Page 96 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

“Did you?” I ask, giving her side a playful bump.

She giggles and takes another sip from her to-go mug as I lead her away. I watch as she soaks in the holiday scene—the wreathes hung over the street, the holly and pine decorating each of the old-fashioned lamp posts, the white fairy lights, and the brighter multicolored ones in the shop windows. It’s always struck me as over-the-top, commercialized, and geared toward the tourists who rip through our town like locusts. And to be honest, I still feel that way. But I suck in her joy like it’s the drink in my mug.

She glances around as if worried she’ll be overheard over the sound of the carolers, who are still loud even though we’re retreating from them, then says, “I can’t believe all this has been going on around me, and I didn’t even know. It’s like all the Christmas was stripped from Labelle Manor and brought here.”

I snort. “It’s like this every year, Kennedy. They do it for the tourists.”

“But you get to enjoy it too,” she says, grinning at a small girl who’s stepped up to a shop window to check out the display of stuffed horses. Her mother is beside her, one hand on her hair, but she has a tired look, and I wonder if she’ll be able to afford one of the stuffed animals her little girl’s ogling. “I always liked horses too when I was a little girl.”

“Your father got you a pony, didn’t he?” I ask, unable to help myself.

“How’d you guess?” she asks with a self-aware smile. “Her name was Buttercup, and I regret nothing.”

“Wait here,” I say on impulse, squeezing her hand.

She gives me an inscrutable look but nods and points at her feet. “Waiting here.”

I come out a few minutes later, hand one of the bags I’m holding to the little girl’s mother with a nod and an “it’s from Saint Nick.” Before she can stutter out more than a thank you, I return to Kennedy and give her the other.

“It may be the only pony I can get you,” I say with a half-smile. “But I came by it honestly.” I flinch when I see the tears in her eyes. “Did something happen?”

Was she pissed that I’d been away for so long?

“That little girl,” she says, nodding toward her. I don’t look back, because I’m concerned the girl’s mother might have tears in her eyes too, and then I’ll have made two women cry in as many minutes. “I saw what you did, Rowan. That was…that was so beautiful.” She cradles the shopping bag to her chest. “And I’m going to treasure this forever.”

Self-consciousness claws at my chest. I didn’t do it to come off as a good guy. I did it because I wanted to, but now I feel uncomfortable. I scratch my chest through my coat. “Well, if you react like that to me giving out a couple of little gifts, maybe I should play Santa all night.”

Her eyes light up with excitement, never far off for her, which is one of the things I love about her. “Yes,” she says with emphasis. “Let’s do it. Exactly that.”

Her words surprise a laugh out of me. “What? You want to buy a bunch of gifts at the toy store and give them to people who look like they need a pick me up?”

“Yes.”

“What if someone thinks we’re perverts for giving presents to kids?”

She considers this for a second, but nothing will put her off now that she’s attached to the idea. “We’ll only give them to kids who have an adult with them. And we’ll give them to the adult.”

I scrunch my nose. “There’s a good chance I’ll know some of these people, and you’re supposed to be keeping a low profile.”

She glances around before saying in an undertone, “I’m not Kennedy. I’mDaphne.”

It’s true that she doesn’t look like herself. I wouldn’t be surprised if her own brother did a double take before he added one and one and got two. Still, I don’t love the idea of approaching a bunch of strangers with gifts. I’m even less partial to the thought of going up to people I haven’t had the misfortune of talking to since high school. But that look in her eyes…

Maybe this will help her fall in love with Highland Hills.

Maybe this will make her want to stay.

I sigh. “Okay.”

“Okay?” she asks, giving a little jump on her feet, like her body can’t contain her joy.

“Okay,” I say, laughing. “How much of that Three Wise Men did you drink, anyway?”

“Enough that it’s empty,” she says with a shrug, and slips the closed canister into the bag with her pony. Mine is in my jacket pocket.

“Let’s go play Santa Claus.”

So we go inside, buy dozens of presents, and ask for them to be wrapped.

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