November Short Story [Christmas Story #1] (Patreon)

Hey peeps!

The Astra Academy short story (about the Death Lords) will be up in the next couple of days, but since I just got the final edits for the Bestiary, I plan to do that for the rest of the day, LOL (I'll edit short story afterward!)

IN THE MEANTIME, here is a short story I was planning on uploading in December (one of two) that are Christmas themed.

This is just extra, really, and mostly wholesome. If you dislike Christmas, or foster children, you might not enjoy this.

Hopefully you do enjoy,

Shami

Christmas Rescue

The chill and intensity of the wind tells me a storm is on its way. Perfect. Just what I need. A Minnesota snowstorm.

I walk up to the cabin and fiddle with my keys, running through the twenty or so I have until finally finding the correct one. The northern Voyageurs National Park Ranger Station exemplifies 1930s outdoorsman architecture, right down to the natural finish on the logs used for the walls. The building is modern and up to code, but from the outside it looks like it was plucked straight out of an old-world fairy tale.

“It’s Christmas Eve eve,” Owen says, slapping me on the shoulder. “The day before Christmas Eve. You can really feel it in the air.”

“Funny, I thought that was the first sign of hail,” I quip, unlocking the door.

“I’ve got a good feeling about this Christmas.”

“I’ve got a good feeling that we’re about to get snowed in.”

We walk into the cabin, and Owen heads straight to the fireplace. When we started as federal park rangers seven years ago, the cabin had the feel of an office building forgotten by time. Over the years, Owen transformed the place into a quaint little retreat, complete with pictures of us and our families. He got away with it by claiming the place needed to feel “warm and inviting” to visitors. There’s technically an office in the back, but otherwise it’s our secluded home during the winter months.

I peel off my jacket and hang it on one of the hooks by the front door. Owen kicks off his boots and has a fire going by the time I’ve removed mine. He doesn’t waste time—he disappears into the kitchen and starts humming “Jingle Bells” before I even make it to the couch.

“Carter,” he calls out. “You want a cup of hot chocolate?”

“We’re rugged outdoorsmen,” I call back. “Rugged outdoorsmen drink coffee, not hot chocolate.”

“Is that a no? Because I’m not making coffee on Christmas Eve eve.”

I groan aloud and throw myself back on the couch. It strains beneath me—the furniture is worn with love—and I settle myself with one foot up on the cushions and the other planted firmly on the rug.

“Fine,” I reply, my tone betraying all of my irritation. “I’ll take a cup of hot chocolate.”

Owen does this every year. Every damn day of December is just an eve to Christmas. Yesterday it was Christmas Eve eve eve, and the day before that, it was Christmas Eve eve eve eve. The lunacy with him never stops.

I watch the fire crackle and toil over the wood. It’s pleasant enough, but I’m sure Owen will want to roast chestnuts or do some other absurd Christmas-themed thing with it. I’m content to treat the day like any other in winter—relax and wait for any calls over the radio regarding park safety. A lot of weirdos trying to chop down trees or “experience a Christmas miracle” get lost in the Voyageurs National Park at this time of year. It’s best to just tend to them and forget about Christmas for myself altogether.

“One order of hot chocolate!”

I crane my neck and spot Owen stroll into the front room with two oversized mugs of piping-hot liquid. He walks around the couch and hands me one. There are tiny marshmallows floating on top in the shape of a Christmas tree. I roll my eyes. Owen was a Starbucks barista in another life, I know it.

“What’s wrong, Carter?” Owen asks, tilting his head. “C’mon! Get into the spirit!”

“Don’t worry. You have enough spirit for the both us.”

“C’mon. Give me a little cheer.”

I hold up one hand and give a halfhearted fist pump. “Woo.”

Owen heaves a sigh and places his hot chocolate on the fireplace mantel. “You get like this every year. I thought maybe just this once, you could lighten up and we could enjoy the season.”

I hate it when Owen gets all serious. It doesn’t suit him. I lean back on the couch and shrug. “I’m tired. We did a lot of hiking today.”

For a long moment, Owen stares at me. Then he gets this look about him, and I know he’s about to do something ridiculous. Sure enough, he saunters over to the office computer and switches the playlist to “Walking in a Winter Wonderland” before turning on his heel and dramatically ripping off his jacket.

“What’re you doing?” I drawl.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he dances back over to the couch—and by “dance” I mean he gyrates around like he’s having a stroke—and then he takes a seat next to me. When he leans in close, I hold my breath. He could’ve kissed me, but instead, he rubbed the tip of his nose to the tip of my nose.

I should’ve been angry, but…

I smile.

Owen always knows how to make me smile.

“So tell me, Carter,” he says in a faux-sexy voice. “Have you been naughty? Or nice?”

I can barely stifle a laugh as I place my mug on the stand next to the couch. “How do you let loose with lines like that?”

“Tis the season!”

The phone rings, nearly giving me a heart attack. Owen snickers and motions to the device on the side table. I lean over and grab the wireless receiver.

“This is the northern Voyageurs National Park Ranger Station,” I say. “I’m Park Ranger Carter Williams.”

“Carter? This is Jackson.”

Officer Jackson, the sheriff who patrols around the edge of the park from time to time, is a frequent caller. Sometimes people run off into the woods to avoid the police. It’s a foolish decision on their part, considering most people know next to nothing when it comes to living off the land.

“What’s up, Jackson?”

I say Jackson’s name so Owen will know the call is serious. He sits a little straighter.

“Is everything okay?” Jackson asks.

“Yeah,” I reply. “Go on. What’s it this time?”

“We’ve got a problem. A group of kids ran out of town and went straight into the park.”

“Kids?”

“A mix of ages. The youngest is five and the oldest is seventeen.”

“How many kids?” I ask, my gut telling me this assignment might need my full attention.

“Six,” Jackson replies.

“Why’d they run out of town? Where’re their parents?”

“They’re foster kids.”

Jackson makes the statement as though it’s the answer to both questions.

“There’s a storm blowing in,” I say.

“Yeah, I know,” Jackson intones. “Which is why I’m hoping you and Owen can help me find them before it’s too late.”

“Where’d they enter the park? Do you know?”

“I have all the details, as well as pictures, being sent to you via e-mail right now.”

“Owen and I will get right on this.”

“Right, then. Thank you.”

Officer Jackson ends the call, and I toss the phone down onto the couch cushion. Owen stares up at me with a lifted eyebrow. I exhale.

“A group of stupid kids ran away, into the park,” I say, dreading the hours to come. I’ve never been good with kids. I don’t like them in the same way I don’t like Christmas. Why’d it have to be kids? I suspect they’ll go running home the moment they realize it’s cold out. Kids don’t usually have the reckless conviction of most adults. On the other hand, they don’t have any common sense or wisdom either.

Owen hops to his feet. “We need to get out there if kids are in danger. How old are we talking here?”

“The youngest is five and the oldest—”

“Five?” Owen interjects. He yanks his coat on at twice the speed. “C’mon, Carter! We need to get out there!”

I get to my feet. It’s going to be a long Christmas.

***

Voyageurs National Park is huge. It’s roughly two hundred and eighteen thousand acres of forest, rock cliffs, and rivers. The park even encompasses four lakes. While these facts are normally for tourist, they’re daunting when you realize a person can easily get lost within the park’s wilderness.

To my surprise and bewilderment, the storm hasn’t yet hit. It’s late afternoon Christmas Eve, meaning the storm may not even take full form. That’d be the preferred outcome, but nature is never that predicable.

Our Ford SUV jerks around as it crosses over a pile of rocks and sticks. Owen keeps hold of the steering wheel, and his eyes are glued to the area around us. He hasn’t relaxed since we started our search twenty hours ago. The longer the kids are lost, the greater the chance they’ll never be seen alive again. I don’t voice my thoughts—Owen knows all this—but they hang on me like deadweight. I don’t like kids, but I dislike corpses even more. We need to find them soon.

“Wait, stop here,” I say.

Owen pulls the vehicle over and comes to halt. I hop out the passenger side and jog over to an impromptu campsite. This isn’t a designated area for campers—perhaps the remains are from the kids?—but the closer I get, the more I realize it was nothing more than drunken vagabonds. I let out a frustrated sigh as I glance over the site.

They used a fire to cook something, as indicated by the pot sitting a few feet from their stonepit fireplace. Three blankets were left strewn about, and I gather them up to bring back to the cabin. We have a lost and found—anything left by campers gets put there—but no one ever comes calling for items. The blankets will only add to the pile until, years from now, we get the gumption to empty the damn shed and throw everything in the dump.

“Any sign of the kids?” Owen asks as I throw the blankets in the back.

“No. Just a used-up campsite.”

“All right. You want to take a nap while I keep driving?”

“Nah. I’m plenty awake. Let’s keep going.”

We’ve been taking turns napping. I don’t think I can stand another minute of restless sleep in the passenger seat of our vehicle. Besides, two sets of eyes are better than one.

The park sits empty this time of year. Snow covers everything, from the trees to the rocks to the roads. It’s beautiful, but most people are smart enough to avoid it until the winds calm down. The quiet tranquility is why I became a federal park ranger in the first place. Owen lovingly describes me as “a hermit” when he calls his family, but I prefer to think of myself as good ol’-fashioned antisocial. Who needs other people when you have the wilderness at your beck and call?

“You still got that good feeling about Christmas?” I ask, half-serious, half-sarcastic.

“We’re going to find those kids,” Owen states.

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll find them.”

“We’ll find them before anything bad happens. Mark my words.”

“Speak of the devil….”

I point out the passenger window. On the far hill, just beyond a small iced-over creek, are four dark blurs amid the perfect white of the snow.

Owen squints and smiles. “What did I tell you? We found ’em!”

“Pull the vehicle around and let’s pick them up.”

Owen takes the SUV onto one of the trails, careful not to get into our own terrible situation. It doesn’t take us long to reach the kids—they’re parked next to a makeshift tent and fire pit without any intention of moving—but the moment we get close, one kid takes off running, leaving the other three behind.

I stare in disbelief as the boy, I suspect age sixteen or seventeen, leaps over a nearby snowbank, in the opposite direction.

“Is he running from us?” Owen asks me, his own disbelief evident in his tone.

“Yeah,” I groan. “I’m gonna chase him down before he hurts himself.”

“He’s just a kid, Carter. Be nice.”

“Oh, I’ll be nice.”

I throw open the passenger door and take off in a sprint after the runner. Owen is good with kids—he’s good with everyone—and I have no doubt he’ll handle the other little buggers while I wrangle the last.

The teen I’m chasing slows and glances over his shoulder. The instant he catches sight of me, he flies back into movement, not unlike a startled deer. He slips and fumbles through the snow, panic gripping his actions, but he’s still quite fast.

Not faster than me, mind you. I don’t train and exercise every morning to be outdone by some kid.

“Stop!” I bark when I get within twenty feet of him. “I’m with the federal park rangers! Stay where you are!”

The teen leaps over a fallen tree and weaves between iced-over boulders. He doesn’t respond. I continue my pursuit, anger fueling my chase. What is he hoping to accomplish? Is he going to continue running forever?

I get within ten feet of him and decide to try again. “Stop!” I huff between controlled breaths. “This is dangerous!”

Again, he ignores my commands.

That does it.

I pick up my pace for the last few feet, and I football-tackle him to the ground. We slam into a snowbank, half our bodies sinking past the surface of the icy powder. The kid struggles under me—kicking and scratching and shouting—and God, I wish I had brought my handcuffs. Or at least my Taser. I definitely should have brought my Taser.

“Let go of me!” the kid yells.

“Hold still!” I snap. “I’m here to save you!”

“I’m not going back!”

“Like hell you aren’t!”

I wrestle the teen onto his belly and pin his arms behind his back. He’s face-first in the snow and breathing hard, but I keep him down until the fight leaves his system. After a few tense moments, he relaxes.

“Are you going to behave?” I drawl.

“Y-yes.”

“I willrun you down again.” And next time I won’t forget my Taser.

“I’ll behave.”

“Good.”

I stand up and haul the kid to his feet. His lip is bleeding, and I mumble a quick apology. I didn’t realize I hit him so hard. The kid doesn’t offer me a reply.

Luckily for him he’s dressed for the weather. The kid’s wearing a puffy jacket, thick jeans, and high snow boots. His muddy-brown hair, clumped together with water, hangs disheveled. He glares at me and wrenches his arm away, his pride obviously wounded.

“Let’s go,” I grunt, pushing him toward the vehicle.

We march back in silence. Once we walk over the snowbank, I catch sight of Owen and his kids. We’re totally different in our approach—he’s a shepherd herding sheep, and I’m a rustler kidney-punching a potential victim. My kid is bloody and angry while all three of his kids are calm and sitting in the SUV with smiles on their faces.

God, I hate kids. It’s like they can sense it, too… which only makes everything worse.

I make it down the snowbank when my kid decides he’s going to try to make another break for it. He dashes off, but I spring into action faster than he anticipated. I tackle him again, wrenching his arm behind his back in one swift motion.

“You’re hurting me!” he yelps.

I ease up, growling an incomprehensible apology, but my heart isn’t in it. What’s with this kid? He said he would behave! This isn’t behaving!

“Carter!”

I snap my attention to Owen. He runs over and glowers at me, motioning to the kid half-buried in the snow.

“What’s this?” he demands. “I said to be nice!”

“This isme being nice.”

The kid thrashes about. “Let go!”

Owen pulls me aside and helps the boy to his feet. “Are you hurt?” Owen asks, his eyes fixated on the kid’s busted lip. “Our vehicle has a powerful heater. Come with me.”

“I don’t want to go,” the kid growls.

“I know, I know. But we’re not taking you back. We’re taking you to our ranger station. It’s different, I swear. And there’s a storm coming. You can’t stay out here in the storm. Not even the black bears risk the storms. On a scale of one to black bear, are you really going to tell me you’re an eleven?”

The kid chokes out a laugh, caught off guard by Owen’s charisma. He hangs his head and relaxes. “No. I’m not an eleven.”

“All right, then. It’s settled. We’re going back to the ranger station.”

Owen places a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder and guides him to the SUV without further incident. He shoots me another glare, and I scoff. If the kid had just listened, we wouldn’t be in this situation.

We all walk back together, and I get a good look at the other three kids. There’re two blond boys—one roughly thirteen and the other five—and they’re holding each other like only brothers do. The last one is a girl, her curly mane of hair wild and puffed out like a lion. She hides inside her snow jacket, never daring to meet anyone’s gaze.

All the kids are dressed for the weather, but the closer I look, the more I see that their clothes are in tatters. Seams are ripping apart, holes litter the edges, and loose threads hang off every corner.

“Weren’t there six children?” Owen asks them.

The girl nods. “Yeah. My sisters went off by themselves earlier this morning, and we haven’t seen them since.”

“Which direction did they go?”

She points to the north, and I roll my eyes. Out of all the directions they could have gone, the north is the worst. There are sheer rock cliffs that line the river, and if someone isn’t paying attention, they can tumble right off them. It’s happened more than once since I’ve worked here….

“Let’s get back to the ranger station,” Owen says.

The kids sit in the back, and I hop in the passenger seat. Owen swings the vehicle around once everyone is situated and heads straight for our winter haven. I know if we make it there before the storm, everything will be all right—we have plenty of food, water, propane, and a separate generator that keeps kickin’ no matter what happens. Well, as long as we find the last two before the storm sets in.

As he tears through the wilderness, I notice the clouds and ever-increasing winds.

Of course the storm would hit now, at the worst possible time. That’s how it always goes.

Owen can see it too. He accelerates despite the ice and takes every shortcut he knows. The kids in the back stay silent, which is nice, but I can’t help but think the runner is going to make a mad dash once the door flies open. They find the blankets I tossed back there and use them for extra warmth.

The moment the cabin comes into view, I relax. It’s snowing but not too bad. Yet. The two girls couldn’t have gone too far from the spot we found the others…. With a place to start and a direction to go, finding them should be simple. Well, as simple as any other search and rescue, at least.

Owen pulls the SUV up to the cabin and parks it in the vehicle shelter. He jumps out and the kids follow suit. To my surprise, they don’t bolt—instead they huddle together, whispering among themselves. They’re distracted. Owen takes the moment to walk over to me.

“Carter,” he says, his tone serious. “You stay here with the kids while I go out for the last two.”

I shake my head and keep my voice low when I say, “Hell no.”

“One of us needs to stay with the kids.”

“Youshould stay with the kids. You’re good with kids. You like Christmas and Christmas Eve. I’m sure they’d be putty in your hands.”

Owen glances over to the teen with a busted lip and then back to me with both eyebrows high. “Running the last two down isn’t the ideal solution. I think a more diplomatic approach is needed.”

“That one was ornery,” I state.

“He came to vehicle when I talked to him.”

Touché.

“You just have to be honest with them,” he says.

“Tsk.”

“And you have to be understanding. Talk to them like adults.”

I let out a long sigh. “Fine. I’ll watch the damn kids. But”—I grab his jacket and pull him close—“you better come back, you understand me?”

I hate the idea that we’ll be separated during a storm. We work best as a team. I know we aren’t always together, but… what if something happens and I’m not there to help?

“I’ll be fine,” he says.

Owen wraps an arm around me and places his forehead against mine. We’re so close—I enjoy his scent—and I take the moment to lock my mouth with his.

“Please come back in one piece,” I breathe, my voice betraying my vulnerability.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” he replies with a smile. “Everything will be fine. Trust in the season.”

“The day Santa Claus swoops out of the sky to save me from the hazards of this job is the day I start trusting the season. Not a moment before.”

Owen chuckles as he releases his hold on me. “I’m going to take the jeep. The weather is bad enough that I don’t think the SUV is the best choice.”

“All right. Get back soon.”

***

“Listen up,” I announce. “I’m in charge.”

The kids, huddled around the fireplace, stare at me with wide eyes and glares. The front room feels smaller with five people in it—I’m used to Owen and Owen alone—but they all managed to find seats, whether it be the couch, fireplace bricks, or rocking chair. I pace at the back end of the room, watching their gazes follow me as I formulate my words.

Owen said to be honest.

“I don’t like any of you,” I state.

The kids collectively frown.

“I’m not going to bother learning your names,” I continue. I point to the five-year-old. He shrinks down and grabs his brother’s arm. “You’re Tiny Tim.”

“B-but my name is Edmund.”

“Not anymore, Tiny Tim.”

The kid with the busted lip laughs aloud.

I point to him. “Quiet down, Seabiscuit.”

“Hey!” he barks.

I ignore him and turn to the girl with wilderness for hair. “You’re Lion,” I tell her.

She flushes, clearly taken with the name, and nods. “My sister always says I have the mane of a lion.” She fluffs her curly locks.

I turn to the last kid—Tiny Tim’s older brother—and he meets my gaze without flinching. He pulls Tiny Tim close and awaits a verdict as though he couldn’t care less about what I call him. As I stare, I realize I have nothing. He’s an average-looking kid, albeit scrawny. His hair… it’s the same shade of blond Owen has. He and his brother both look as though they could be distantly related to Owen’s family….

“What’s your name?” I ask him.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to—”

“I know what I said,” I snap, cutting him off. “What’s your name?”

“Luke.”

“Well, Luke, you get the privilege of keeping your name. Merry Christmas.”

He nods, confusion evident in his expression.

I clap my hands together. “All right. Lion, Seabiscuit, Tiny Tim, and Luke… I’m going to make this simple so that we’re all on the same page. You’re going to sit here. In this room. Quietly. No one is to leave this room. No one is to raise their voice. No one is to roughhouse. Understand?”

Tiny Tim raises his hand. I point to him.

“What if we have to go to bathroom?” he whispers.

“You’re going to piss in the corner, apparently,” Seabiscuit sarcastically interjects.

“Watch your mouth,” I snap. “You’re allowed to go to the bathroom. It’s right over there.” I motion to the bathroom door. “But you get in and then you get out. If you’re longer than five minutes, I’m breaking down the door.”

Lion holds a hand over her mouth in a silent gasp.

I cross my arms over my chest. “Any other questions?”

“What’s your name?” Tiny Tim asks.

“Who cares?” Seabiscuit once again chimes in. “He doesn’t want to remember our names. Why should we remember his? He’s just a power-drunk park cop. This is the most action he’s seen all year, so he’s gotta milk it.”

“For your information,” I drawl, “not only do I act as law enforcement for federal property, but I also act as a firefighter and emergency medic. And I’ll have you know, this year alone I’ve saved seven hikers, caught a runaway felon, tracked down an injured bear cub and helped it get back to its mother, and—most exciting—I’ve been shot at five times by drunken hunters with one too many beers and way too many firearms. Saving you guys from a snowstorm? That’s just another day on the job.”

Luke and his brother scoot to the edge of the couch, their expressions beaming with admiration. Their honest gaze shakes me a little—I’ve never been admired like that before. I feel odd and uncomfortable. It’s not thatimpressive.

“It’s nothing,” I snap at them. “Owen does the exact same things all the time. All federal park rangers do.”

“Do you see a lot of pretty sunrises and sunsets?” Lion asks.

“Sunrises and sunsets? I’ve seen enough to fill three lifetimes.”

Seabiscuit rolls his eyes, but the other three seem quelled by veneration. I don’t know if that’s what Owen would have done—probably not—but whatever works.

Tiny Tim raises his hand once more. I point to him.

“Have you ever seen Santa Claus?” he asks.

The room grows dead silent. I want to answer “of course not because he’s not real,” but the way the other kids shift their weight and fidget tells me they don’t want to burst that bubble. This isn’t my department. What am I supposed to say? Am I supposed to lie to him? Owen said to tell the truth… but I’m sure he didn’t mean for this.

“Of course he hasn’t,” Seabiscuit replies. “You’ve got to be nice before Santa visits you. This guy doesn’t have a nice bone in his body.”

Seabiscuit is trying to insult me, but I like his explanation. It saves me from having to conjure something my own.

“He’s right,” I say to Tiny Tim. “I’m on the naughty list. Santa doesn’t bring me gifts.”

Tiny Tim frowns, his young facial features twisted in earnest sadness. “Oh,” he chokes out. “I’m sorry.”

The older kids regard me with a quiet nod of approval. Perhaps they were afraid I was going to spill the beans about Santa to Tiny Tim? I’m just glad Seabiscuit gave me an out.

The kids settle down and watch the fire. From time to time, one whispers to another, but otherwise they’re still.

Time drags on.

I keep my eyes on the windows. The snow is rising. The flurry of white sends shivers across my skin. Snow can be dangerous, especially among the rocks of Voyageurs National Park. Where is Owen? The light wanes and nerves rack my body.

I need to hear Owen’s voice.

“Stay here,” I command the children.

They all nod, and I disappear into the office. We have a radio set up there that connects to each vehicle at our disposal. Normally we keep the line open in case of emergencies, but I need to know Owen is okay. I sit down at the solid wood desk and fiddle with the device. Using the hand mic, I open the channel.

“Owen? You there?”

“Carter?” His voice crackles back over the line. “Is everything okay?”

I exhale in sweet relief. He’s okay.

“Yeah,” I reply. “Seabiscuit is a little difficult, but otherwise I think I’m handling it just fine.”

“Did you just say Seabiscuit?”

“Er, yeah. I’ll explain later. Have you found those two kids?”

“Not yet, but I think I’ve found their trail.”

“In this weather?”

“It’s the Christmas season coming to help, Carter. I stumbled upon some of their tracks almost by accident. I’m pretty sure they traveled up to Diver’s Rock.”

“Be careful up there.”

“I will. And I’m going to sign off for now. I’m getting close.”

“All right. See you when you get back.”

I hang the hand mic back on the device and take a deep breath. It’s dark outside, and I know visibility will be impaired with the storm. He won’t have the light of the moon or the stars to help him avoid all those rock cliffs. Just thinking about it gets me restless.

I don’t know what I’d do without Owen.

Exhaling, I stand. I can’t sit around dwelling on this. I walk back to the main room and find Seabiscuit walking along the wall, his fingers lingering on all the pictures. The kids turn their attention toward me once they realize I’ve returned.

Seabiscuit removes a picture of me and Owen from the wall. “So you’re gay or something?”

“Justin!” Lion hisses. “Don’t be rude!”

“What? Have you seen these pictures? They’re hugging and stuff.”

“Yes,” I intone. “I’m gay or something.”

“I called it,” Seabiscuit says, showing off the picture. “But I always thought gay guys paired, like, one big, one small. Which one of you is the girl in the relationship?”

Lion hides herself in her jacket, her face red with what looks like empathetic embarrassment. I storm across the room and rip the picture from Seabiscuit’s hand. He flinches back as I glare at him.

“You’re such a charming child. It’s a wonder you haven’t been adopted yet.”

Seabiscuit glowers, but he doesn’t offer a rebuttal. Instead he jams his hands into his pockets and turns away. I place the photo back on the wall. And Owen wonders why I don’t like random strangers….

Luke raises his hand. I roll my eyes and point to him.

“Can we have something to eat?”

Everyone in the room perks up at the mention of food. I nod once and walk into the kitchen with tunnel vision. I go straight for the pantry and then return. I toss a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter at Luke. He catches them with a frown. He waits for a moment longer, but when I offer nothing else, he fidgets with the plastic opening and removes a couple slices.

Tiny Tim pouts. Luke caresses his head.

Before anyone can comment further, Luke slides off the couch and approaches me with his shoulders bunched and his head down. He’s not yet fully grown and his awkward proportions remind me of high school. I’m positive in my assessment—he’s thirteen or close to it.

“Uh,” he begins, his voice just above a whisper. “Do you have any cookie cutters?”

“What?” I balk.

“Cookie cutters. Do you have any cookie cutters?”

I head to the kitchen and he shadows my steps. I pull open a few drawers—I know we have cookie cutters, I just never use them—and I rummage through the many pots and pans Owen has accumulated over the years. Luke waits patiently.

“Why do you need them?” I ask.

“Uh, well, Edmund—er, Tiny Tim—doesn’t like plain bread, so I trick him into eating it by cutting the crustless parts to look like gingerbread men and stars and stuff. He likes to pretend they’re cookies.”

I stop midsearch, my mind grinding to a halt. I threw him the bread because I didn’t want to have to deal with another delinquent kid problem, but… it never occurred to me they might be running for legitimate reasons. How often did they eat plain bread slices?

I’m such a jackass.

With unsteady hands, I shut the drawer and open an overhead cabinet. I remove a pack of fudge cookies, Owen’s favorite, and toss them over. Luke catches them with wide eyes.

“Don’t pretend this time,” I drawl.

Luke doesn’t reply. He just nods and walks out of the kitchen with a restrained smile. I watch him go and silently berate myself for being so callous. Owen wouldn’t have made such a mistake….

I walk back into the front room and catch Lion leaning close to the office hallway. She spots me and jumps back.

“I think I hear someone talking,” she explains.

The radio?

I jog for the office, leaving the kids to their cookies. Sure enough, when I get close, I hear voices over the radio.

“Hello?” a feminine voice crackles. “Is anyone there?”

I pick up the hand mic. “Who is this?” I demand.

“Th-this is Casey. I need help! My sister and the park ranger went over the ledge and… and… I can still hear them.”

“Where are you?” I ask the moment she lets go of her line.

“I d-don’t know!”

Panic rushes through me. It’s my worst nightmare come true. What the fuck am I doing here? Owen is in trouble, and I’m just sitting around in an office talking over the radio!

“Stay there,” I command. “I’m on my way.”

“Please hurry!”

Diver’s Rock. That’s where Owen said he was heading. If I take the risky road, I could be there in less than a half hour… though that’s not counting the storm and snow. I feel myself sweat as I grab the emergency medical kit. I should’ve gone. It should’ve been me. Not Owen. Me.

I exit the office, and while I’m pulling on my gloves, I overhear the kids in the other room.

“—and I saw a bathroom building off in the distance,” Seabiscuit says, his voice very distinct when compared to the others. He’s the only one with a deep voice of puberty.

“I don’t know,” Lion replies, her voice dreamy and singsong. “There’s a storm.”

“They’re just going to take us back after. We have to go now.”

Fuck.

I knew he was going to try to run again. I don’t need this right now.

I tense and start forward but stop myself halfway to the main room. A small piece of me wants to just “deal with them,” but another piece of me doesn’t want to add yet another reason for them to run away. What would Owen do?

…I don’t know. Owen would have an amazing plan that involved dancing or some shit like that. What am I going to do about this?

I enter the main room and the kids jump apart. The box of fudge cookies—now empty—sits discarded by the fireplace. I grab a nearby bucket of water and splash it across the flames, extinguishing everything in one fell swoop.

“What’s going on?” Seabiscuit asks.

“You’re all getting in the SUV and coming with me,” I say. “We have to go pick up Lion’s sisters.”

They give me skeptical stares, and I don’t blame them. What if we all get caught out in the storm? It’s a risk I’m just going to have to take. If I leave them here, they’ll run for sure. If I take them… maybe they won’t have that chance. And I can’t delay any longer—not when Owen’s life hangs in the balance.

***

The combination of darkness, hail, snow, and wind makes the trek a living nightmare. The Ford SUV is a sturdy vehicle—it is custom designed for park ranger work—but that doesn’t mean it has the fortitude to stand the test of God’s wrath. It shakes and slides, and the lights on the dash let me know it’s straining to stay fully functional.

I press forward regardless.

Diver’s Rock isn’t very far. I need to get there and get back, and I steel myself to the elements. The kids in the back aren’t as certain. They squeeze themselves together under the blankets, Luke and Seabiscuit telling the others everything will be okay. At one point I think I hear Lion singing a Christmas carol, but I’m too focused to make out which one.

The lights of the vehicle reflect off the snow. I squint past the glare until I make out the signs of Diver’s Rock. It’s a large outcropping of boulders over a river, where visitors like to take turns jumping. I see a figure amid the downpour of snow and drive toward it.

A young girl leaps into the beam of my headlights. She, like the other kids, is dressed in heavy clothing—though worn and tattered—and her hair is just as large as Lion’s, despite the powerful wind.

She runs to the passenger door and jumps in.

“My sister went over the edge!” she shouts.

I survey the area with a few glances and catch sight of Owen’s jeep parked on the largest rock overlooking the river. It’s half-covered in snow and the door sits ajar. The girl must have hidden in there to keep safe from the storm and exited when she saw me approaching.

“Wait here,” I say.

Without wasting any time, I exit the SUV and power through the snow. The chill cuts my exposed skin, but despite the burning pain, I soldier through until I reach the edge of Diver’s Rock. The place is different than I remember—boulders have shifted around, no doubt from the storm—and I feel around with my foot as I move forward with caution. The ground shifts under my weight. There’s a good chance I could go over the edge as well.

Unhooking my flashlight from my work belt, I shine it down toward the river. The bank is frozen over. I don’t see any sign of Owen or the other girl.

I move down a few feet and keep the flashlight steady with both hands. I’m shaking, both from the chill and my fear. The wind howls loud enough to drown out everything else. Even if Owen were calling, I would never hear.

Then, like a genuine miracle, my flashlight catches on a clump of tinsel caught on a fallen tree branch. I know without a doubt some cabin-dwelling campers thought dressing up a tree outdoors for Christmas would be a good idea, but I only stare at it for a moment before I catch sight of Owen and the girl huddled just next to it. I would have missed them were it not for the tinsel…. They are almost completely covered in the white blanket of snow.

I hold my breath and take stock of the situation. It’s a fifteen-foot drop from the rocks down to the frozen riverbank. Owen isn’t moving…. He’s lying on his back, cradled in the girl’s arms. She rocks back and forth, generating heat, but I can see that won’t last much longer. I think she catches sight of my flashlight, but her hair and the wind get tangled across her face, blocking her eyes.

Time is of the essence. I rush back to the SUV, my body operating on autopilot. When I return, the girl in the passenger seat looks at me with tears in her eyes.

“Where’s my sister?”

Ignoring her, I say, “Which one of you can follow simple instructions?”

They exchange glances until Seabiscuit and Luke both raise their hands. I motion for them to exit, and they zip up their jackets before joining me in the cold. With panic in each step, I make my way back to the jeep, Seabiscuit and Luke hot on my trail.

I grab the winch attached to the jeep’s front and pull Seabiscuit close. “This is a winch,” I yell over the howl of the wind. “And this is wire rope! It’ll cut your hands if you grab it without gloves!”

He nods, shaken but determined.

I disengage the gear, releasing the hold on the thick gray rope, and I haul it to the ledge. There’s a hook on the end, and I throw it over and lower the thing until it reaches the riverbank. I trudge back through the snow and lock the gear, keeping the wire in place. With a ragged breath, I turn to Seabiscuit.

“This is the motor!” I say, pointing to the device mounted on the front of the jeep. It has a series of buttons and modes, but all that matters right now is one. I point to a simple button on the side. “This pulls the wire back! Wait for my signal, understand? Then press this button!”

He nods again and takes his position next to the jeep. The seriousness of the situation isn’t lost on him.

Luke hovers about with a nervous posture. I take him by the arm and lead him all the way over to the ledge.

“See over the side?” I yell, handing him my flashlight. “When I give you the signal, you’ll tell Seabiscuit to lift us up, understand?”

“Y-yes,” he replies, his soft voice lost to the wind in mere moments.

“Good!”

I take hold of the wire rope and, with careful movements, climb down the side of Diver’s Rock. The ice and wind makes everything slippery, but my heavy-duty gloves and boots are more than up to the task. When my feet hit the riverbank, I see the girl’s face light up in the darkness.

Duty demands I rescue her first, but my heart will ache until I have Owen within my reach. I instruct the girl to hold on to my neck while I secure a standard rescue knot around my body with the wire rope. Once finished, I walk over to Owen.

He’s in bad shape but conscious. I exhale and help him up. He gasps in pain the moment he moves his right leg. Without being too forceful, I shoulder his weight and signal up to Luke. Within a few seconds, the winch is pulling all three of us up to the ledge. The pressure is straining, but I’ll let myself get ripped apart before I let either Owen or the girl slip from my grasp.

Before I know it, we’re at the top, and I have to physically haul them over the edge. I’m breathing hard by the end of it, but I refuse to be beaten. Luke and Seabiscuit help the girl and Owen onto the rocks.

Once we’re up, I drop the rope and motion back to the SUV. The three kids run there without a problem, and I carry Owen. I take him around back and throw open the hatch. There’s a flat space where we keep tools and extra rope. With an uncaring thrash of my arm, I throw it all to the side and set Owen down on his back. He grimaces in pain and visibly bites back a cry.

In the light of the SUV, I look him over. His leg is stiff and the side of his head is black and blue. A leg and a head injury? Those are the two worst locations given our remote status.

My hands shake as I run them over Owen’s thigh. He gasps and shakes his head. He’s in pain, but nothing is actively bleeding. So it’s an internal injury—perhaps he’s broken a bone, or he’s bleeding internally or, worse yet, both.

My eyes trail to his fingers, and I notice they’re a dark blue.

“Don’t worry,” I whisper, struggling to keep my voice steady. “You’re going to be fine. Everything is under control.”

Owen shivers, but he doesn’t offer anything in terms of substance. His body is too stiff and he may be going into shock.

God, I hope everything will be all right.

***

“Clear a space,” I command, motioning to the couch.

Lion and Luke rearrange the pillows as I fireman’s carry Owen over. I rest him on his back and stack the extra cushions up for his injured leg. He needs to elevate it, and I need to get a better look. Once he’s situated, I remove his boot and pull my knife to cut along the seam of his pant leg up to the middle of his thigh.

I cringe.

His leg is swollen. His feet are blue. He’s panting in pain and sweating, gripping the edge of the couch with all the force he can muster.

The atmosphere of the cabin thickens with tension. The kids—all six of them—stand at the edge of the room, watching from afar with mild fear and confusion written across their faces. The room is cold and lifeless. No fire. Low lights. Wind howling outside. It’s a perfect mirror for my mood.

I stand and walk over to the fireplace. With a few quick motions, I throw on two new logs and strike a match. Owen needs warmth. I glance over to the two new girls. They need warmth too. The longer I stare, however, the more I see the second girl isn’t harmed. She was on the riverbank with Owen…

“Are you hurt?” I ask, looking her straight in the eyes.

She shakes her head.

I motion for both girls to come over to the fireplace. “Take off your wet jackets and hang them to dry. It’ll be warm soon.” They comply, and I return my attention to the embers under the logs.

Once the fire is stable, I jog to the office. My next priority is to make sure someone is on their way to take Owen to the hospital. Technically I’m certified for emergency medical procedures, but I don’t have enough training or the tools here in the cabin to mend a broken leg and a head injury.

I grab the emergency radio mounted on the far wall. It’s the most powerful device we have in the office, and I know the towers around the area will hold through the storm. There might be interference… but I can’t think about that now. I need to stay positive. That’s what Owen would do.

Switching to the emergency channel, I click the mic and say, “This is the northern Voyageurs National Park Ranger Station. We have an emergency situation. One federal park ranger is injured, and I’m requesting immediate assistance.”

After a terrifying handful of seconds, I receive a crackled response.

“This is the International Falls Rescue Center,” a man replies. “We hear you, but the weather’s preventing any travel. What’s the situation, ranger?”

“My partner fell off a ridge in the storm. He’s got a swollen leg and a nasty mark on his temple.”

“Is he conscious?”

“Yes.”

“All right, listen up. Weather forecasts say we’ll be able to get airborne at dawn. We’ll send a helicopter then, but in the meantime, you need to keep your partner awake—don’t let him fall asleep or lose consciousness. Bind his leg, not too tight, and apply ice in twenty-minute intervals. Don’t give him any blood thinners. No Advil or Motrin.”

“I understand. Anything else?”

Interference from the storm interrupts the conversation. I curse under my breath.

“Is anyone there?” I ask.

Nothing. Only the crackle of the storm answers me. I try again for five straight minutes, but my efforts go wasted. I glance over at the clock. It reads 9:00 p.m. Day won’t break until 8:00 a.m. I have to keep Owen awake and kicking for eleven hours before a rescue team will reach us.

With a sigh, I turn my attention to the window. The wind blows so hard I figure icicles may form perpendicular to the trees. My heart races with the speed of the wind. I feel the sting of helplessness as the reality of the situation sets in on me. There’s no getting around it. I have to go back to Owen and tend to him for the evening.

So much for having a good feeling about Christmas….

I march back into the main room. The kids haven’t moved an inch. I walk around them to get all my emergency medical supplies, and they offer no comment. Tiny Tim looks to be on the verge of tears, and Seabiscuit has nothing but glares for the situation. I ignore them both.

Owen shifts with a wince when I draw near.

“Did you… contact anyone?” he asks through strained breaths.

“A helicopter will be here in the morning,” I say with forced optimism.

“Good….”

I run my hand through his thick blond hair and stare deep into his dazed blue eyes. “Everything is going to be all right,” I murmur. “Hold on while I wrap your leg, okay?”

“All right.”

I bind his leg, careful not to cut off the blood flow. He’s tense and in pain—he stifles a gasp and holds back a flinch—and it drives me mad with grief. I hate seeing him like this. It kills me a little inside each time he whimpers.

“I’m so sorry, Owen,” I tell him. “It should’ve been me. If I could go back, I’d….”

Owen silences me by grazing his knuckles along my unshaven jawline. My mouth goes dry as he closes his eyes and gives me a one-sided smile. “I love you, Carter.”

“You can’t go to sleep,” I whisper as I shake him. “Stay with me.”

“I’ll try.”

He opens his eyes back up, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Are you going to entertain me?” he asks, a hint of his usual playful nature in his voice. It gives me confidence, and I smile.

“I’ll dance to ‘Winter Wonderland’ if that’s what it takes.”

“It’s a Christmas miracle.”

We both share a chuckle. I take a step away from the couch and hold up a hand. “I’ll be back. I’m going to think of something and make you some hot chocolate, okay? Everything is going to be all right.”

“Thank you.”

I turn and see all six of the kids are watching me and Owen with the focus of a magnifying glass. I walk out of the front room and enter the kitchen, the kids trailing behind. I switch on the lights—thankful for the generator—and go straight to the pantry. I’ve never made hot chocolate, but the instructions make it look easy.

Pour the chocolate into a cup and boil water? I got this.

“Thank you,” one of the new girls intones.

I glance over my shoulder. Now that we’re not in a storm, I can see Lion’s sisters are identical twins, right down to their large puffy hair. They stand at the same height, they hold themselves with the same posture, and they wear the same clothes. I’ll have a bitch of time telling them apart.

I return my attention back to the pot of water I have on the stove. “It’s all part of my job.”

“Is… the other park ranger going to be okay?”

“As long as he doesn’t fall asleep… everything should be okay.”

“He saved me,” she says, her eyes locked on to her sister’s. “He came for us and… I almost fell off the ledge. He grabbed me and… if it weren’t for him I’d be….” She stops talking.

I sigh. Of course Owen would protect the girl no matter what. He suffered grievous injuries because he shielded her from the brunt of the fall. He’s just that way.

Lion fidgets with her shabby clothing, but the half smile on her face tells me she’s holding back her thoughts. Right as the water starts to boil, she asks, “Are you two married?”

“Yes,” I reply, pouring the water into the cup. “Two years ago come this spring.”

Murmurs and whispers circulate among the kids. I ignore them as I take the hot chocolate out to Owen on the couch. The fire is roaring at a good height, keeping the place cozy and warm. Owen has his eyes shut, but he opens them and gives me a weak grin when I get close. He reaches out for the drink.

“You need to stay awake,” I state.

“Don’t worry, I will. I was just testing my eyelids for leaks.”

“I’m serious. Stay awake.”

With an amused look, he regards the mug of hot chocolate. “I thought rugged mountain men didn’t make hot chocolate?”

“But husbands do,” I retort.

He snorts and laughs and then takes a sip. Owen scrunches his face in disgust. He makes a comical pouty face and hands back the cup. “No milk? No marshmallows? What kind of cruel husband are you?”

“Well, at least I know you’re well enough to complain. Maybe I should call the rescue team and tell them to stay home for Christmas.”

“Heh. How’re the children?”

“I’ll… go check on them and make you some new hot chocolate.”

I walk back into the kitchen and toss the mug into the sink. It takes me a moment to realize the kids have migrated over to the simple wooden kitchen table. They’re all sitting round-table and speaking in hushed voices. Are they planning on running again? In the middle of this storm?

“What’re you all plotting?” I ask, shifting my narrowed eyes from child to child.

Lion gets to her knees on the chair and towers over the others. “Do you have any arts and crafts?” she asks.

Arts and crafts? What kind of non sequitur is that? Of course, maybe they just want some entertainment. I have been ignoring them for some time now. With a resigned sigh, I point to the hall leading to the storage room. It’s a colder part of the cabin, which is why we turned it into a storage unit, but it’s still safe from the storm.

“There are some crayons, markers, and papers in the back,” I say. “They’re for visitors to the ranger station, so help yourselves.”

The kids get way more excited about this declaration than I thought they would. I know Tiny Tim is five and I suspect Luke is thirteen, but the other four look to be older. Why would they be excited for paper and crayons? Shouldn’t they be into the hip-hop and the texting or whatever the hell kids their age are into?

I turn away and ignore them while I gather up the milk and marshmallows. When I was younger, I wasn’t into any of that. I wasn’t able to be, considering my father hated all forms of “frivolous fun.” We didn’t celebrate holidays, we didn’t have any computers…. We didn’t even own a television set. The very idea of Christmas was an anathema to me when I got to college.

As I watch the milk boil, I smile.

Owen must have sensed the lack of fun in my life back then. We shared one class, and after that, I saw him everywhere. He surprised me at lunch with desserts, he hooked up video games in my dorm room, and he even threw me a massive birthday party despite my protests.

That birthday… it was the first—and best—birthday party I ever had.

I pour the steaming milk into a mug and mix it with the chocolate. I don’t know how to make images with the marshmallows, so I just grab a handful and throw them in. If he asks, I’ll tell him I made a snowbank.

Taking the mug back out to the main room, I walk around the couch and present Owen with his drink. His eyelids are sagging again and his movements sluggish, but he receives the drink with another warm smile.

“Thank you, Carter.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?” I ask, taking a seat on the floor just in front of the couch. “Anything that would help keep you awake?”

“Well….”

“Anything.”

“It couldbe more Christmassy in here.” He stares at me with doe eyes and a coy smile.

I exhale in frustration, but I can’t deny him this request. What am I going to do? We don’t have a tree—just a tiny fake one in the corner—and it’s not like I can go get things from a store…. God, he doesn’t want me to sing, does he?

Owen continues to stare, pleading with his eyes.

Goddammit. He does want me to sing.

I take a deep breath and clear my throat. What’re the lyrics again?

“Jingle bells, jingle bells,” I start, my voice horse and terrible for singing, “jingle all the way! Oh, what fun it is to ride in a one-horse open sleigh!”

I stop. That’s it. That’s all I know. Christmas carols aren’t ingrained in my head like they are for most people. Owen lifts his eyebrows, obviously waiting for more. I roll my eyes.

“Uh…. Jingle bells, jingle bells…. Santa’s on his way! He’s old and fat and cheery, too, but how much does he weigh? Seriously, those poor reindeer.”

Owen laughs before he takes a sip of his hot chocolate. “Beautiful. Not in any way offensive or deviant from the original song.”

I open my mouth to quip something back when the room becomes filled with the melodious sound of harmony and a capella. Both Owen and I crane our heads to get a better view of the door to the kitchen, and to my surprise, I see Lion and her two twin sisters standing in a half circle, bobbing with the beat, singing.

Their singing…. It’s everything mine isn’t. Their voices mix together as if they’ve practiced for years.

Lion smiles and solo sings, “Come, they told me, pa rum pum pum pum. A newborn king to see, pa rum pum pum pum. Our finest gifts we bring, pa rum pum pum pum!”

Her sisters continue the harmony in the background while Tiny Tim, Luke, and Seabiscuit march out of the kitchen in a procession. Tiny Tim has an upside-down bowl hanging from his neck with a cord of tape—he beats it like a drum with two wooden spoons—and his face is set in a very serious fashion, as though this were a task given to him by the president.

Luke and Seabiscuit are “dressed” in paper costumes to be, as I can only guess, Mary and an old wise man. Luke, playing Mary, is holding a drawing of baby Jesus—which is much better than anything I could draw—and Seabiscuit is holding a drawing of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

Lion continues, “To lay before the king, pa rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum! So to honor him, pa rum pum pum pum, when we come! Pa rum pum pum pum!”

Tiny Tim marches all the way in front of the couch, beating his bowl drum to the beat as well as he can. Luke and Seabiscuit fumble about with awkward movements, “acting out” a scene where the gifts are exchanged, and I can see the red-hot embarrassment taking its toll on Seabiscuit. The older teen halfheartedly hands over the gifts and avoids looking me or Owen in the eyes the entire song.

Tiny Tim takes a turn at singing, his voice soft and earnest as he continues, “I am a poor boy too, pa rum pum pum pum! I have no gift to bring, pa rum pum pum pum! That’s fit to give our king, pa rum pum pum pum!”

I glance over to Owen and see he’s rapt by the performance. He holds his mug of hot chocolate close, a smile plastered on his face. I smile. I like seeing Owen happy.

When the song ends, Owen sets his drink down and claps. “Bravo!” he cheers. “Bravo!”

The kids take a bow and shuffle back into the kitchen. I stand and give Owen the once-over. He’s much more awake than he was before. The “play” really did wonders for his spirits.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell him.

I enter the kitchen and see the kids jumping about and giggling among themselves. They freeze and grow silent the moment they catch sight of me. We stand facing one another, and I’m not sure what to say.

“What was that?” I ask, the first thing that came to my mind.

Luke steps forward and taps his pointer fingers together. “Uh, well… you’re not very… friendly.”

I sneer. Luke forces a chuckle.

“What of it?” I demand.

“So… we were thinking… that maybe we could help you?”

“Help me what?”

“Help you take care of your fellow park ranger, of course. He needs to stay awake, right? We thought, uh, we could entertain him with some Christmas stuff. Do you… think he liked it?”

He loved it. I know he did.

“Why?” I ask, caught off guard. “Why would you do this?”

“It’s Christmas!” Tiny Tim shouts.

“And you two rangers saved Casey and Crystal when they were out in the storm!” Lion interjects, motioning to her twin sisters. “And it’s not fair that one of you got hurt on Christmas Eve! Especially when you love each other so much!”

I flush with mild embarrassment at the statement, if only because I don’t often hear something so sappy. I avoid people and I don’t like public displays of affection, so most people never even know Owen and I are a couple. The kids, though, stare at me with a d’aww! look about their eyes, like my love for Owen is the cutest thing they’ve ever witnessed.

“I can draw,” Luke says as he walks over to the table. He motions to all the papers and the crayons, and I notice all the work he’s done in such a short period. It’s pretty good. “And Casey, Crystal, and Melissa can sing. And Justin agreed to play along! We can act out all sorts of things or sing Christmas carols or play games!”

“We wantto help,” Lion continues. “And it’ll be fun too!”

I’m at a loss for words, but the kids quiet themselves until I give my approval or disapproval. Normally I wouldn’t want the help of other people, but… Owen will love it. I know, in my heart of hearts, he’ll enjoy every second.

“All right,” I say. “Let’s do this.”

***

“Scrooge, I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past!” Luke shouts.

I cringe away and waggle a finger at him. “Oh, no, you are not!” I reply, my voice as robotic as a can opener. “Ghosts cannot be real!”

“Don’t worry, Scrooge!” Tiny Tim declares. “I’ll bust that ghost!” He switches the vacuum cleaner on and runs at Luke, screaming in delight like only small children can. Luke jogs away, moving slow enough his younger brother can catch him.

We ran out of Christmas stories an hour into our endeavor. I don’t know many, and apparently neither do any of the kids. In an attempt to keep the momentum going, we all decided to take turns making up new Christmas stories. Tiny Tim’s is everything you would expect.

“Ha!” Seabiscuit cuts in. “I am the Ghost of Christmas Future! Join the dark side, Luke! Join the dark side!”

Lion and her sisters sing a powerful “dun dun dun!” right before Luke and Seabiscuit begin fighting each other with paper swords.

“Wait!” Seabiscuit shouts, holding up a hand. “Luke, I am your father! I love you and we should be a happy family!”

Lion stops singing. “Wait, what? The Ghost of Christmas Past and the Ghost of Christmas Future are related?”

Seabiscuit shrugs. “That’s what Edmund told me to say.”

Tiny Tim stops waving around his vacuum and turns it off. “Yeah, ’cuz now that the ghosts have a family, they’re good guys, so I don’t have to bust them anymore!” He walks over to Luke and Seabiscuit and motions for them to hug. “Now say you love each other and be a happy family!”

Luke and Seabiscuit awkwardly embrace. Tiny Tim claps.

The scene doesn’t make any sense for the story of Scrooge, but I can’t help but feel the unsaid words behind Tiny Tim’s need to have a character randomly find their father in the middle of the play and be happy. Owen must feel it, too, as he grabs at his stomach.

“Are any of you hungry?” he asks. “I know I am.”

“Starving!” Seabiscuit replies. He pushes away from Luke and leaps over the couch. “Do you guys actually have something other than bread?”

Owen tilts his head. “Other than bread?”

“We have plenty of stuff,” I interject, “but most of it requires a bit of cooking….”

“Can we go look?” Lion asks.

I nod.

Without waiting to be dismissed, the kids run to the kitchen. I briefly wonder what they ate when they were running through the forest, but I push it from my mind. No matter what, I haven’t seen them eat anything since the cookies, so I know they must be hungry.

I get up to join them, but Owen grabs my pant leg. I stop and turn.

With a smile, he says, “Carter… thank you.”

I check the ice pack over his leg and shrug. “Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m feeling great.”

“Tsk. I’m serious. How are you feeling physically?”

“My head hurts and I feel sore from sitting in the same position for multiple hours, but… I couldn’t be happier.”

“Thisis how you imagined spending your Christmas?” I quip. “Bedridden?”

Owen grabs my hand and holds it close for a second. He rubs at my knuckles and stares at the floor without seeming to see. “I never thought I would see you play Scrooge in an amateur production of A Christmas Carol. These kids are a good influence.”

“I don’t think I make for a good actor.”

“But you would make for a good father.”

I catch my breath. Owen and I haven’t talked about children before…. The idea strikes me as odd and foreign, but at the same time, the kids have been better than I thought they would be. Owen would make a great father for sure, but me? I’m not as confident on the matter. I did bust up Seabiscuit’s lip and feed the kids bread…. Not father-of-the-year material.

“I need to go check on them,” I say, pushing the subject off until later. “I’ll be right back.”

Owen lets go of my hand, and I wander back into the kitchen with sluggish steps. When I enter, I see the place is a disaster area of random foodstuffs. Bread, peanut butter, jelly, lunch meat, cheese, and mustard are all over the counters. Tiny Tim is holding three bags of chocolate chips. Seabiscuit is at the stove, pan-searing some chicken. Lion and her two sisters are filling the blender with frozen fruits and orange juice. Luke gathers eggs and flour on the table and then sets off, seemingly in search of measuring containers.

“Guys!” Lion hisses when she sees me watching.

Everyone stops what they’re doing and turns.

“You have a lot of food here,” Seabiscuit states within seconds, almost like he’s anticipating I’ll be angry. “It’s not like we’re eating it all. We haven’t even touched half and—”

“Enough,” I drawl.

“You said we could eat stuff,” he continues. “And that’s what we’re doing. We’re—”

“Enough. I’m not angry.”

Seabiscuit opens his mouth but, after mulling over my comment, shuts it without another word. I motion to Tiny Tim and his chocolate chips.

“You want to make cookies?”

He beams up at me with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen on a kid. I point to the flour and eggs his brother has gathered.

“Take all that out to Owen,” I tell him. “He knows everything about cookies. He’ll show you how it’s done.”

“Really?” he gasps.

Before I confirm or deny my statements, Tiny Tim rushes out of the kitchen with his bags of chocolate chips shaking wildly. His brother helps him transport the remaining ingredients. That’ll keep Owen awake and busy for sure.

I gesture for the other kids to get back to what they were doing. “Well?” I ask. “It’s Christmas Eve. I think a feast is in order.”

Lion hops once in place. “You mean it? We can cook up a whole bunch of food and you won’t be angry?”

“The storm is only going to last the night. Besides, I have more food in the freezer. ’Tis the season, right? We might as well enjoy what we have.”

The kitchen is a flurry of movement and excitement. They rip through the fridge and pantry with giggles and haphazard delight. Seabiscuit is the calmest of the group—and the only one using the hot surface—but even he can’t restrain a smile. Luke rejoins everyone in the kitchen, and out in the main room, I can hear Owen and Tiny Tim laughing it up.

The kids cook without a theme. Chicken, smoothies, cookies, a triple-decker sandwich…. Everything is fair game.

I sit down at the table with Luke, and between bites of toast with cinnamon on it, he smiles at me.

“Running away was the best thing we did,” he says, his voice almost lost in all the laughing and horsing around.

The comment cuts me. I watch him eat and ask, “Why did you run away?”

He swallows a mouthful of food. “We were all sent to the group home,” he says between more bites. “And they were going to split me and Edmund apart. He was going to go to one family and I was going to go to another…. And it was the same with Casey, Crystal, and Melissa. Justin… they were going to send him back to some family he said he hated. We all decided that we could run and, uh, make it to Canada. Melissa said she heard it was nice up there.”

“This group home didn’t feed you well?”

“There are a lot of kids there…. Sometimes they run out of stuff. And we don’t get anything fancy. Sometimes just the basics. You pretend a lot when you eat there.”

“Why run away the day before Christmas Eve?” I ask. “Surely you wanted gifts or something before you went.”

“You can’t take a lot of stuff with you from home to home,” Luke says, his voice getting low and his expression crestfallen. “You only get a single bag, so… so we don’t get many gifts outside of clothes. Donated clothes. Edmund told me he thought Santa just didn’t know where we were because we keep moving and… I can’t tell him the truth. I figured this would be better. Maybe Christmas in Canada will be better for him.”

I didn’t have Christmas growing up, but I did have family. I had a place I knew I could return to if something bad ever happened. I had a mother and a father and people who said “I love you” from time to time…. Luke’s story is a stark reminder that sometimes people don’t have even that. It gets my mind going, and I heave a heavy sigh.

Lost in my own thoughts, I only glance up when it starts to get quiet. The kids have mellowed out, and their eyelids are drooping. When I walk into the front room, I see a new batch of cookies is half-mixed and Tiny Tim is asleep on the couch, curled up close to Owen. The little buggers are exhausted….

I walk over to Owen. Flour coats his gray-and-green ranger uniform, but that doesn’t faze him. He smiles up at me without a hint of regret. “Carter?” he whispers. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I tell him. “Can I trust you won’t fall asleep while I handle something? I think I need to get these kids in some cots and… prepare for Christmas.”

He eyes me with a hint of suspicion but nods regardless. “I knew this would be an interesting Christmas.”

***

Day breaks on a waning storm. Visibility is returning, and there’s no doubt in my mind the helicopter will be here soon to take Owen to the local hospital. The snow is thick, but in the daylight it shimmers with a glittering light that lets me know everything will be okay. I shut the curtain in the office and finish the last of my paper reports.

“What’s going on?” someone in the front room asks.

I smile to myself and head out of the office. “Is everything okay?” I ask, knowing full well what’s happening but playing into the role.

“Carter!” Owen calls out to me. “It’s Christmas!”

I enter the living room and see all six kids are awake. They stand around the rearranged space with their mouths hung open and their expressions that of shock. Early this morning, while they slept, I moved the place around. The tiny fake tree is now in the center of the room, a handful of presents wrapped in park brochures littered around the base. Flashing emergency lights hang around the walls and a tray of cookies—which I baked with Owen’s instructions—sit nearby, ready to be consumed.

“Santa came!” Tiny Tim exclaims. He points to the presents. “Santa came!”

Luke holds him close, his blond hair spiked on one side from a night of sleeping in an odd position. “Wow,” he mutters. “I guess… I guess he did.”

Lion and her sisters kneel down around the tree. They grab the gifts and read the tags on the outsides. “There are some here for all of us,” she murmurs. “Even you, Justin.”

Seabiscuit perks up. He walks over, hesitation in his steps, and snatches the gift from Lion’s hand. He turns it over, inspecting it like it’s a bomb, and then ambles over to stand by me. The name on the gift reads To Justin, from Santa.

“You guys got us gifts?” he whispers, disbelief thick in his voice.

“Nope,” I reply. “Santa did.”

“Santa isn’t real.”

“Well, it’s not like Owen got up and did anything. And it’s not like I went out into the storm to go shopping. Besides, I told you I wasn’t going to learn any of your real names. That only leaves Santa. It’s a Christmas miracle. Or whatever.”

He stares at me with a half glower, half smile. “But,” he drawls, “Santa isn’t real.”

“Open your damn present,” I snap.

He laughs and peels back the brochure wrapping paper. Inside is a box, and within that box is a pair of very durable and expensive leather motorcycle gloves. Seabiscuit takes them out and examines them with a fine eye, admiring the designer logo stitched onto the top.

“These are awesome,” he mutters.

I figured he would like something “cool.” He slides them on and flexes his fingers.

“Ohmygosh!”

I turn and see Lion opening her gift—a necklace with a music note pendant—and then her sisters opening theirs to find music note earrings and a music note bracelet. They were a set, but it feels appropriate to give one to each sister.

Luke rips open his gift and marvels at the artist’s pens found within. They’re small, compact, and have their own case—I hope they’re something he can take with him when he returns to the foster home.

Tiny Tim pulls a blanket out of his gift, but not just any blanket…. It’s a comfy thing with people busting ghosts all over it. Overjoyed, he flings it across his shoulders and wears it like a cape as he runs around the room whooping and hollering.

Owen laughs at the sight, and I walk over to make sure he’s okay. Unlike a few hours ago, he seems in much better condition. He pulls me down and runs his lips across my jawline, trailing kisses.

“I told you this Christmas was going to be good,” he whispers.

I chortle. “All’s well that ends well, I suppose.”

“I can’t believe you got us these!” Lion says, showing off her necklace to anyone who will take the time to look. “They’re awesome!”

“They didn’t bring them,” Tiny Tim interjects. “Santa did!”

Yeah. Santa.

Or the lazy campers who visit Voyageurs National Park. Every gift, right down to the artist’s pens, I pulled from the lost and found. It took me a considerable amount of effort to wrap each in a brochure—and to find something that would fit every kid—but I did it all in time, before they woke. Owen helped with some of the wrapping, but mostly he told me jokes and stories of Christmases long past with his family.

Owen pulls me farther down, and I get to my knees next to the couch. “Merry Christmas, Carter,” he whispers.

“Merry Christmas, Owen,” I reply, nuzzling his neck.

“Aww!” the girls all chime in together.

I hide the red of my face in Owen’s shoulder. “Kids,” I groan.

Owen runs a hand up and down my back. “They’re good kids.”

“Which… I wanted to talk to you about.” I pull away to lock eyes with him. “I gave it a lot of thought last night and… well…. You know I think you would make for an excellent father, too, right?”

“Where’re you going with this, Carter?”

“Well, we have plenty of money and security and… and maybe this is the next step in our life….” I stop myself from continuing. If Owen isn’t into the idea, I’ll drop it. I won’t do anything without him—we’re a team, both at work and at life.

“I think it’s a good idea,” he states. “I couldn’t be happier doing this with you.”

I smile and stand. Unfortunately most of the kids aren’t really going to be kids for much longer. The only two I can feasibly see adopting are Luke and his brother. But the others….

“Listen up,” I say, quelling the commotion in the room. “Casey, Crystal, Melissa, and Justin. The helicopter will be arriving any minute to take Owen.”

“Hey,” Justin says, interrupting me. “You said you didn’t know our names!”

“Yeah, well, I lied. I know all your names. Now listen. I know a few people in the Federal Department of Health and Human Services…. If you all wanted, I think I could call in a few favors and you guys could come back and do community service through the federal park rangers department. I don’t want to guarantee anything, but it would largely consist of helping me clean the park. And occasionally rescuing lost animals. And taking walks down hikers’ trails to see if anyone needs assistance. And watching sunsets.”

The older kids jump around, delighted. It’s a better reaction than I thought, but I’m relieved. I know I can make it happen if I push hard enough. I never thought of inviting foster kids from group homes to the park… but the more I think about it, the more I want to implement it on a larger scale.

“Luke and Edmund,” I say, addressing the two youngest. “It might take a while, but… how would you guys like to join me and Owen for a few other family holidays? Maybe on a more permanent level?”

Edmund gasps with enough force to hiccup. “Really? Like Fourth of July and Easter and Halloween?!”

“Especially Halloween,” I say, picturing all of Owen’s insane costumes. “Maybe even a little Thanksgiving in there too.”

Luke nods as fast as his head will allow. “That sounds great!”

The sound of the helicopter outside pulls me from my newfound bliss. Everything is going to be okay and…

Owen was right.

This was indeed a Christmas worth remembering.