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The whiteness of sunlight on snow was dazzling. Kylie shaded her eyes with one hand as she closed the door behind her. From partway down the drive, Shane, wearing sunglasses, paused in his shoveling to look back at her. “Hi,” he said. “Where’s Hunter? I was hoping he’d come out and give me a hand.”

“Sorry, he’s in time-out.” Kylie’s breath vaporized in puffs on the winter air. “I sent him to his room for mouthing off to his mother.”

“
Mouthing off?
That doesn’t sound like Hunter. He strikes me as a respectful kid.”

Kylie took a deep breath. “That’s something we need to discuss.” She took the spare shovel from where it leaned against the house. “I’ll help you shovel while we talk.”

“You’re sure? You don’t have gloves. You’ll freeze your hands.”

“That won’t matter, I . . . Wait, there’s something here.”

Kylie shoved her hands into the deep pockets of Muriel’s coat and found two worn, faded wool gloves. It took a little stretching to pull them over her long fingers, but they’d do for now. And she’d worn warm socks under her sneakers. As long as she stood on shoveled ground, her feet would be fine.

“Here goes.” With a little grunt of effort, she scooped a mound of heavy snow. She could feel the strain in her back and shoulders as she hefted it and tossed it to one side.

“Did that hurt?” he asked.

“It’s been a few years.”

“I can imagine.” Shane flashed her a movie-star smile. “Tell you what. I’ll go ahead of you and break the path. You can follow me and scoop up the loose snow I leave behind.”

“I think you’re babying me,” Kylie said.

He laughed. “Just want to make sure you’ll be able to straighten up tomorrow. Not so sure about myself. But come on, let’s try it.”

Shane’s idea turned out to be a practical one. For the first few minutes, they worked in silence. Shane tossed the heavy snow to one side, and Kylie scraped a clean path behind him while she worked up the nerve to open up what was bound to be a touchy subject.

Finally it was Shane who spoke. “You said you had something to discuss.”

“That’s right.” Kylie hesitated, suddenly uncertain. With Hunter she’d tried to clear the air and managed to leave the situation in shambles. Would she do the same with Shane?

“Let me guess.” He flung another mound of snow off the side of the drive. “You’re uneasy because your son spent the morning with me, and you’re not sure it was a good idea.”

He’d taken the offensive, leaving her speechless, but only for the space of a breath. “He swore at me, Shane. He’s never done that before.”

“Well, I promise you, he didn’t learn that from me.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s picked up swearwords from other boys. But he’s never used one to my face. It’s as if he came home with a whole new attitude.”

“And you’re blaming that on me?”

“I don’t know.” She was stumbling now. “But I do know he needs a man in his life, someone he can look up to as a role model.”

“And you don’t think I’m the man for the job.” He’d stopped shoveling and was looking down at her with a mocking smile on his lips. “That makes sense. The Shane Taggart you remember was a troublemaker and a rule breaker, and he’s still tearing around on that old Harley—or
was,
until you wrecked it.”

“I said I was sorry, and that my insurance would pay.”

“I know. And I understand that I’m not the ideal role model for your boy. So, have you got somebody else in mind? I never bothered to ask, did I?”

Heat flamed in Kylie’s face. She managed to find her voice. “It’s not that. But right now, to hear Hunter talk, it’s like you hung the moon. He’s still dealing with his father’s loss. I don’t want him hurt when you leave here, Shane. The boy’s been through enough.”

Shane’s smile had faded. The dark sunglasses masked his eyes, reflecting Kylie’s image back at her. “Hunter’s a good kid,” he said. “I wouldn’t hurt him for the world. If you want me to keep my distance, I’ll respect your wishes. But understand that I’ll be spending time here, helping Henry and working on the bike. If you don’t want Hunter around me, it’ll be your job to keep him away.”

“Oh, I know he’ll be interested in the bike, and in helping Henry. Just . . . don’t try to influence him, okay? Don’t take him anywhere or treat him like anything special. That’s all I’m asking. I just don’t want him hurt.”

“I get the message.” Shane thrust the shovel hard into the snow. “But I want Hunter to understand why I won’t be his friend anymore. That’ll be up to you.”

She felt his coldness like an icy wind, penetrating to her bones. “Of course. Don’t worry, I’ll handle it,” she said.

“Fine. And now that you’ve said what you came to say, you can put that shovel down and go back in the house. Go on, before you freeze. I don’t need your help.”

“All right. As long as we understand each other.” Kylie stuck her shovel upright in the snow. Stripping off the gloves and stuffing them back into the pockets of Muriel’s coat, she turned and strode back toward the porch. Her eyes stung, but not from the cold or the glare. All she’d wanted was to protect her son, as any good mother would. But had she done the right thing? Or had her clumsy efforts only made the situation worse?

Shane had surely meant well, taking Hunter under his wing. But he was a proud man, and her implication that he was a bad influence must have stung. It wasn’t really what she’d meant, but she could imagine how her words had struck him.

Part of her wanted to turn around, walk back to Shane, and apologize to him. But that would only complicate things. What was done was done, and would be safer left alone.

Returning to the house, she noticed the hum of the generator had stopped. She flipped the switch on the back porch light. The light came on. The power outage appeared to be over. At least that was something to be grateful for.

She slipped off Muriel’s coat and hung it on the hook, where she’d found it. Muriel and Amy were seated at the kitchen table with a big flat cardboard box, still taped shut, between them.

“Look, Mom!” Amy’s blue eyes danced. “I found this in the pile of stuff we haven’t unpacked yet. It’s our Christmas box!”

Kylie recognized the box at once and knew what was inside. Every year of her marriage to Brad, she’d purchased a special ceramic ornament for their tree—a pair of wedding bells the first year, a blue baby angel for the year of Hunter’s birth, and a pink one for Amy’s. For the years in between, there were cars and airplanes, a miniature house, a Santa in army camouflage.

Last year there’d been nothing. Nor would there be this year. There was no time and no place to buy a new ornament. But then, there was also no tree.

Kylie had packed each precious ornament in Bubble Wrap, along with a few other decorations that were her children’s favorites. In the craziness of post-move stress, she’d almost forgotten about them. But Amy hadn’t.

“Amy wanted to show me these ornaments,” Muriel said. “She says they all have stories. I can’t wait to hear each one.”

“I know we don’t have a tree yet.” Amy was tearing at the tape that held the box shut. “But maybe if we get the decorations out, it’ll feel more like Christmas. Besides, we might still get a tree.”

“There’s always my old silver one in the attic,” Muriel said.

“No, I want a real tree, one that will make the whole house smell like Christmas. I’m going to wish and wish till it happens.”

An ache stirred in Kylie’s throat. Amy had gone through the same process when Brad was killed—she’d tried and tried to wish her father back. But it hadn’t happened, of course. Now her precious daughter was about to get her hopes crushed again—unless, by some miracle, they could find a tree.

Amy wadded up the sticky tape and opened the flaps of the box. With eager hands, she picked up an ornament and unwound the Bubble Wrap.

“Oh no!” she wailed. “It’s broken!”

Kylie had been about to start dinner, but her daughter’s cry brought her rushing to the table. The little camouflage Santa lay on the Bubble Wrap, broken in three pieces—head, body, and legs. Tears were welling in Amy’s eyes.

“I’ve got glue,” Muriel said. “We can fix it.”

“Let’s check the others first.” Kylie began lifting the Bubble-Wrapped ornaments out of the box. She’d tried to stow it in a safe place, but things had evidently shifted during the long trip to Texas. Something heavy had crushed the box. More than half the precious ornaments were broken.

Amy had begun to cry—little hiccupping sobs that tore at Kylie’s heart. Muriel rose, rummaged through a drawer, and came up with a tube of glue.

“Here, Amy,” she said, sitting down again. “This is good glue. I’ve used it to mend china dishes. We can fix these as good as new.”

“They’ll never be as good as new!” Amy dabbed at her nose with a tissue.

“Watch.” Muriel picked up the body of the Santa; she unstoppered the tube and squeezed a thin trail of glue along the broken edge of the neck. “One thing you’ll learn by the time you’re my age, my sweet girl, is that not many things in life stay good as new. Mostly, you have to mend them—or if they’re not worth mending, you throw them away and move on. Remember that as you grow up.”

With deft fingers, she placed the head of the little Santa onto the thread of glue, making an almost invisible seam. “Now hold that till it sets.” She handed the piece to Amy and picked up the broken legs. Amy had stopped crying and was watching her apply the glue. “Pay attention to how it’s done,” she said. “Then you can try the next one.”

Kylie turned back to scrubbing potatoes for baking with the meat loaf she’d mixed earlier. She’d assumed she was coming here to look after a failing old woman. How could she have imagined the lessons her great-aunt Muriel would teach her?

“What’s the temperature for meat loaf and potatoes?” she asked.

“Three-fifty should do it,” Muriel said. “Put in enough for Henry. He’ll be hungry after working in the cold.”

And Shane?
But Kylie knew better than to ask. Even as she thought of him, the sound of shoveling stopped. A moment later, she heard his pickup roar to life and drive away.

The plowed road was slippery with packed snow. But the pickup had four-wheel drive and good tires. Shane had no trouble making it back to the graveled lane that cut off to his ranch. From here the going would be slower. But the earlier run with the snowmobile had broken a track. Gearing down, he eased the truck forward.

The crawling pace and the white silence outside gave his mind the freedom to wander—too much freedom, given where his thoughts took him. He’d already replayed the confrontation with Kylie too many times. The last thing he wanted was to go there again.

Kylie might be a widow and a mother, but some things never changed. Little Miss Perfect still thought she was too good for him—and that he was a bad influence on her son. Except for the children involved, it was like high school all over again. He’d given up his wild ways, run the ranch for his father, and earned the respect of most people in Branding Iron. But to Kylie none of that counted. He was still the boy who’d gotten busted for stealing a beer from a convenience store and never lived it down.

Well, what of it? He didn’t need her approval. He would go about his business, be distantly polite to her and her children, and hope the sale of the ranch would soon set him free. He would miss Henry and Muriel; but with Kylie there, and a boy who was getting strong enough to help with chores, they should be fine.

Up ahead he could see the house and outbuildings. Everything looked peaceful. He’d fed the animals that morning, so he could wait a little to go out to the barn. Right now, his first priority was the house. Now that the power was on, he needed to get some heat in the place, check the pipes, and open his e-mail.

Maybe he ought to phone Holly back. A few drinks and a mindless roll in the sack might help him forget his troubles with Kylie for a few hours. But it would be, at best, a temporary fix—the sort of fix that would prove what Kylie
had
implied about him was true. In the long run, seeing Holly would only make things worse.

Since there wasn’t much he could do to avoid Kylie, he would just have to be polite to her and keep his distance from her kids. Too bad about that. He was getting to know and like Hunter and Amy. But now that he knew where he stood with their mother, the sooner he could pack up and leave, the better.

When he turned up the thermostat, the furnace responded with a blast of warmth, which prompted him to take off his coat. The pipes, too, were all right. In the alcove that served as a home office, Shane sat down at the desk, switched on his computer, and brought up his e-mail.

Few of his messages were worth reading. He scrolled down, deleting most, until he came to one that caught his eye. It was from Helen Floyd, an old friend of his mother’s. After her husband’s death, Helen had become a real estate broker. Shane had listed his ranch with her, not only because of the friendship, but because Helen was a sharp saleswoman who knew how to use nationwide Internet marketing.

Hi, Shane, I just may have found a buyer for your ranch. A couple from Michigan took the photo tour and contacted me. The wife has fallen in love with your Craftsman home, especially the view from the front with those stately pines flanking the porch.

The husband likes the investment potential and having a place where their family could ride horses most of the year. I did some checking. They’re financially solid and shouldn’t have a problem raising the cash. They want to fly down after the holidays and take a look. If they like the place, they’ll make you an offer. Keep your fingers crossed, Helen

Shane stared at the computer screen, his heart thudding in the stillness of the empty house. This outcome was what he’d wanted, what he’d planned for since his father’s passing. He should be doing handsprings down the hall. What he felt, instead, was a sense of unreality. He’d lived his whole life on this ranch, sweated and bled for it, cared for it, hated it, loved it.

Maybe the sale would fall through.