With this last, he looked up at Evangeline and had the good grace to blush a little. Or at least, she thought so. It was hard to tell, with just the firelight and the glow of a few lamps to see by.

After the meal, there was a round of ablutions for Abigail, and another story, this time from the second chapter of the book of Luke. . . . and there were, in the same fields, shepherds, guarding their flocks by night . . .

Abigail went quickly, almost eagerly, to sleep, but not before asking Evangeline to hang one of her stockings from the mantel, where Father Christmas would be sure to see it. Evangeline complied, but she was downhearted, and she did not say a word to Scully, beyond, “Good night.” She’d finished his shirt and the woolen socks she’d knitted, and they were wrapped in brown paper and string she’d found in the pantry, but she was in no mood to present them to him.

He did not stir to bring in the tree he’d cut, but just sat there by the fire instead, fiddling with that damn harness and humming something that might well have had rowdy lyrics, judging by the impudence of the tune.

Flouncing a little, Evangeline undressed, put on her nightgown, and crawled into bed beside Abigail, teeth chattering. Her side of the mattress was like the surface of a frozen pond, as always, and it took some time and a little wriggling about before she was comfortable. Expecting to be wakeful, she fell instead into a profound sleep, and dreamed that she was wandering in a fragrant forest of evergreens.

Abigail’s squeals of delight awakened her with unmerciful suddenness, and she sat bolt upright in bed, every pulse hammering. Scully’s tree was standing square in the middle of the room, as though it had grown there, sparkling and draped with silken ribbons of just about every imaginable shade.

Evangeline’s breath caught. She squinted. For all its simplicity, she had never seen a more beautiful display.

“Look, Mama!” Abigail shrieked, clapping her hands and all but jumping up and down. “St. Nicholas remembered—he found us.”

Evangeline, heedless of her unbound hair, her bare feet, and her nightgown, approached the tree in wonder, peering at the decorations. The shimmer came from the lids of tin cans, polished and punched through at the top and hung from the branches by short bits of bailing twine and rawhide. She ran a curved index finger the length of one ribbon, the same joyous yellow as jonquils of spring it was, and then looked around for Scully.

He was in the doorway to the lean-to, fully dressed, one shoulder braced against the inside framework. His hair was rumpled and his blue-green eyes were bright with secrets, long and carefully kept, and now revealed.

“Happy Christmas, Eve,” he said.

Abigail was beside herself. “Look, Scully!” she cried. “Look at this tree! Look at all these ribbons! Did you ever see anything so pretty?”