Cord and Eli were back in town, too, for winter break.

They probably would’ve gone right on freezing each other out if they hadn’t been tricked into showing up at the same dinner table on Christmas Day.

Cord’s late granddad, that sly old coot, had orchestrated the setup, with plenty of help from J.P.’s and Eli’s families. They’d celebrated on neutral ground, at Bailey’s, the run-down restaurant on Main Street. It was the whole boisterous bunch—parents, grandparents, siblings, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends. These days, under Brynne’s management, ever since her parents had retired to Arizona, the place had been fixed up. Cozy. Comfortable. Art on the walls. And it even had a liquor license now.

Back then, Bill Hollister had booked the place for a private party and had later invited guests to his home, where he (discreetly) provided some wine, beer and bourbon for the occasion.

Cord, Eli and J.P. had all balked, of course, once they arrived at Bailey’s and realized what was happening, and Bill had gone so far as to announce that nobody was going anywhere until they stopped acting like dad-blamed idiots and talked things through, man-to-man.

Their respect for the old man kept them from storming out.

They’d eaten turkey and all the customary trimmings in seething silence, but, after the pecan pie was served, the mood seemed to mellow.

Holiday tunes played on the jukebox, prompting aunts and uncles to get up and dance to numbers like “Rockin’ around the Christmas Tree” and “Jingle Bell Rock.” Colored lights blinked and glowed around the frosted windows and spilled onto the snow beyond, and a tacky aluminum tree filled a corner of the room, fake presents glittering beneath it.

Cord had half expected to look out the window and see Jimmy Stewart running down Main Street, shouting lines from the final scenes of It’s a Wonderful Life.

Merry Christmas, Mr. Potter!

Merry Christmas, you wonderful old building and loan!

It was almost magical, and irritating as hell.

The whole troupe had gone back to the Hollister ranch house, and Cord, Eli and J.P. had found themselves in the small storeroom off the kitchen, seated on crates, avoiding each other’s eyes.

“I’ll lock you in if I have to,” Cord’s grandmother had said sweetly from the doorway, dangling a ring of keys in one hand and giving them a jingle.

J.P. had shaken his head with a resigned chuckle.

Mimi Hollister had smiled warmly and closed the door.

Finally, the ice had been broken—or at least cracked a little.

At first, the exchange was grudging, a word here, a grunt there.

Cord couldn’t recall precisely what was said, but there’d been some sniping, at least in the beginning, followed by the usual questions, such as, “How’s school?” and “What’s it like, being a soldier?”