Prologue
Wrangled Strangers
Jake Brennan
I pour my third—or is it my fourth? — glass of Jim Beam, feeling the whiskey burn a path down my throat. The bottle was a Christmas gift to myself, wrapped in newspaper, and I opened it the moment I came in from checking the horses.
Christmas. What a fucking joke.
Outside my window, snow keeps falling, blanketing the world in pristine white as if it could bury everything ugly underneath.
It can’t bury the memories, though. Five years this coming New Year's Eve.
Since the accident. Since I lost Avril and Anna on that cold wintry night. A night that should have taken us all.
I raise my glass in a bitter toast to the empty chair across from me, where a photo of our last Christmas together sits. “Merry Christmas, sweethearts.”
The cabin feels especially hollow tonight. Only the crackling fire and the occasional howl of wind across the mountain break the silence. I should have gone to Dave’s when he invited me. Should have accepted the MacGallans’ Christmas dinner at the lodge when Ella asked at the Rusty Nail.
Ella. Just thinking about her sends another wave of self-loathing through me. The way she felt in my arms during that dance—small and warm and real. The way she looked up at me with eyes that somehow saw right through my carefully built walls.
A sharp knock at the door makes me jolt and slosh whiskey onto my jeans. I ignore it, lifting the glass again. Whoever it is can go to hell. I’m not fit for company tonight.
The knock comes again, harder this time.
“Jake?” A familiar voice calls. “It’s Ella. Are you home?”
Panic and anger spike in my gut. What the hell is she doing here? On Christmas night? In a fucking snowstorm?
“Jake, I know you’re in there. Your truck’s outside, and I can see lights on.”
I set my glass down too hard—whiskey splashes over the rim. Goddamn it. I don’t want this. I don’t want her here, seeing me like this, smelling the booze on my breath, noticing the red-rimmed eyes I spotted in the mirror an hour ago.
The third round of knocking finishes me.
“For Christ’s sake,” I mutter, pushing up from the chair. The room tilts slightly—proof that I’m well past tipsy and headed straight for drunk.
I yank the door open. Cold air slices through my whiskey-warmed skin. Ella stands on the porch, snowflakes clinging to her copper hair and her cheeks pink from the cold. She’s bundled in a green wool coat that matches her eyes, holding a covered plate in gloved hands.
“What do you want?” I manage, voice rough with liquor and grief.
If she’s taken aback, she doesn’t show it. “Merry Christmas to you, too,” she says, eyebrow raised. “I brought dinner from the lodge.”
“Not hungry.” I stay planted, not stepping aside. “Go home.”
“You should eat.” She holds the plate toward me. “Turkey, stuffing, Kane’s famous mashed potatoes, even Declan’s apple pie—though he won’t admit he baked it himself.”
“I don’t need your charity.” The words taste sour, but they come anyway. “Or your pity.”
Her eyes narrow. “It’s not charity. It’s Christmas dinner. Neighbors do it.”
“Well, I’m not your neighbor.” I lean into the doorframe. “So, you can take your neighborly gesture back to your perfect family Christmas.”
Hurt flashes across her face—then determination. “You’re drunk.”
“Brilliant observation.” I toast her with my glass.
“Are you going to let me in, or do I have to stand out here freezing while you act like a jerk?”
Her bluntness throws me. I expected her to turn away. Instead, she stays, snow collecting on her shoulders, breath pluming in the cold air.
Against my better judgment, I step aside.
She brushes past, carrying the scent of snow and something floral. Inside, the stale whiskey air hits her like a shock.
“You can set that down and go,” I say, closing the door against the storm. “I appreciate the thought, but I’m not good company.”
“So I gathered.” She unbuttons her coat but keeps it on, like she’s ready to stay or leave. She sets the plate on the coffee table, then looks around at my sparse living room—the half-empty bottle, the lone Christmas card from Dave and his wife on the mantel.
Annoyance flares inside me. “What part of ‘go’ wasn’t clear?”