“I was hoping to talk to you,” he said. A cringe bunched his shoulders together just beneath his neck. He’d never done anything like this; this limb upon which he was reaching out bowed under the weight of his own insecurity.

“You can’t talk standing up?”

His chest tightened. After his cold dismissal of her last night, he didn’t blame her. She had every right to despise him. Knowing the right was hers didn’t make it hurt any less. He’d orchestrated this entire Christmas miracle for her, to make her feel better, not worse.

“I can, but you seem pretty upset.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“I’ve never seen you like this.”

“I’m fine.”

He could hit himself. Everything out of his mouth turned out to be the exact wrong thing to say.

“Okay. Okay.” He breathed in a deep lungful of country air. Dallas never smelled this good, nor did it ever crackle inside him like the first spark of a fire. It cleaned him from the inside, clearing his head. A path presented itself, so he took it. A risky move, but one he had to take. “I’ll just stand up here until you’re ready to talk.”

One of the few memories of his mother he held close to him was a story she used to tell about a woman who was separated from her love, and she sat by the banks of the river every day waiting for him to return. His mother held it up as an example of true devotion, sacrifice and love. Though he hoped she wouldn’t, he would wait a lifetime if Kate asked. Out of his own selfishness, he’d caused her pain; the least he could give her was devotion and a little bit of patience. He counted the minutes by the twinkling of the timed, dancing lights overhead. One cycle. Two cycles. Three cycles. And finally:

“Fine. You can sit down.”

The space between the hoops of her skirt and the side railing barely fit, but Clark sat on an angle to speak to her, only to open his mouth and find he had nothing to say.

“Kate. I think—”

Good thing he hesitated. An explosion of hot air and frustration flew from Kate’s lips, pouring out steaming accusations as she gesticulated wildly. Though it was hardly the time or place to do so, Clark couldn’t help but store away Kate’s habit of talking with her hands as one of his favorite quirks of hers.

“What is it with you, huh? Why are you doing this? What is all of this about? I don’t understand.”

A reasonable question, one he wished she’d asked before storming out of the house and out here into the cold where she would almost certainly catch her death only one day after he saved her from it.

“I got your present.”

“Present? What present?”