Prologue （from Wrangled Strangers）
Jake Brennan
I pour my third—or is it my fourth? — a 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 Melanie 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 called this morning.
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. Guilt rattles through me for even looking at her.
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?”
“The part where I leave you alone to drink yourself into oblivion.” She folds her arms. “What’s going on, Jake?”
“None of your business.” I drop into my chair. “Look, I don’t mean to be an asshole, but I want to be alone.”
“I’m sure you do.” She doesn’t move. “But sometimes what we prefer isn’t what we need.”
“And you know what I need?” I laugh, a bitter rasp. “We’ve had three actual conversations in four years. You don’t know the first thing about me.”
“I know you’re hurting.” Her voice softens. “I know what it’s like to pretend you’re fine at Christmas when you’re falling apart inside.”
Her words hit me like a punch. I take another slug of whiskey. “Did Declan put you up to this? He seemed very curious about me at the Rusty Nail.”
“No one ‘put me up’ to anything.” Frustration flashes in her eyes. “I came because I wanted to. No one should be alone on Christmas unless they choose it.”
“Well, I choose it.” I gesture at the door with my glass. “So tell the MacGallan family council you did your good deed for the day.”
Her jaw tightens. “You know what? You’re right. This was a mistake.” She reaches for her gloves. “I thought maybe you were different from what you seemed. But clearly, I was wrong.”
She turns for the door, and something in me panics—wants to call her back, to apologize. But grief and whiskey have silenced me.
At the threshold, she pauses, hand on the knob. “Five years ago, this New Year's Eve, right?”
The question strikes me like a bucket of ice water. “What?”
“Your wife and daughter.” She still doesn’t look at me. “Declan didn’t tell me. I looked it up after he said you might need a friend tonight. December 31st, five years ago. Black ice on Route 9.”
The room tilts again. My chest tightens. “Get out.” The whisper barely carries.
Now she turns, compassion shining in her eyes. “Jake—”
“GET OUT!” I’m on my feet, rage and grief boiling over. “You had no right. NO RIGHT to pry into my life, my loss. It’s nobody’s business!”
She doesn’t flinch. She meets my gaze and nods once. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” She opens the door, and a blast of cold air rushes in. “The food will keep. Merry Christmas, Jake.”
Then she’s gone. The door closes with a soft click that sounds like finality.
I stand in the middle of the room, breathing hard, hands clenched. Through the window, I watch her trudge back to her SUV, head bent against the snow. She doesn’t look back as she drives away, taillights vanishing into the white.
Only when she’s out of sight do I realize I’m shaking—with rage, with grief, with the awful truth that I’ve just driven away the only person who might care to understand the ghosts I carry.
The plate of food sits on the coffee table, steam still rising through the foil. I can almost taste the turkey and spices, so different from the frozen pizza I planned to microwave.
“Fuck,” I whisper, sinking back into my chair. I stare at my glass, fingers brushing the amber liquid before I set it down untouched.
Outside, the snow keeps falling, covering tracks, burying secrets. Inside, I sit alone with my regrets, wondering if I just slammed the door on my last chance at something I didn’t even know I wanted until it walked out of my life.