Chapter 22
Chapter
Twenty-Two
CLARA
S now falls thick beyond the windows. The kind that muffles the entire world. The kind Virgil warned me about.
Christmas Eve.
The kids are vibrating with enough energy to power the entire county. Luke has already checked for Santa tracks six times. Helen claims she's too old for that. Then she checks for Santa tracks at least seven more times.
I smile despite myself. The cabin glows with strings of colored lights and the soft warmth of the woodstove. For the first time since July, it feels like a life I can hold onto.
Not the same one. Never will be. But a life that can include things like Christmas.
The door opens wide, and my stomach immediately flips. Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.
Because I know who it is. Virgil.
The children beat me there. Cold air and snow swirl inside.
"Merry Christmas!" Luke shouts.
Virgil grunts. "Bit early."
"You brought presents!" Luke points triumphantly toward the sack in Virgil's hand.
The mountain man sighs. "Betrayed by a burlap sack."
Helen immediately reaches for it. "I knew it."
"You know nothing."
"I know you like us."
Virgil nearly chokes. I cover my mouth.
The kids drag him inside before he can escape. Snow dusts his shoulders, his beard, and his hat. For a moment, he stands there looking entirely too good in the golden light.
My pulse stumbles.
God.
This has to stop.
He catches me staring. Our eyes meet. Neither of us looks away quickly enough.
Instead, something passes between us. Something neither one of us is ready to name.
Luke saves us. "Cookies!"
The boy practically tackles the plate sitting on the counter.
The evening unfolds naturally after that. Dinner. Laughter. A fire crackling in the hearth.
The children take turns reading Christmas stories. Virgil pretends not to listen. Then corrects Luke when he skips two pages. The hypocrisy makes Helen laugh so hard milk comes out her nose.
By nine o'clock both kids are struggling to stay awake. By ten, they're asleep on the couch beneath a mountain of blankets. The cabin finally goes quiet.
Just me. Just Virgil. Just the fire.
Outside, snow continues falling, heavy and relentless. But also beautiful.
Neither of us says much. We haven't needed many words lately.
He settles in Bryson's old chair. I curl up at one end of the couch.
The insurance folder sits on the bookshelf. Still unsigned. Still waiting. Like everything else.
“For a bear wrangler you look mighty cozy,” he mutters with a wink.
“Hibernating,” I tease, winking back.
I watch heat crawl up his neck. My cheeks keep pace.
He suddenly looks away, staring at his calloused hands. “Road's gone by morning," Virgil says finally.
I look toward the dark window. "That bad?"
He nods. "Worse."
The silence returns. Comfortable and dangerous. The kind that invites honesty.
My eyes drift toward him. Toward the man who's spent nearly six months helping me survive. The man who keeps showing up. The man who stayed. "Virgil?"
His gaze lifts. "Yeah?"
I swallow, suddenly nervous. More nervous than I've been in months. "Do you ever get lonely?"
The question surprises both of us. He studies the fire for a long time. Then nods once. "Every day."
The honesty steals my breath—no jokes, no grumbling, no deflection—just truth.
My chest hurts because I know exactly what he means.
The fire pops. Snow taps softly against the windows. And suddenly I can't bear the thought of him walking back through that storm alone.
Not tonight, on Christmas Eve. Not after everything.
"You should stay." The words escape before I can stop them.
Virgil freezes.
So do I.
The room goes completely still.
Outside, the storm howls. Inside, my heart does something equally alarming.
"Clara." It's just my name. Yet somehow it sounds like a warning.
"I know," I whisper.
Because I do.
I know this isn't just about the weather. I know it isn't just about the road.
The rest?
I can't afford to think about the rest.
My eyes drift toward the sleeping children and the tree, toward the life we've somehow built out of wreckage, toward him.
"Stay anyway."
For a long moment he doesn't answer. Then he looks out the window at the merciless storm and the impossible darkness beyond the glass.
Finally, he nods once slowly. "Alright."
Neither of us mentions where he'll sleep.
He doesn't reach for me. Doesn't move closer. Doesn't make the moment bigger than it is. Somehow that makes it mean even more.
I look away before he can see my shining eyes. But I don't miss the way his shoulders relax. Or how neither of us mentions the weather again.
Because the storm isn't why I asked. And somehow... I think we both know it.