Abigail drew in a sharp breath.

“Scully,” Evangeline protested, through her teeth.

Drawn like shavings to a magnet, Abigail scrambled out of bed and padded across the room, dragging the ever-present quilt with her. Hortense dug her claws into the fabric and came along for the ride, fish-tailing comically behind. Standing at Scully’s side, Abigail squinted up into his face. “You’re not pulling my leg, are you?”

He chuckled, set the harnesses aside and put the knife away, then took the little girl easily onto his lap. She might have been his own child, the way he held her. “Would I do that?” he countered. “At Christmas, when I’ve got my heart set on getting a pair of woolen socks or even a new shirt, would I go around making up lies and risk spoiling my chances for a present?”

The firelight danced over Abigail’s hopeful, spellbound face. Evangeline was both entranced and furious. “Do you know what I want?” Abigail whispered.

“What?” Scully whispered back.

Evangeline blinked away fresh tears.

“A tree,” Abigail confided. “A real Christmas tree, with shiny things on it.”

Scully pondered the announcement soberly for a time, while Evangeline’s heart lifted. “I believe you did mention that to me, a week or two back.”

Abigail nodded. “We had a tree at school last year. It smelled real good. Miss Rachel said she got the idea from Prince Albert. Do you know Prince Albert?”

Scully searched his memory carefully. “Nope,” he said at last. “I don’t reckon so. St. Nick is about the only person of wide repute that I’ve ever met, apart from General Robert E. Lee, of course.”

“Tell me about him,” Abigail said, snuggling cozily against Scully’s chest. “About the General, I mean.”

“Well,” Scully answered, after another glance at Evangeline, “he’s got a beard, almost like old Nick’s, but not so long or so white. He rides a fine gray horse he calls Traveler, and he’s just about the bravest, smartest man in the world.”

Evangeline could have made a case for the late Abraham Lincoln who, while undeniably a less dashing and romantic figure than General Lee, had certainly had his share of redeeming qualities. Since that would have been downright uncharitable, in the face of Scully’s generosity, she held her peace.

They had dinner soon after that, and when it was over Scully put on his coat and left the house, disappearing into the barn. Abigail drifted off to sleep, after Evangeline had read her a long story from the King Arthur book, and the afternoon settled into shadows, streaking dark purple over the new snow as though cast by passing giants.

Evangeline donned her cloak and went out to meet Scully when he returned with the evening milk. They had more than they needed, and she could see that he’d left behind a good portion, no doubt pouring it into a pan for the barn cats.

They stood facing each other in the cold, windswept dooryard, Scully with his buckets and his reddened ears, Evangeline clutching her cloak around her in a vain attempt to keep warm.