Four Christmases

The First Christmas

Put your hands up.

Nellie's voice caught in her throat, the words refusing to push past her lips. She was trembling all over, the revolver heavy and unfamiliar in her grip. She'd shot a rifle before, but never a handgun. The barn's wooden walls creaked around her, the door left open behind her, allowing the blizzard to creep inside. Snow swirled in the faint lantern light, casting eerie shadows that danced across the hay-strewn floor.

It was late on Christmas Eve, and she should have been inside by the fire with Mama. Or sleeping beside her twelve-year-old sister Clara. Instead, she stood here, seventeen years old and alone, facing down an intruder. Nothing had been the same since Pa died five months ago. Nellie hadn't even considered telling Ma when she'd seen the shadow slip into the barn. Ma would've been too afraid to come outside.

Someone needed to protect the homestead.

She could hear the sound of boots scuffing against the barn floor. Someone stood there, in the far corner, where no one should be.

The only other living thing in the barn was Pa's old horse, dozing in her stall on the opposite side. Nellie took a deep breath, steadying herself as best she could, and peered around the edge of the stall.

There he was. A man, leaning against the wall in the back corner of the barn, his shoulder propped up as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. The lantern hanging behind her cast just enough light to silhouette his figure, but his face remained obscured by the brim of his hat, pulled low over his eyes. She could make out the rough stubble of a two-day beard and the long, slicker-style coat.

If he straightened up, she guessed he'd tower over her by at least a foot. Maybe more. She braced for him to attack.

"Put your hands up, mister." The whisper barely carried across the space between them.

The man jerked slightly at the sound, but the only movement he made was a slow turn of his head. His hat brim cast shadows across his face, hiding everything but the sharp line of his jaw.

"Go away, kid." The words came out rough and low.

Heat rushed to Nellie's cheeks and crawled into her ears. Kid? She was seventeen years old, not some child to be dismissed.

She stepped out into the open, the revolver pointed at him. Could she even pull the trigger? Fear slithered through her like smoke, but she forced herself to hold steady. Any moment now, he might reach for a gun at his hip. Or rush at her.

But he didn't move. He was barely breathing.

Then he scoffed, his lips curling into a faint smirk. "You're not gonna hit anything with that gun." Disdain dripped from every word. "Not with your hands shaking so bad."

Anger surged through her, hot and fierce, pushing past the fear. "Get out of my barn." Her voice came stronger this time.

He still didn't move. He remained leaning against the wall, his posture almost casual, but Nellie could see the tension in his shoulders. The way his weight sagged against the rough boards. She realized then that he wasn't just leaning—he held himself up.

"I can't." His voice carried pain this time. And exhaustion.

Nellie's heart pounded as she noticed the blood beneath his hand pressed to his side. It stained the side of his coat dark and from the looks of it, was soaking through his shirt.

She couldn't quite suppress her gasp.

The man grunted in response.

Nellie ducked back behind the wall, pulse hammering. His wound looked like a gunshot. He was hiding in her barn.

He must be one of those McCartys.

The gang of outlaws led by two brothers had been hitting banks and stagecoaches in the area lately. All Nellie's neighbors were talking about it. And keeping their guns close.

If it was one of the outlaws, should she just leave him here? Let him bleed out in the cold and die?

The thought made her stomach churn.

She couldn't do it.

She slipped out of the barn and ran toward the house.

A few minutes later, she trudged back to the barn, a pail of hot water in one hand and a bundle of cloths tucked under her arm. Her mother's sewing kit was wedged beneath the cloths, and the revolver was tucked into the rope she'd tied around her waist. She paused outside the barn door first, her breath fogging in the frigid air. Was she doing the right thing? She took a deep breath and pushed the door open to peer inside.

He slumped on the ground now, his back against the wall. His head tilted forward. She couldn't see his face, blocked by the hat. Was he unconscious?

Or worse?

Nellie grabbed the lantern off the hook on the wall, and lifted it high. The light threw long shadows across the barn as she approached him. When she knelt beside him, he stirred slightly, his eyes flickering open beneath the shadow of his hat brim.

She pulled back his jacket to examine the wound. He tried to swat her hand away, but his movements came were and sluggish.

"Don't be a fool." Her voice came firm despite the tremor that wanted to creep in. "I'm the only person here to help you. Do you want to die?"

He grunted in response, but he didn't fight her as she lifted the torn shirt and began to clean the wound.

The gash cut deep and jagged, and there was so much blood.

"Is this a bullet wound?" she dared ask.

He didn't answer.

She pressed with her fingertips around the jagged skin, tearing a gasp from his lips. She couldn't feel anything beneath the skin, or see any detritus in the wound.

She worked quickly, her hands steady now, as she cleaned and disinfected the wound. The man winced, his body going rigid, but he didn't complain. He seemed to be holding his breath, and Nellie could see the pain etched into the lines of his face.

She threaded a needle from her mother's sewing kit and began to stitch the wound closed. The man gritted his teeth, his jaw clenched so tight she could see the muscle jump. But he didn't make a sound.

She tried to get a look at his face, angling herself to catch more than just shadow. She managed to catch a glimpse of the side of his profile before he tipped his head down, his hat shielding him.

Her breath caught. He was much younger than she'd initially thought—not that much older than her.

"Don't look at my face." His words were a quiet order.

It irritated her. She was helping him, wasn't she?

"Why not?"

He frowned at her impertinent question. "Aren't you afraid of anything?"

"'Course I am." She seemed to be living her fears in real time. Losing Pa. She and Ma were about to lose the crop of wheat they hadn't been able to harvest by themselves.

Facing this outlaw.

She kept her head down as she put in the last stitch. "Are you one of the McCarty gang?"

He didn't answer, but his silence spoke volumes.

As she tied off the thread, his gaze seemed to study her in the flickering lantern light. "Why are you the one out here?" His voice held a note of curiosity beneath the pain. "Shouldn't it be your father or your older brother?"

His question was prying. She shouldn't answer, but words tumbled free. "It's just me, my mother, and my sister now. My father passed away. Ma's been in a bad way. It's up to me to keep the homestead running."

"Big job for someone so young."

She couldn't help the hitch of her chin. "I'm old enough. Old enough to be married."

She hadn't meant to say that last part. Blurted, "There's no one else to take care of us."

He watched her silently. Had his mouth softened slightly? Or maybe that was just the shadows shifting.

She gathered the bloodied rags, aware of how late the hour had grown. Had Ma gone to sleep?

He was still too weak to move, she could see that plainly. Needed strength. Needed food.

She took the soiled laundry to the quiet house, where Ma had disappeared into her bedroom. There was still soup left from their evening meal earlier, warm on the back of the stove.

She ladled some of it into a bowl, and carried it back out to the barn.

He startled when she returned, as if he'd dozed off in the minutes she'd been gone. He said nothing as she set the bowl beside him.

Nellie settled against the barn wall, intending to keep watch. Just for a few minutes.

He inhaled the soup, drinking straight from the bowl. Acted like he hadn't eaten in a week. Lowered the bowl with his good hand and stared at her with narrowed eyes.

"You didn't have to take care of me tonight, kid. Wish I could repay you."

She wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. "I don't want any money from a thief and a robber."

There was a flare of sorrow in his eyes, quickly hidden.

Her own eyelids were growing heavy. Maybe she shouldn't have said that. Should be frightened of him. But somehow she wasn't.

She drifted off.

When she woke, the first light of dawn crept through the cracks in the barn walls, painting everything in shades of gray and gold.

And the stranger was gone.

The Second Christmas

"Aren't you going to threaten me again?"

The man's voice rang out in the stillness as Nellie stepped into the barn, the rifle hanging loosely at her side. The night air was crisp and cold, Christmas Eve once more, and the familiar weight of the weapon should have been comforting. Instead, her heart beat in her throat.

The voice was familiar. Her injured stranger from last Christmas.

He was here.

He stood in the shadows behind the horse's stall, tall and strong, his silhouette framed by flickering shadows. He'd moved the lantern into the stalls, she realized. The light danced across the rough-hewn beams but never quite reached his face. Had he moved the lantern so she wouldn't get a look at his face? His black felt hat was pulled low, just as it had been a year ago, and his hands rested loose and empty at his sides. The dark slicker he wore blended with the shadows, making him seem almost a part of the darkness itself.

He was so still. As if he could disappear into the night at any moment.

Nellie's pulse hammered. She kept her tone light despite it. "You don't look like you need my help this Christmas."

"It was the memory of that soup that brought me back." His voice came low and steady, with that same rough edge she remembered. "I've never tasted anything so good."

Heat crept into her cheeks. She'd made that soup herself, the vegetables from the garden she and her sister had coaxed from the rocky soil. "I don't have any soup today." She reached into her pocket and pulled out an apple, tossing it to him. "This is all I have."

He caught it effortlessly, his hand moving with practiced grace.

"It was meant for the horse." She added, "But you're welcome to it." Her words broke his stillness for just a moment before he lowered the apple to his side.

His head turned slightly, though she still couldn't see his face. "The horse looks like he needs it more than I do."

Nellie felt a pang, sharp and unexpected. Her father had told so many stories about his adventures with that horse. The cattle drives through the mountains. The wild rides across the valley. Now the animal's age weighed on her every time she saw him move stiffly in his stall.

She moved toward the horse's pen, needing something to do with her hands. The old gelding nickered softly as she approached, his breath fogging in the cold air.

"Father dreamed of running cattle." Her voice caught on the words. "Having a couple of good cutting horses." She swallowed hard. "This horse was his. They had a special bond. He won't let anyone else ride him."

Nellie stroked his nose, the coarse hair familiar under her palm. "I've always dreamed of a horse of my own—a brown one with a white blaze on his face and white socks. A horse that's bonded to me." She straightened, lifting her chin with a stubborn pride she didn't quite feel. "Someday, I'm going to make it happen."

The stranger came to stand beside her, reaching out with his hand to slowly offer the apple to the horse.

The silence stretched between them. Nellie was keenly aware of him watching her, though she couldn't see his eyes beneath that hat brim. There was something in his stillness now, something that made her pulse skip.

"I wasn't sure you'd still be here." His voice finally broke the quiet. "Not with the place looking so…"

"Run down. You can say it."

She sensed his smile even without looking at him. "Still not scared," he murmured.

She wasn't scared. But she was resigned. She knew what the place looked like. The barn's roof sagged worse than it had last year, and the house wasn't much better. Paint peeled from the siding, and she'd had to patch the roof three times already this winter. But it was hers. Hers and her sister Clara's.

"Where else would I go?" The words came out on a wrong note.

"Most folks would've moved on by now. What with the drought. Made for a hard summer. So I heard." He shifted his weight. "Why not go back east?"

"My mother did." The words escaped before she could stop them. "She remarried. Left with her new husband."

She didn't add the rest—that her mother had asked Nellie and Clara to come, had begged Nellie to be reasonable, to give up on Pa's foolish dream. That the fights had been bitter and ugly before her mother finally left.

A mother didn't just abandon her daughters. Not unless things were complicated. Not unless staying was worse than leaving.

Nellie didn't need pity and he didn't offer her any.

"This land was my father's dream," she continued, her voice steadier now. "Mine too. Clara and I—we're not giving up on it."

"What's your name?" he asked quietly.

"Nellie." He repeated the name softly, as if tasting it.

"What's yours?" she asked before she lost her nerve.

His response came as a noncommittal grunt.

She wanted to ask more, to push past the walls he kept between them. But something held her back. Maybe it was the way he kept himself in shadow. Maybe it was the memory of the blood on his shirt, the way he'd looked at her with such intensity even through the pain.

"You better go back inside." His voice broke through her thoughts. "It's getting late."

"Why did you come back?" The question escaped before she could think better of it.

He didn't answer. For a long moment, the only sound was the soft shuffle of the horse in his stall and the distant whistle of wind through the gaps in the barn walls.

Then he moved.

He crossed the space between them with measured steps, each one deliberate. Nellie's breath caught as he drew closer, close enough that she could smell leather and winter air and something uniquely him. But he kept his hat tipped low, his face still hidden in shadow even as he passed by her.

"Goodbye, Nellie," he whispered.

And then he was gone.

Nellie stood frozen for a heartbeat before she spun toward the barn door. "Wait!"

She ran out into the darkness, her boots crunching in the fresh snow. The moon shone bright overhead, casting silver light across the yard, but there was no sign of him. No footprints led away from the barn. No shadow moved among the trees.

"Please!" she called out, but she still didn't know his name. How could she call him back when she didn't even know what to call him?

The wind was her only answer.

Nellie stood in the cold for another long moment before she turned back to the barn, her arms wrapped around herself. She needed to get the lantern, settle everything for the night before going back inside where Clara would be waiting, wondering where she'd been.

She was reaching for the lantern when something on the ground caught her eye.

A small leather pouch.

Nellie knelt and picked it up, the weight of it surprising in her palm. She loosened the drawstring and gasped.

Silver coins. More than she'd ever seen in one place.

She whirled around, the hair on the back of her neck prickling with the certainty that the stranger was watching. Her eyes scanned the shadows, searched every corner of the barn.

But there was no one there.

Nellie looked down at the pouch in her hands, her throat tight. She couldn't keep it. Shouldn't keep it.

It was enough money to pay off the mortgage. To keep the promise she'd made to her father and to herself—that she wouldn't lose this place.

Her fingers closed around the pouch. It must be stolen. It certainly wasn't hers.

What was she to do?

The Third Christmas

"He's looking over here again."

Nellie pretended she couldn't hear the whisper from her younger sister.

They stood just outside the schoolhouse, the last notes of the Christmas pageant still ringing in Nellie's ears. All around them, parents hugged their children, praising their performances, voices rising and falling in the crisp night air. The sky overhead was clear and dark, stars scattered like diamonds across black velvet. It was chilly, but dry—no snow.

Clara nudged her again.

Nellie's heart gave a traitorous thump. She couldn't help but notice the young man crossing the schoolyard toward them, his stride confident and easy.

It was easier to look at Clara. Her sister was glowing, wearing a new muff over her hands, her hair up for the first time. She'd grown up this past year.

"He's not coming over here to talk to us." Nellie kept her voice low. "Why would he?"

"Every time you and Mark are in the same room, he stares at you." Clara's tone was matter-of-fact, as if this was common knowledge. "It's been the same ever since he first showed up at Sunday service three months ago."

Heat blasted into Nellie's cheeks, made worse by the fact that he was staring as he approached. "Then perhaps it's good that I'm rarely in the same room as Mr. Brennan," she whispered.

Clara pulled a face at Nellie's use of his surname. "Nellie, don't be snobbish. You're nineteen now. That's practically a spinster. Don't you want to get married?"

The question sent an unexpected flash through Nellie's mind—a chin covered in two days of stubble, the sharp line of a jaw beneath the brim of a black felt hat. The memory stole her breath for a moment before she pushed it away.

Clara nudged her a third time. "He's almost here."

Nellie straightened her shoulders, clasping her hands in front of her skirts. Her pulse hammered in her throat.

Mark Brennan swept off his hat as he approached, revealing a head full of blonde hair that caught the lantern light from the schoolhouse windows. "Hello, Miss Nellie." His voice was warm, friendly. He nodded to her sister. "Miss Clara."

The flash of memory—her mysterious stranger—made Nellie's voice cool. "I don't recall giving you permission to use my given name."

His eyes flashed. Irritation or humor?

He put his hat back on. "My apologies."

There was something about the way he stood—patient, still, as if he could wait all night for her to speak. It sent an odd flutter through her chest.

Clara sent a confused look at Nellie. "I see Mrs. Peterson waving. I'll just go say hello." She slipped away before Nellie could protest, leaving her alone with Mr. Brennan.

The silence stretched between them for a moment, until Nellie felt almost breathless with the intensity of it.

"Did you enjoy the program?" he asked finally.

She considered not answering, but she'd had too many lessons in politeness drummed into her by a very proper mother. "I did. And you?"

"Yes." There was something in his stillness that she couldn't decipher. "I've never been to a pageant before."

What a strange thing to say.

"Is it just the two of you, then?" His voice was quiet. "You and your sister?"

"Our mother remarried," Nellie said stiffly. "She's back east now."

Mr. Brennan watched her, his eyes seeing too much.

"And you?" Nellie asked, turning the conversation back on him. "Do you have family nearby?"

One corner of his mouth tipped up. "I figure all the cowboys on Mr. Garrett's ranch are family enough."

It wasn't a real answer.

He shifted his feet. Took his hat off again and held it in front of himself. Opened his mouth as if he was going to say something. But at that moment, someone nudged the back of Mr. Brennan's coat.

Something, not someone.

He turned slightly, and Nellie realized he'd been holding reins loosely in one hand this entire time.

Behind him stood a horse.

Nellie's breath caught.

The animal was beautiful—a rich brown coat that gleamed in the starlight, a white blaze running down his face, and four white socks that stood out against the dark.

"Oh." She breathed the word, all propriety forgotten. She stepped closer, extending her hand to let the horse sniff her fingers. "Aren't you handsome? What's your name?"

Mr. Brennan raised one eyebrow, but Nellie barely noticed. She stroked the horse's nose, murmuring soft words.

Until the realization hit her like a physical blow.

This was the horse. The exact horse she'd described to her mysterious stranger in the barn. Brown with a white blaze and white socks.

Her hand stilled on the horse's neck. Mr. Brennan had sidled closer.

"Are you courting someone?" His question came out of nowhere, and Nellie's eyes widened.

Her chest was cinched tight from thinking about the stranger.

But Mr. Brennan pressed. "The young man on the boardwalk, perhaps?"

It took her a moment to catch his meaning. She had briefly spotted Mr. Brennan in town last week. He'd been loading supplies into a wagon outside the general store. She'd been walking on the boardwalk with Thomas Fletcher, an old school friend, and she'd caught Mr. Brennan watching them. She'd barely given any thought to those moments on the boardwalk.

She'd been thinking about her stranger. Not courting. It couldn't be right. Her fanciful thoughts about the stranger. An outlaw. The battle inside her made her words sharp. "I don't think that's any of your business, Mr. Brennan."

Nellie stepped back abruptly, her cheeks flushing.

"Did you and your sister walk all this way?" he asked quickly.

"We rode with our neighbors." Her voice came too bright. "Mr. and Mrs. Thornton." She pretended to look over his shoulder. "Oh—Mrs. Thornton is waving. She must be ready to go."

She started to brush past him.

"Nellie—I mean, Miss Preston, wait—" He stumbled over the words.

She avoided his reaching hand. Didn't look back. "I'm sorry. I have to go."

Clara had been full of questions and it was late when Nellie slipped out to the barn.

The air was still. Colder than it had been earlier. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders as she pushed open the barn door.

The lantern light spilled across the empty stall where her father's horse had rested at night. He'd died peacefully last spring, and the loss ached fresh every time she entered the barn. The space echoed with his absence.

Her heart raced. Would her outlaw come? Would she finally learn his name, see his face fully in the light?

The minutes stretched into an hour. Then two.

The lantern oil burned lower and lower.

Nellie waited.

But her mysterious stranger never came.

The Fourth Christmas

The snow fell thick and fast by the time they started for home from town.

Nellie sat in the back of the Thorntons' wagon beside Clara, a wool blanket tucked around both their legs. They'd been to town for last-minute supplies—flour and sugar and a precious tin of coffee—and now the gray afternoon light faded fast. Mrs. Thornton sat up front beside her husband, humming a Christmas hymn under her breath.

"Do you think it'll keep snowing all night?" Clara asked quietly.

Nellie had her mouth open to answer when a prickle of unease crawled up the back of her neck.

They were passing through a stretch of road bordered by snow-covered woods on both sides. The trees and the angle of the setting sun through the clouds created shadows that seemed ominous somehow.

"Nell—" Clara started.

Two horses burst from the woods ahead, their riders dark shapes against the white snow. One of the men fired a gun into the air, the crack of it sharp and terrifying.

"Don't stop!" Clara cried out, but Mr. Thornton was already hauling back on the reins.

"Whoa!" His voice came tight with fear as he brought the wagon to a halt.

The two riders closed in fast, pulling their horses up on either side of the wagon. Both wore bandanas tied across their faces, hats pulled low. Only their eyes were visible, hard and cold.

Bandits.

"Whatever money you've got, hand it over." The one on the left waved his revolver in a lazy arc that made Nellie's stomach clench with fear.

"There's n-no money." Mr. Thornton stammered.

"We saw you leave the bank." The second rider's voice came rough, threatening. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be."

Nellie's heart hammered against her ribs. Beside her, Clara had gone very still, her hand finding Nellie's beneath the blanket and squeezing tight.

Movement caught Nellie's eye. A third rider emerged from the woods.

Her breath stopped.

She knew that horse. The white blaze down his face, the four white socks that stood out against his brown coat. Even through the falling snow, she'd know him anywhere.

Mark Brennan.

Beside her, Clara drew in a sharp breath. She'd recognized him too.

Mark rode forward slowly, his posture casual, as if he'd merely stumbled upon them by chance. "Hello, ladies. Mrs. Thornton. A bit cold out for a chat. Who're your friends?"

Both bandits whirled toward him, guns raised. But something in their body language changed. A recognition, a wariness that hadn't been there before.

"Brennan?" The first bandit's voice echoed with surprise. His horse shifted his feet.

"It's me." Mark agreed, his voice calm, easy. "Seems like you boys picked the wrong wagon to rob. This is my score."

Mark's horse sidled closer to the wagon. The two bandits exchanged a look of confusion.

Nellie's mind spun. How did they know him?

Then everything seemed to happen at once.

Three more riders exploded from the woods—men in badges, guns already drawn.

"Drop your weapons!"

The bandits wheeled their horses around. The gun aimed at Mrs. Thornton fired wild, the sound deafening.

"Get down!" Mark's shout cut through the chaos, close by.

The wagon horses screamed and reared, their eyes rolling white with terror. Nellie felt the wagon lurch violently to one side. She slid, the blanket tangling around her legs—

Strong arms caught her, pulled her from the wagon bed. Mark took her weight as they hit the ground, even as he shielded her with his body. Another gunshot cracked overhead.

"Stay down." He breathed the words against her ear.

Nellie's face pressed into his chest, his coat rough against her cheek. She could feel his heart pounding, could hear the chaos erupting around them—shouts, gunfire, the terrified neighing of horses.

"Clara!" Nellie tried to twist, to see her sister.

"She's with Mrs. Thornton." Mark's voice was steady. "She's safe."

One of the bandits had been thrown from his horse. He scrambled to his feet, raising his gun toward the sheriff. Mark untangled himself from Nellie, lunging to tackle the man before he could fire.

Nellie pushed herself up, her heart in her throat. The nearest bandit was still mounted, trying to control his dancing horse. The animal was spooked, eyes rolling, fighting the bit.

Nellie's hand found her pocket, closed around the handkerchief she'd tucked there earlier. Without thinking, she pulled it free and waved it at the skittish horse.

The animal reared, screaming. The bandit cursed, fighting to stay in the saddle. His gun went flying, landing somewhere in the snow.

The fight was over almost as quickly as it had started. Both bandits were on the ground now, hands being tied behind their backs by the deputies. The sheriff kept his gun trained on them while his men worked.

Nellie's legs felt weak as she stood to go to Clara. Her whole body trembled with the aftermath of fear and adrenaline.

Mark was on his feet too, breathing hard, staring at her. A scrape crossed his cheek, blood welling bright red. His hat had been knocked askew in the fight.

"Everyone all right?" The sheriff's voice cut through the ringing in Nellie's ears. She clasped Clara close.

The sheriff approached Mark now, holding out his hand for Mark to shake. "Knowing where they planned to hit made all the difference. We never woulda caught the McCartys without you."

Nellie's head snapped up. What did he mean?

"What's that mean?" Clara murmured.

"I used to ride with the McCarty Gang." He explained quietly, voice carrying across the space. "Until three years ago. I left the gang and went straight, after they left me for dead. After a young woman stitched me up. Saved my life."

Three years ago.

The words echoed in Nellie's mind as something inside her shifted, rearranged itself. Three years ago. The night a stranger had stumbled into her barn, bleeding and desperate.

The world seemed to tilt.

Nellie's breath stopped in her chest. Her body went cold, then hot, every physical sensation freezing in that single moment of recognition.

It was him.

Mark Brennan was her mysterious stranger. The very same.

The man who'd left silver coins to save her homestead. The man who'd whispered her name in the darkness. He'd been right in front of her all along.

Nellie's hands were still trembling as she ran them down the horse's foreleg. Mark's horse. In her barn.

The cut wasn't deep. It would heal clean with a little care. She'd already cleaned it and applied salve from the tin she kept in the barn.

But her fingers wouldn't stop shaking. Because her mind kept replaying that moment when Mark had used his mount to ram into the bandit's horse.

An hour had passed. The sheriff had brought Nellie and Clara home himself, apologizing profusely to Mrs. Thornton for the fright. Their neighbor had accompanied them for good measure. The two deputies had taken the captured bandits to jail in town.

Clara was inside the house with Mrs. Thornton now, drinking tea and trying to calm down. But Nellie had needed to get away from the hovering concern. She'd sought solace in the barn. But hadn't found any. Not with old memories pressing close and Mark's admission ringing in her ears.

She pressed her forehead against the horse's warm shoulder and closed her eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of hay and horse and leather. It didn't help.

A sound made her turn.

Mark stood outside the barn, six feet beyond the open door. Snow dusted his shoulders and clung to his hair. He held his hat in both hands, turning it slowly between his fingers.

Nellie moved to stand in the doorway but didn't cross the threshold. He didn't come any closer. The space between them felt deliberate.

She couldn't read his expression. Guarded. Enigmatic. The same way he'd looked at her a dozen times over the past year without her understanding why.

"Why didn't you say anything?" The words came out sharper than she'd intended. "When you first came to town." She shook her head. "No. That's not right. When you first started working for Mr. Garrett."

Mark shifted his weight, his fingers tightening on the brim of his hat. "I wasn't sure whether you'd recognize me or not." He paused, and she couldn't read his expression. "Wasn't sure whether to feel hurt that you didn't."

Nellie's chin jutted out, stubborn pride rising despite the tremor still running through her. "You never showed me your face in the barn. Either time."

He didn't answer, not even when the silence stretched between them. She wrapped her arms around her middle, suddenly cold despite her shawl.

Mark watched her with a hooded stare.

"I spent the money."

Confusion flickered across his face and more trembling words burst out before she could stop them. "The stolen money you left that second Christmas. I never knew if you forgot it or meant to leave it behind, but I spent it. I used it to pay off the mortgage."

"Good." His voice was quiet, certain. And then, "It wasn't stolen."

He was turning the hat between his hands. "I left the McCartys right after that Christmas. The one where I nearly died." He didn't say the one where I met you, but she heard it in the pause. "I was too afraid to go to the law then. So I just left. Found myself on a railroad crew out in Colorado and saved every penny I could."

His eyes met hers, and Nellie's breath caught at the vulnerability she saw there.

"Something drew me back here that next Christmas. Memories or just…you." He continued, "I was surprised to find you still holding down the homestead, but I wanted to help. As a way of thanking you for saving my life."

And last Christmas?

She couldn't quite push the words past her lips as she remembered how sharp she'd been last Christmas after the pageant. Enough that he hadn't come to the barn.

Remembered the crushing disappointment.

"And what was today?" Her voice came steadier now, though her hands still trembled where she gripped her shawl. "You rode out of the woods. How did you know the McCartys were going to try to rob us?"

Mark looked away, that muscle jumping in his cheek. "It's been in the papers. There's been a rash of bank robberies and a railroad hold-up. The gang moved out of this area for a while, but I figured they were back. So I went to talk to the sheriff, and we crafted a plan to ambush them. I didn't mean for you and your sister to be in danger today." Mark's voice was thick with regret. "When the sheriff told me they were planning to hit a wagon coming from town, I thought—" He broke off, shaking his head. "I didn't know it would be you. I never would've done it if I'd known—should've stopped—"

"I'm all right," she said. "Clara too. And the McCartys were caught, thanks to you."

Nellie noticed the scrape on his cheek again, the way he held himself slightly stiff. "Are you sure you don't need doctoring?"

He shook his head. "I'm fine."

But there was something he wasn't saying. Nellie could see it in the tension of his shoulders, the way he wouldn't quite meet her eyes.

"Why did you come to town at all? Why did you start working for Mr. Garrett?"

He raised his eyes to hold her stare. "I couldn't come back for a long time. Not while the gang was still in this area. I figured they'd shoot me on sight if they saw me. And I was afraid the law wouldn't take kindly to how I'd operated with them before."

He finally met her eyes again. "But I couldn't stay away either. I kept thinking about you. Wondering if you were all right. If you'd managed to keep the homestead. If you had a beau."

Nellie's mind spun through the past year. The way Mark had always seemed to be there when she needed help. The day he'd ridden out to warn her about a cougar spotted near her property. The afternoon he'd helped her and Clara repair the barn roof, refusing payment.

A slow and steady friendship had been building between them, and she'd been too blind—or too stubborn—to see it for what it was.

She wrapped her shawl more tightly around herself and stepped over the threshold, out into the falling snow. "Why didn't you come to the barn last Christmas?"

Mark swallowed hard. "I've been trying to learn what's good and proper behavior. I didn't have the best upbringing, and sometimes my instincts are wrong." His voice dropped lower. "But there's a part of me that knew it wasn't right to keep meeting you in a situation that could harm your reputation."

"There's not much of a reputation to harm." Nellie shot back. "It's just me and my sister living out here alone. Folks already talk."

Mark's eyes sharpened. "I meant to do things right. To ask if I could come courting when I saw you after the Christmas pageant last year. But you seemed like all you wanted was to get away from me."

Heat flooded Nellie's face at the remembrance of how unkind she'd been, how quickly she'd dismissed him. He still hadn't come any closer, and somehow that felt worse than anything else.

"You did not," she whispered.

"I did." That muscle in his cheek jumped again. "I've always known I'm not good enough to be with someone like you. And when you rebuffed me—the me who had spent months trying to prove I could be someone other than the criminal I was in my growing-up years—you didn't seem like you wanted him either."

Hope and uncertainty warred in her chest. "I was thinking of you when we spoke in the schoolyard," she admitted. "The barn you. I was confused by the new feelings for Mark—"

"Mr. Brennan," he teased gently.

She wrinkled her nose at him. Silly man. Affection bubbled up inside her. Nellie took a step closer, then another, until she stood directly in front of him.

Mark glanced back toward the house, then back to her. "I figure either the neighbor or the sheriff is watching from the window."

She didn't care.

"You bought my horse." Her voice came out accusatory. She saw a flare of something bright in his eyes. "You bought exactly the horse I described to you."

"I meant to give him to you, but you—"

"I rebuffed your awkward attempt to come courting." She finished for him.

A long moment of silence stretched between them. She could see the careful hope deep in his eyes.

"Ask me again," Nellie whispered.

He shook his head slightly, confusion flickering across his face.

"Ask me to come courting."

His eyes sparked, and one side of his mouth kicked up in a smile that made her heart stutter. "I want to come courting."

"That wasn't a question," she teased, though her voice trembled.

He reached one hand out toward her, the other still holding his hat.

At the same moment, she threw herself at him.

He caught her, his arms coming around her solid and sure. She pressed her face into his chest, felt his heart pounding beneath her cheek. For the first time since the attack, the trembling in her hands began to ease.

He winced.

Nellie pulled back immediately. "I thought you said you didn't get shot."

"My rib is a little tender from when I came off the horse." He looked rueful. "It'll heal."

Then he pulled her close again, and she let herself sink into his embrace. The cold fabric of his coat pressed against her cheek. She breathed in the smell of man and horse and winter air, closed her eyes against the emotion rising inside her.

"You changed me." He whispered into her hair. "From the first words you spoke to me, I was a different man. I couldn't stop thinking about you. I think I fell in love with you on that first Christmas night."

A tear rolled down her cheek.

She edged back just enough to see his face. He cupped her cheek with his hand, his thumb gentle as it wiped the tear away. He looked so vulnerable, so uncertain of what her response would be.

Her mouth trembled as she spoke. "I think I fell in love with you too. Even though I thought you were a criminal."

Joy flared in his eyes. Something settled deep inside him, some tension she hadn't even known he was carrying.

"I'm not that man anymore," he murmured.

"I know."

He dipped his head slowly, giving her time to pull away. But she didn't want to. She'd been waiting three years for this.

His lips met hers, tender and careful and full of promise. A homecoming. A declaration. Everything she'd dreamed of and more.

A cold breeze cut through her coat, and she shivered.

Mark edged back slightly. Snow was falling thick around them now, coating their shoulders and hair.

Nellie slipped her arm through his elbow. "Come inside. It's time we celebrated a real Christmas together."

She looked up at him with a smile that felt like the first real one she'd worn in hours. "I made soup this morning."

His laugh was quiet, warm. "Did you?"

"Mmhmm. And Clara baked bread." Nellie tugged him gently toward the house, where lamplight glowed golden in the windows. "I've been waiting years to share Christmas dinner with you properly."

Mark's arm tightened around hers as they walked through the falling snow together. "Then let's go home. For Christmas."