her voice, but she couldn’t help it. Even though the ranch felt like a trip back in time, using horses to skid logs seemed ridiculously old-fashioned. “Isn’t that…well, really slow?”

Nate laughed. “Nah. It’s making a comeback as people get more interested in sustainable forest management. Logging with horses leaves behind a lot less damage, and it means I get to work with my best girl.”

“Buttercup?” Camille asked, charmed, even as Ryan snorted.

“Of course.” Nate rubbed the mare’s forehead, and she half closed her dark, liquid eyes in bliss. “I’m going to see if she wants some water before we head back to the store. Good to see you, Camille.”

“You, too,” she said, meaning it.

He and the horse headed for the barn door as Ryan led Camille toward the next building. They entered a good-sized office with four desks, one in each corner, blocking off the space to make wall-less cubicles. A long conference table sat in the center of the space. It was basic but looked tidy, and the room was blessedly warm. Her fingers prickled with pins and needles, half-frozen after just the short walk from the store. She tucked them in her coat pockets, vowing to bring her warm gloves the next time she came—if she got up the courage to come a second time. Maybe she could pay Mrs. Lin to drive the next batch out to the ranch…although that meant she’d have to deal with Mrs. Lin, so it probably wasn’t worth it.

Pulling out one of the conference table chairs, Ryan said, “Have a seat.”

Although she sat in the proffered chair, she wondered why he was having her get comfortable. How long could writing a check take? One minute? Two?

Rather than pulling out a checkbook, however, Ryan leaned his hip against one of the desks and crossed his arms over his chest in a showy gesture. She remembered that he’d always done that a lot, even back in high school, and she wondered if it was to make the muscles in his arms and chest stand out. If so, his ploy wasn’t very successful, since his winter jacket hid any extra bulging. The thought made her want to laugh, but she managed to swallow it in time.

“So, what do you think?” he asked, and for a brief, illogical moment, she worried that he’d read her thoughts.

“What do I think about what?”

“The ranch.” He waved a hand around, as if indicating all the buildings and land around them. “I know you’ve just seen a limited amount of it, but you were looking cold, so I thought we could warm up in here before we finished the tour.”

“Tour?” Please just write the check and let me go. “Oh. Um… Maybe we could put that off until spring?” Her hands were still uncomfortably prickly. Besides, even though she was interested in seeing the barn and the other horses, it seemed like it’d take more time than she cared to spend alone with Ryan.

His smile drooped a bit before returning. “You’re right. It’s too cold to be dragging you around the unheated outbuildings. How about we move this tour to my house? My place is on the west side of the property, just a couple minutes from here. We could warm up, have some lunch.”

She blinked at the unexpected offer. What was up with Ryan’s new obsession with trying to feed her? Even though she wasn’t the most cosmopolitan of people, she was savvy enough to know not to accept an invitation to go with some guy she didn’t really know to his isolated house, especially if she was already having that itchy feeling that something was off. “Sorry, but I should get home. Christmas orders, you know, and a cat. I mean, I have a cat, a hungry cat that needs to be fed, so…I should go.”

His smile dipped again and didn’t recover this time. “Sure. I get it. Let me write you that check, and you can head home to…feed your cat.”

Although her cheeks burned at how inane she must’ve sounded, relief rushed through her. She wanted to laugh at herself, at how panicked she’d gotten. Ryan’s interest felt awkward, and his constant come-ons made it easier to run back to the safe haven of her workshop. Too bad she couldn’t have Steve’s teenage son Will as her one-and-only Springfield ranch contact. She’d been able to talk to him without descending into her usual babble. Well, there might have been a little babble, but definitely not as much as when she had to talk to another adult. Maybe she could make that a condition of selling her sculptures at the store.

Pulling a key ring out of his pocket, Ryan unlocked one of the desk drawers and extracted a checkbook. They were both quiet as he wrote out the check, the scratch of his pen against the paper the only sound in the room. As Camille waited, nerves steadily climbing, she decided that electronic payment would be a second stipulation for future orders. Too bad Will didn’t look old enough to drive, or he could’ve picked up the sculptures from her workshop.

“Here you go.” Ryan’s voice interrupted her wandering thoughts, and she jumped to her feet, eager to leave. As she took the check, Ryan’s pocket buzzed. “Excuse me for a moment.” Pulling out his phone, he read something on the screen and gave a grunt of annoyance. “Joe left his keys in the store and needs me to grab them for him. I’ll be right back.”

She followed him to the door, unwilling to give up the opportunity to escape. “That’s okay. I should be going anyway.”

“No, please stay here. We still need to talk about the next order.”

“Can’t we talk about that some other time?” she asked with more than a little desperation. She’d already talked to more people in one day than she usually did in a week. The very little bit of social butterfly-ness in her had been used up, and she needed some workshop time to recharge. A month or so should do it.

“Sure.” Why didn’t she trust his instantaneous smile? “I’ll come by your place tomorrow. Should we say about seven? We can go out to dinner. If you don’t like any of the places in town, we could drive to that new place in Ebba. It’s only an hour or so away, and I’ve heard good things about the food.”

That’s why she couldn’t trust his smile. “Okay, I’ll wait here until you get back.”

He actually looked disappointed by that, making Camille wonder if he really had been asking her to dinner, rather than just trying to terrify her into waiting while he retrieved Joe’s keys.

“Why can’t Joe get his own keys?” She knew she sounded sulky, but she didn’t care. It’d been a long day already, and it wasn’t even noon.

“Because he’s a cranky hermit, and everyone enables him.” Ryan rolled his eyes. “Everyone including me, because if I don’t do this, he’ll text me every two minutes until I give in. He only goes into the store when no one’s there. If there’s a customer within a mile of the place, he goes phantom on us and finds something that has to be done at one of the far corners of the property.” He paused. “Anyway, this’ll take me two minutes. Don’t go anywhere, and I’ll be right back.”

With a silent sigh, Camille settled back in her recently abandoned chair, thinking that she could sympathize with Joe, the cranky, customer-avoiding hermit. His easy avoidance of any and all strangers was pretty much her life goal. Maybe she needed a ranch. Her house and workshop had limited places for her to hide. On a ranch, no one would be able to find her unless she wanted them to.

A loud bang shook the floor, and Camille jumped to her feet, jolted out of her thoughts. She searched for the source, for whatever had fallen or exploded, but nothing in the office looked out of place. The sound had come from behind the door set in the back of the office, and Camille eyed it, trying to decide whether she should investigate or just stay where she was.

It seemed rude to just wander around someone else’s property investigating strange noises, but wasn’t it her duty to check out a possible accident? The sound had been really loud, almost like an explosion, and someone could’ve been hurt. What if they were waiting for help right now, and Camille was the only one who was close enough to get to them in time?

Curiosity and a bone-deep sense of responsibility drove her to hurry across the office. She carefully pulled open the door slightly. Something was burning, judging by the hint of acrid smoke, but it wasn’t enough to warn her to evacuate the building. She opened the door wider, revealing an expansive, well-outfitted shop—and a preteen girl who looked both grease-spattered and guilty as she stood over a table covered with what appeared to be pieces of a disassembled engine, extraneous parts that Camille didn’t recognize mixed in with the others.

“You okay?” she asked tentatively, taking a few more steps into the shop once she saw that nothing was actually on fire.

“Yeah.” The girl sighed as she wiped half-heartedly at her face with her flannel shirtsleeve. Camille didn’t mention that her efforts only smeared the grease spots, turning the black freckles into streaks. “I just hope my dad wasn’t around to hear that.” She eyed Camille with tentative optimism. “Do you know if he’s back from the fire station yet? I’m hoping not, because I can probably convince my uncles to keep their mouths shut about this.” She waved her arms, the gesture encompassing the entirety of the shop.

“Which one is your dad?” Camille asked, even though she was fairly certain that this girl was another one of Steve’s. Her light-brown hair, tied in a messy knot on the back of her head, matched his, although her eyes were a deep, dark brown, rather than Steve’s light, greenish hazel. Her firm, stubborn chin was his, as well.

“Steve,” the girl said.

“That’s what I thought.” Camille studied her, seeing more and more similarities between father and daughter, from the shape of their eyes to the angle of their cheekbones to the way their wide mouths gave them an amused, kind look, even when they weren’t smiling. “You look like him.”

“Really?” She sounded surprised. “He always says I look like my mom, but sometimes I wonder if he just says that to be nice. She died when I was three, so I can’t really remember her, and it’s hard to tell with pictures and even videos, you know? People look different in real life.”

“I know what you mean.” Intrigued by the odd collection of engine parts, Camille moved closer to examine them as she spoke. Although she tended to see mechanical pieces as potential sculptures, she had a basic working knowledge of engines, and, for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out how all of these parts would fit together. “My mom died when I was six, so I’m sure my memories aren’t the most accurate, but the photos I have of her don’t match the pictures I have of her in my mind.”

“How’d she die?”

Camille studied an intake manifold. After a close-up view of the collection of parts, she still had no idea what they were going to be used for. It would be a crazy, Frankenstein-esque motor if all the pieces were put together to form one engine. “She overdosed.” The words came out absently, most of her attention focused on the metal parts in front of her. As soon as she heard her own words, though, she jerked up her head and met the girl’s gaze. “Sorry! That probably wasn’t a good thing to tell a kid.”

With a snort, the girl waved off her apology. “I’m almost twelve. I know about overdoses. My mom had ovarian cancer.”

“I’m sorry.” Camille studied her. This candid exchange of dead-mother stories was new to her. Normally, the conversation ended with awkward abruptness as soon as her mom was mentioned, so this unabashed curiosity was actually refreshing. This was the second almost-comfortable conversation she’d had at the ranch, and both had been with Steve’s kids. Maybe she should make it a personal rule not to interact with anyone over eighteen. It would dramatically cut down on awkward interactions. “I’m Camille.”

“Zoe.”

They studied each other for several moments until Camille couldn’t hold back her curiosity any longer. “What the heck are you hoping to make here?”

When Zoe smiled, the corners of her mouth slowly curling up like the ends of a long bow, Camille couldn’t help but grin back. “A personal hovercraft, eventually.”

“Like the ones people make out of plywood and leaf blowers?”

Zoe shook her head, her nose crinkling in distaste. “Smaller than that, and less boring. Mine will have more range and power, and it’ll fit through doorways and in tighter spaces.”

Raising her eyebrows, Camille asked, “Like a flying broomstick?”

Instead of laughing, Zoe seriously considered the comparison. “Sort of, but more comfortable. Like a flying luge.”

“That sounds fun. I’d ride in one of those.” Camille studied the components again and then gave Zoe a sideways look, not sure if she should mention the obvious or not. In the end, she couldn’t hold back. “Isn’t a traditional internal combustion engine—even just a 500cc one—going to be too heavy for that small a craft?”

“Of course.” Zoe’s patient tone was just a hair away from patronizing, and Camille ducked her head to hide a smile. “The hovercraft—well, flying luge—is my end goal. What I’m trying to do right now is put together a combination of an ATV and a trail wheelchair so my friend Wyatt can use it when he visits me out here. Right now, he has to stay in the store or on the plowed, paved paths, and what fun is that? A wheelchair that lets him hike and climb stairs and cut through the pastures will work until I build the hovercraft. Once Wyatt has that, he’ll be able to go anywhere.”

Camille absently fingered a spark plug as she considered Zoe’s plan. “You’re thinking a gas engine for the off-road wheelchair, then?”

That sweet, curling smile appeared again. “Hybrid, so Wyatt doesn’t get stuck in the middle of nowhere by Uncle Joe’s cabin. I’ve been experimenting with different fuels, too.” She gestured toward a stripped-down push lawn mower. The only pieces left of it were the frame and the motor, both of which looked like they’d been pushed over a cliff, straight into a bonfire. “That’s what you heard earlier.”

Alarm bells went off in Camille’s head. “Um, you’re mixing different chemicals?”

“It’s okay. Normally, they don’t explode like that.”

“Explode like what?”

Steve’s deep voice made them both spin around to see him entering the workshop through the office door. He was frowning sternly at Zoe, who immediately dropped her head to stare at her steel-toed work boots. His severe gaze moved to Camille, who felt both inexplicably guilty and enormously drawn to him. Neither feeling was comfortable, but she still couldn’t manage to look away.

“Camille.” Surprise lightened his frown. “What are you doing here?”

Her mind instantly blanked. It was ridiculous, really, her inability to function around Steve. She should’ve grown out of this nonsense a long time ago, but apparently he still had the ability to reduce her to a timid fourteen-year-old. Sure, she wasn’t that great at dealing with other adults, but most of her interactions with the other townspeople were just awkward. When she was around Steve, she was filled with a mix of bubbling excitement and anticipation, but there was also the overwhelming knowledge that she was Camille Brandt, Borne’s resident oddball, which meant that she was going to say something inappropriate or overly personal or completely bizarre.

It didn’t matter much when most people thought she was irredeemably weird, but it hurt to think of Steve seeing her that way. The only way she could think to prevent that was to stay completely silent when she was around him. Sure, he might think she was strange, but she didn’t have to confirm it.

Zoe looked at her curiously, jarring Camille out of her mental paralysis and making her realize that the silence was stretching awkwardly. She had to say something. “Um…the sculptures. My metalwork, I mean. In the shop, they are.” Great, now she was talking like Yoda. Clearing her throat, she arranged the words in her head before trying again. “I dropped off some metal sculptures at the shop. Ryan had me wait in the office so he could bring Joe his keys, and then I heard a—”

Catching Zoe’s anxious glance, Camille quickly switched words. “I heard a sound in here and was curious. I met Zoe, and we were talking engines and personal transports when you arrived.” To her relief, she managed to stop talking before the words flying luge made it out of her mouth. It sounded weird enough in context without her babbling it to Steve because his strong jaw was making her light-headed.

He made a hmm sound before turning to his daughter. “Where’s your adult?”

Camille cleared her throat. “I’m officially one. An adult, I mean.”

Steve glanced at her, and his mouth softened slightly before he firmed it again, giving her the impression that he was having a tough time holding his stern expression. “We can’t have you blown up. You’re not covered under our insurance.”

Camille blinked. “You’re insured for explosions?”

“It seemed like a smart financial move.” He gave her the slightest of winks before returning his attention to his daughter. “Before Camille came in here, when you were working on your engine and there was a sound that might or might not have been an explosion, what adult was with you?”

“No one?” Zoe risked a glance at her father’s stony expression before rushing out the rest of her explanation. “Uncle Ryan was in here with me before, but then he saw something out the window that made him run out really fast, and I tried waiting for him to come back, but he was taking forever, so I worked on something, but it wasn’t technically this engine.” She gestured toward the parts on the table, very obviously not looking toward the blown-out lawn mower remains.

“What was it then? Technically?”

Her voice came out very quietly. “Fuel experimentation?”

“Fuel experimentation.” Steve briefly closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck. When he reopened them, all the earlier restrained humor seemed to have disappeared. “Zoe. What are we going to do about this? You can’t keep this up. I’ve seen too many people burned or worse…” He clamped his lips together, cutting off that line of thought. After a long pause, he spoke again. “You’re grounded from the workshop for a week. No working with fuel or mechanical parts or anything even slightly combustible, got it?”

“But…” Her protest sounded half-hearted, and Camille had a feeling that Zoe knew she was getting off lightly.

“No. You can do research on the computer, you can sketch ideas, you can read small-engine repair manuals, but that’s it.” He looked suddenly tired. “I just want a week where I don’t have to worry about you or the ranch exploding. Give me that, please?”

“Okay, Dad.” Zoe’s voice was resigned. With a last, longing look at the parts arranged on the worktable, she headed for the door.

“Bye, Zoe,” Camille called after her, receiving a wave and a small smile in reply.

The door closed behind the girl, and silence settled over the shop, making Camille itchy. This was the first time she’d been alone in a nonpublic space with Steve, and it was very different from her high-school daydreams. Sending him a quick, nervous glance, she saw he was still staring at the door his daughter had gone through, his expression sad.

“Are you okay?” Camille asked tentatively, feeling like she was intruding on his private thoughts.

Letting out a sigh, he turned toward her. She wasn’t surprised he was rubbing the back of his neck again. This seemed like a situation that would call for it. “Not really. Never thought parenting would mean feeling guilty for stopping your kid from blowing herself up.”

“My grandma got off lightly,” she said, studying the blackened lawn mower engine Zoe had been experimenting on. “She was just afraid I’d burn the house down.”

He stared at her, his preoccupied expression replaced with one of startled fascination. “That’s getting off lightly?”

“Sure. Less shrapnel that way.”

A laugh boomed out of him. She remembered how rare a sound it had been back when they were growing up, and how utterly contagious. Camille realized that she was smiling just from hearing it, even all these years later. “Right,” he said. “Not sure if that’s better or not.”

She shrugged, pleased at being the cause of his amusement—and not in a mortifying way for once, thank God. It was getting easier to talk to Steve. His calm, easy acceptance allowed her to relax, knowing that she could talk freely without him thinking she was strange. “Maybe you could help her build it.”

“I try to help—well, supervise—as much as I can. So do my brothers, now that we’ve moved back here. This time of year, though, everyone’s busy, and when there’s a fire call, I have to go. Zoe tries to be patient, but when she gets an idea…”

Camille understood the driving force that inspiration could be. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d rushed out to the workshop at two in the morning when some new project popped into her head. Studying Steve, she tried to think of something helpful to say, but she couldn’t think of any possible solution, although she could feel for both Zoe, the inspired creator, and her beleaguered single father. Still, she didn’t want this conversation to end. Not yet. “Were you a firefighter when you lived in the mountains?”

“Yeah.” He smiled slightly, obviously proud of his job. “Here I’m a volunteer, since there aren’t any paid openings. It actually works better for now, with the kids still adjusting to the new place and all the work there is to do around the ranch.”

“So…” Pushing away the too-tempting memory of Steve in bunker gear, she tried to fish for another one of those wonderful laughs. “You’ll be the one showing up when I finally manage to burn down my workshop, then?”

Before he could respond, the door to the office swung open with enough force to bang the knob against the wall. Camille jumped, and Steve turned to face the sound, stepping in front of her as he did so. She felt a warm, melting sensation in her belly at the protective move. It reminded her of what had happened when she was a freshman in high school and he was a senior, and again just a few days ago. There weren’t many people who’d protected her in her life, but Steve seemed to be making a habit of it.

“Ryan,” Steve said, making his brother’s name into both a reprimand and a greeting, even as he relaxed.

“Camille. There you are,” Ryan said, sounding relieved at first. As his gaze moved back and forth between her and his brother, he began to frown. “Hey, Steve. What’re you two doing in here? I’ve been looking all over the ranch for you, Camille. Thought you were going to wait for me in the office.”

She shrugged a little, not liking his proprietary tone. Just because he’d twisted her arm until she said she’d stay didn’t mean she was a skid steer he could park and return to at his leisure. “I was talking to Zoe, and then Steve found us.”

“Zoe.” He clapped a hand over his eyes. “I left her waiting in here, didn’t I?”

“She went ahead without you,” Steve said coolly, although there wasn’t any accusation in his voice. Camille figured he knew his daughter would find a way to work around his supervision rules, even with the most dedicated uncles.

“Sorry. I’ll talk to her.” His hand dropped back to his side. “Did she blow anything up?” Steve nodded wordlessly toward the blackened lawn mower, and Ryan moved closer to get a better look. “Nice. How’d she do that?”

“She’s experimenting with mixing fuels,” Camille said.

Although Steve winced, Ryan looked impressed. “Smart. I told you to have dumb kids. They’re easier.” He moved over to where Camille and Steve were standing and maneuvered to stand between them. He gave his brother’s shoulder a teasing shove, and Camille surreptitiously shifted a little to the side, away from Ryan. For some reason, standing close enough to Steve to smell his distinctive scent—peppermint and evergreen and a tiny bit of horse—didn’t bother her, but she needed a bit more of a personal bubble with Ryan.

“How do you know?” Steve asked. “The only kids you’re around are mine, and they’re all smart.”

Ryan waved off his brother’s objection. “Everyone knows dumb kids are easier.” Not waiting for a response, he turned to Camille, shifting closer and eating up the space between them again. “Ready for lunch?”

“Lunch?” Steve repeated before Camille could think of the best way to politely decline. Ryan had been aggravatingly persistent during the past few encounters, and she was running out of excuses. All she could think of was telling him she needed to feed her cat again, and that was only half a step up from telling him she needed to wash her hair. Maybe she’d have to be blunt to the point of rudeness with Ryan, though. Her stomach twisted at the thought. She hated confrontation and hurting people’s feelings, and she had an uneasy feeling that she’d have to do both before Ryan would give up the idea of…whatever it was he wanted to do with her.

“I’m taking Camille to my cabin for lunch,” Ryan explained, confirming Camille’s suspicions that it would take one of Zoe’s explosions to break through the hard shell of his ego and get him to accept that she wasn’t interested. She wondered what had caused his sudden fascination. They’d lived in the same town for years, and he’d never looked at her twice before.

She gathered all her gumption and straightened her shoulders. “Sorry. I don’t have time. Thank you for the offer, but I need to go now. Bye.” Before he could argue, she marched toward the office door. “Bye, Steve.” She didn’t let herself slow or look back, knowing Ryan would pounce on any slight sign of hesitation.

“Wait!” By the sound of his voice, Ryan was following her, and she sped up to a fast walk. “I thought we were going to talk about the next set of sculptures.”

“Just text me which ones sold, and I’ll make more of the popular ones.” Slipping through the office door, she quickly pulled it shut behind her. Once the two men couldn’t see her anymore, she bolted outside and down the path to the gift-shop lot. She didn’t dare relax until she was in her car.

As she backed out carefully, she heard the faint sound of sleigh bells and stepped on the brake. Looking around, trying to spot the source of the unusual sound, she spotted Nate leading Buttercup toward the lot, dragging a small sled with an evergreen tree tied to it behind her. A smiling couple walked on the other side of Buttercup, and two small, well-bundled-up children straddled her. Camille had to laugh at the way their little legs stuck straight out to the sides as they rode on her broad back.

It was such a perfect Christmas-card moment. Growing up, Camille’s grandma had put up an artificial, two-foot-tall tree every year. After she died, Camille hadn’t bothered with a tree, being too busy with Christmas orders. Besides, seeing her grandma’s tree—as small and fake as it was—hurt too much. The holidays were painful and lonely enough. She didn’t need any reminders of when she’d had someone who loved her.

Seeing this family, so happy and excited, made a tiny, hollow part of her ache. Those kids would never forget this visit to the ranch, and it would most likely become both a joyful memory and a yearly tradition. Camille rubbed her chest absently, watching until they arrived at the edge of the lot and Nate reached up to help the kids slide off Buttercup’s back.

Shaking off her distraction, Camille let the Buick roll forward down the driveway. Silly, she told herself. Why was she feeling nostalgic for something she’d never experienced? There was something about the ranch that brought her emotions, usually so neatly tucked away deep inside her, to the surface. It was aggravating and uncomfortable, and she decided to do her best to stay in her workshop where she belonged.

Despite her resolution, she let her gaze stray to the rearview mirror—wanting to catch a final glimpse of that happy holiday scene—and did her best not to think of all the things she would never get to have.