The joy of being all together, the relief of our mother’s successful surgery, had buoyed us through the first night. But by the second day, we were reverting to our childhood selves. Poor Amy was used to being petted and spoiled and loved. And while I loved her—she was my sister—I found her primping, her chattering, her constant need to be the center of attention, a little irritating. I tried my best, but I was guiltily aware that we weren’t as close as sisters should be. Meg said I still hadn’t forgiven Amy for deleting my long-ago letter to Dad.

Or maybe I hadn’t forgiven myself for almost killing her.

When we got home from the hospital, Amy went to her old room to lie down, pleading jet lag. She was pale, I acknowledged. Or maybe she wanted to get out of helping with the farm chores.

After the darkness of the starlit yard, the barn was warm and golden, the smells of straw and livestock hanging in the air. The goats bleated when they saw me, the pregnant lady goats sticking their heads over their pens, rubbing and butting like cats. Clover, the all-white matriarch of the herd, chewed on my hair as I scooped grain pellets into her trough. I twitched my braid away, rubbing between her horns.

It struck me I was in a stable on Christmas Eve, where, according to legend, animals talked and love came down to earth. There was a message there somewhere. I should be nicer to Amy. Maybe when she got up we could put up the tree together.

“Dad, do you know where the tree is?” I asked when I came in from the barn.

He glanced up from his reading, a faint frown between his brows. “What tree?”

“Our Christmas tree. The one we used when you deployed.”

“I took it to the center,” my father said. “Many men and women don’t have a tree of their own.”

I shouldn’t feel cheated. I should be proud of him, proud to be his daughter. But I felt as if he’d taken something away from us. Especially when he left the house not fifteen minutes later, responding to a call from a soldier.

“It’s you and me, cat,” I told Weasley.

He jumped up on the couch, purring. Maybe when I went back to New York, I should adopt a cat.

Swallowing a yawn, I opened my laptop. Tomorrow was Christmas. Now that Beth was home, I figured I was off the hook for the special Christmas story I’d promised her. But I hadn’t posted in a week. For the foreseeable future, my only income was the blog. I needed to write. I needed a topic. A subject that didn’t use Eric for inspiration.

I missed him so much. His dark, curling lashes. The smell of his neck. His big, scarred, competent hands. I wondered what he was doing this Christmas Eve. Visiting his boys, he’d said. Seeing his ex-wife.

Christmas cookies . . . Christmas dinner . . . Christmas gifts for cooks . . . Christmas gifts from your kitchen . . . Traditional Christmas recipes . . .