The uneasiness I’d felt in his presence was more than a reaction to his intimidating appearance. Billy had served as a light infantryman during some of the most brutal battles of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars and carried himself with the perpetual alertness of a professional soldier. He was a man who had killed other men, and violence followed him like a shadow. I’d once watched a barroom packed with drunk loggers and hunting guides—some of the meanest brawlers in the North Woods—fall silent when he stepped through the door. Some of these roughnecks even slipped out the rear exit rather than cross his path leaving.

Billy Cronk was no gentle giant.

The man was brutal against anyone who threatened his family or his friends. A year after we’d become close, I had occasion to witness the violence of which he was capable, and what I’d seen had chilled me to the marrow. Based in part on my testimony, he’d gone to prison for the crimes I’d watched him commit. He was only free thanks to a questionable pardon issued by our blowhard ex-governor.

Which wasn’t to say that there was no kindness in the man.

He wrote heartfelt (if poorly composed) poems about summer sunrises and migrating monarch butterflies. He wept openly when he listened to Cape Breton fiddle music. He made a quiet practice of rescuing and rehabilitating injured animals. His current charge was a blue jay, blind in one eye, he’d nicknamed Racket.

Given this secret tenderness, it was hardly a surprise that his youngest child, his only daughter, had made him her slave.

Emma was even blonder than her father, platinum-white, with her mom’s rosy complexion and thoughtful gaze. While her four brothers were all husky for their ages, Emma Cronk was almost elfin in her smallness. The fairylike quality was reinforced by her current obsession with the Harry Potter books. This morning, she was wearing a black wizard’s robe her mother had sewn for her out of fabric bought from one of the local dollar stores. Pink snow boots peeked out from beneath the salt-stained fringe.

Upon entering my drafty, unswept house, she announced, “You don’t have a Christmas tree!”

She wasn’t any blunter than other kids. It was just that as an unmarried man of thirty-one, I found most children to be discombobulating.

“I’ve been busy, Emma. I haven’t had time.”

“But you don’t have any decorations at all, Uncle Mike.” She emphasized her words with the wand Billy had carved for her. “How will Santa leave you presents if you don’t have a Christmas tree?”