Chapter 4
Ella
The alarm blares at five in the morning, and I groan as I fumble to silence it. November has arrived with a vengeance, bringing freezing temperatures that make my cozy bed nearly impossible to leave. But duty calls.
I dress quietly in the dark, careful not to wake Nora, who’s still sound asleep, her Halloween cowgirl hat perched on her bedpost where she insisted it remain “for safekeeping.”
The kitchen is cold as I brew coffee and pack Nora’s lunch. Scout watches me from his bed by the heating vent, clearly judging my life choices at this ungodly hour.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I whisper to him. “Some of us have to work for a living.”
Though that’s not entirely true, the trust Tomas set up would keep us comfortable for life, but I’ve always insisted on maintaining my job at Sweet Treats Bakery in Pinecrest, the nearest town.
Partly for appearances—Eleanor Shaw, widow and single mother, needs an income—and partly for my own sanity.
Four walls and a roof can become a prison when you’re hiding, and the bakery gives me purpose, routine, human contact beyond my daughter and now, my siblings.
I let Scout out to do his business while I get his food ready, then wait by the back door.
In no time, he’s racing up the back porch, and I let him in.
He goes straight to his food dish while I head to Nora’s room.
Every morning that I’m scheduled to work, the same guilt twists in my stomach—dragging her from warm blankets into the biting cold before sunrise.
Thankfully, I have an understanding boss who lets me bring her to work.
She curls up on the sofa in the bakery’s back room until she needs to get ready for school.
The drive into town takes thirty minutes on good days, but winter is settling in, so I allow extra time for icy patches on the winding roads.
Pinecrest is still asleep when we arrive, streetlights glowing in the darkness as I park behind Sweet Treats. The back door is already unlocked, as Helen always comes first to fire up the ovens.
“Morning,” I call out, hanging my coat on the hook by the door. “I’ll be right there. I need to get Nora settled.” I usher her into the back room and get her comfy before heading back to the kitchen.
Helen looks up from where she’s measuring flour, her round face breaking into a smile. “There she is! We were starting to think you’d run off to join the circus.”
I laugh as I wash my hands at the industrial sink. “Just family stuff. Sorry for being gone so long.”
“Family, hmm?” Helen raises an eyebrow. “You’ve never mentioned family before.”
I silently curse my slip. In the four years I’ve worked at Sweet Treats, I’ve carefully cultivated the image of a widow with no living relatives except my daughter. “Newly discovered,” I lie, she doesn’t need to know the history of my crazy family. “They’re here for the holidays.”
“That is so nice. Especially for Nora. Speaking of holidays,” Helen says, mercifully changing the subject, “we need to talk about Christmas.”
I tie my apron and settle back into the familiar routine. “What about it?”
“We’re behind schedule already.” Helen gestures to a stack of order forms on the counter. “Frank wants us to start the holiday menu next week. Peppermint everything, gingerbread, those little snowflake cookies that took forever last year.”
I groan inwardly. The holiday rush at Sweet Treats is legendary—from Thanksgiving and Halloween in October through Christmas and New Year’s, we barely have time to breathe. But this year feels different. For the first time, I have family to consider.
“And,” Helen continues, her voice dropping conspiratorially, “Frank wants to enter the Winter Wonderland competition this year.”
I pause in the middle of measuring coffee grounds. “The what?”
“Town competition. Each business creates a holiday display. Winner gets featured in the tourism brochure and bragging rights for a year.” She shrugs. “Frank’s convinced we can beat Maggie’s Diner this time.”
“That sounds... intense,” I say cautiously.
“Oh, it is. People go all out. But it brings in tourists, and tourists buy pastries.” Helen winks. “Frank says we’re doing a gingerbread village in the front window. Life-sized.”
“Life-sized?” I repeat, alarmed. “As in, human-sized gingerbread?”
“That’s the plan. He’s got sketches and everything.” Helen hands me a folder. “You’re our artistic one. He wants you in charge of design.”
I flip through Frank’s drawings—elaborate gingerbread structures complete with working lights, a miniature train, and what appears to be a gingerbread family of four. The scale is ambitious, to put it mildly.
“Helen, this would take weeks,” I protest. “And the structural engineering alone—”
“He’s already ordered the supplies,” she interrupts, looking apologetic. “And he’s hired that carpenter—you know, the handsome one who fixed our back steps last spring—to build the frames. We need to cover them with gingerbread and make it all pretty.”
I close the folder with a sigh. “When does he want to start?”
“Yesterday,” Helen chirps, sliding a tray of muffins into the oven. “But he’ll settle for this weekend. We’re closing early on Saturday so we can work on it without customers underfoot.”
My weekend plans of helping Nora with her science project vanish in a puff of gingerbread-scented smoke. “I’ll have to check if my... if someone can watch Nora.”
“Bring her along,” Helen suggests. “Kids love this stuff. My grandkids are coming to help with the decorating.”
The idea of bringing Nora into town, of including her in something so public, sends a familiar spike of anxiety through me. But then I remember Halloween—how her face lit up with joy at experiencing something so normal, so childhood-essential.
“Maybe,” I say noncommittally, turning to start the morning’s bread dough.
The bell over the front door jingles, followed by Frank’s booming voice. “There’s my star baker! Eleanor, we need to talk about Christmas!”
I plaster on a smile as he bustles into the kitchen, already unwinding his scarf. Frank Henderson is a good boss—kind, fair, passionate about baking—but subtle, he is not.
“Helen told me about the competition,” I say before he can launch into his pitch. “It’s... ambitious.”
“Ambitious is exactly what we need to be!” Frank claps his hands together. “Maggie’s Diner has won three years running with their tacky Santa’s workshop display. This year, we dethrone them with the most spectacular gingerbread village Pinecrest has ever seen!”
His enthusiasm is infectious, despite my reservations. “I’m just not sure I can commit to the extra hours, Frank. I have Nora to consider.”
Frank’s expression softens. “Bring the little one along. Make it a family affair. Christmas is about family, after all.”
Family. The word catches in my chest again. Christmas with family—not just Nora and me in our quiet cottage, but Kane, Declan, Kat, Connor, all of them. The thought is both thrilling and terrifying.
“I’ll figure something out,” I promise. “Now, what’s first on today’s baking list?”
As I fall into the familiar rhythm of measuring, mixing, and kneading, my mind keeps circling back to Christmas.
For years, I’ve kept our celebrations small and private—a tiny tree in our cottage, simple gifts for Nora, cookies and hot chocolate by the fire.
The idea of a MacGallan family Christmas, with all its potential chaos and joy, is both appealing and overwhelming.
Kane shows up to get Nora off to school, just in time for the morning rush, and I’ve made peace with the gingerbread village project. Perhaps it’s time to stop hiding quite so thoroughly. Nora deserves to experience the magic of a small-town Christmas, with all its lights and community spirit.
The day passes in a blur of customers and pastries. When I finally take my lunch break around one, I step outside for some fresh air and check my phone. There’s a text from Kane with a photo attached—Nora at the bus stop this morning, giving a thumbs-up, her backpack nearly as big as she is.
“Mission accomplished,” his text reads. “The princess is safely delivered to her royal education establishment.”
I smile and type a quick thank-you. It’s strange having someone to share these small parenting moments with —weird, but nice.
Kane has taken to his uncle role with surprising enthusiasm, as have the others in their own ways.
Declan helps with her math homework, Kat braids her hair in elaborate styles, and Connor has been teaching her card tricks that I pretend not to know are basically cheating methods.
As I’m about to pocket my phone, it buzzes with another text—this one from an unknown number.
“Fence needs work on the north side. Your cattle are getting through. - J”
I stare at the message, puzzled, before realizing it must be from Jake Brennan.
How he got my number is a mystery, until I remember the note I had left on his door one day when Scout had wandered off, asking him to call me if he saw him.
Luckily, he found his way home. I quickly save his contact and type a response.
“Thanks for letting me know. I’ll have someone check it this week.”
His reply comes almost immediately: “Sooner is better. Unless you want to buy back your cattle from me.”
I sigh, texting Kane to ask if he can look at the fence today. His response is immediate—a thumbs up emoji followed by “On it. I need the exercise.”
With that handled, I head back inside to face the afternoon rush, pushing thoughts of Christmas, family, and grumpy neighbors to the back of my mind.
But as I pipe frosting onto cupcakes, I find myself wondering what Jake Brennan does for Christmas.
If he spends it alone on that ranch, or if he has family somewhere who breaks through his gruff exterior.
Not that it matters. He’s just a neighbor, and barely even that. Just a man who happens to share a fence line with us, who reluctantly gave my daughter beef jerky on Halloween, who texted about cattle instead of coming over in person.
Just an attractive neighbor. Nothing more.