For six Christmases, Jack Callahan had managed to make December 25 feel like any other day.
That required discipline.
He rose before dawn.
Fed the cattle.
Broke ice from the water trough.
Checked fence lines.
Carried firewood.
Repaired whatever could reasonably be repaired, then invented things to repair when the work ran out.
By nightfall, exhaustion usually accomplished what whiskey could not.
It stopped him from thinking.
Christmas had once been Jack’s favorite day of the year.
That was before Mary.
Before Lucy.
Or, more accurately, before losing them.
The farmhouse had been different then.
Not larger.
Not richer.
Just alive.
Mary Callahan had been incapable of moving quietly through a kitchen. She hummed while she cooked, talked to herself while she baked, and scolded utensils as if spoons and pans possessed personalities.
Lucy had been worse.
At four years old, she seemed determined to make every room louder than the last.
She would race through the house wearing wool stockings, dragging a wooden horse by a string while demanding that her father lift her high enough to touch whatever object she had decided was beyond her reach.
At Christmas, that object was always the highest branch of the evergreen.
“Higher, Daddy.”
“You're already taller than me.”
“Higher.”
“If I lift you any higher, you'll be living on the roof.”
Lucy would laugh.
Mary would stand in the doorway with flour on her cheek and say:
“Don't encourage her.”
Jack always encouraged her.
Then one winter morning, Mary and Lucy traveled into town to visit Mary’s sister.
They never returned.
A wagon overturned on an icy ridge.
By the time help arrived, there was nothing anyone could do.
People came to Jack afterward.
Neighbors.
Friends.
The pastor.
Men he had worked beside for years.
Women carrying casseroles nobody expected him to eat.
They said the things people say when language is too small.
God has a plan.
They're together.
Time will help.
You must stay strong.
Jack discovered he hated nearly all of those sentences.
So he stopped giving people opportunities to say them.
He worked.
Then worked more.
Over time, neighbors learned not to invite him to Christmas dinner.
Jack learned how to spend twenty-four hours without saying another person's name.
The farmhouse adjusted around him.
Lucy’s room remained untouched.
Mary’s cookbooks collected dust.
The dining table became a place for tools, receipts, and feed invoices.
Jack ate standing at the stove more often than sitting down.
Every December he cut enough wood to last until spring, even when the shed was already full.
It gave him something to do.
In December of 1887, however, the woodpile could not protect him from Sarah Collins.
He met her four days before Christmas.
Snow had begun shortly after noon.
Not heavy.
Just enough to turn the road pale.
Jack was carrying a sack of grain from the wagon when he noticed two figures standing beyond his front gate.
A woman.
And a child.
The woman was young.
Late twenties, perhaps.
She wore a charcoal wool coat too thin for Wyoming winter, a faded burgundy dress beneath it, and a gray scarf wrapped around her throat.
Chestnut hair had been pinned into a loose bun, though the wind had freed several strands.
She held the hand of a tiny girl wrapped in a worn gray cape.
The child looked about three.
Golden-brown curls.
Blue eyes.
Boots that seemed half a size too large.
Jack lowered the grain sack.
The woman lifted one hand.
“Mr. Callahan?”
He approached slowly.
“Yes?”
“My name is Sarah Collins.”
Jack waited.
Sarah looked uncomfortable.
Not frightened.
Proud.
There was a difference.
“I heard at Parker’s store that you were looking for someone to prepare Christmas dinner.”
Jack almost corrected her.
He had not been looking.
Mrs. Parker had apparently decided he should.
Three days earlier, while buying coffee and nails, Jack made the mistake of mentioning that his stove smoked badly whenever he tried roasting anything larger than a rabbit.
Mrs. Parker asked what he intended to eat for Christmas.
Jack said:
“Whatever doesn't burn.”
Apparently she interpreted that as an advertisement.
“I wasn't exactly looking,” Jack said.
Sarah’s expression fell.
Only for a second.
Then she recovered.
“I understand.”
She started turning away.
Jack noticed the little girl's boots.
Snow had soaked through one seam.
Then he noticed Sarah's hands.
Red with cold.
“Wait.”
Sarah stopped.
Jack looked toward the farmhouse.
Then back.
“You cook?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
She almost smiled.
“Well enough that people have paid me for it.”
“How much?”
“For what?”
“Christmas dinner.”
Sarah hesitated.
Jack had no idea what such work should cost.
He said:
“Twenty dollars.”
Sarah's eyes widened.
Too much, apparently.