Page 7 of Wounded Christmas Wolf
Holly sat up, carefully releasing her grasp on Cupcake. The small dog squirmed into her lap and poked his nose out from under the quilt to look up at her quizzically.
“Good morning,” Holly told him. “You know, there’s a ‘no pets in the beds’ rule in this house, not that you care.”
Dad had been out at the Christmas tree farm when she came home yesterday, and then he’d gone out to deliver trees and hadn’t gotten back until late, by which time Cupcake had been introduced to Rocket and was curled up on the foot of Holly’s bed. She hadn’t intended to just ... not tell Dad that they had a second dog now, but she also didn’t really want to have that conversation when it was the end of a long day and they were both cranky and tired.
She had made it a problem for future Holly.
Unfortunately future Holly had become present Holly.
She also hadn’t intended for Cupcake to end up under the covers with her, but well, the house got chilly at night, and when she turned around from changing for bed, there he was, snuggled down among her blankets looking hopeful. It had seemed like a good way to keep him quiet and make sure she knew exactly where he was. Now here they were.
“Stay there,” Holly told him, climbing out of bed.
She stripped out of her pajamas in the chilly air. Cupcake showed no inclination to leave, burrowing into the warm spot in the bed.
“I can relate,” she told him as she hopped into her jeansand pulled on a sports bra and sweater. “The thing is, when Dad says fifteen minutes, he means it. We aren’t getting a lazy snow day morning unless I pretend to be sick.” Briefly, she thought about it.
Instead, she looked out the window at the fluffy flakes drifting down while she gave her hair a few quick whacks with a brush and tied it back. A shower could wait until after the chores were done. She was just going to get all gross and sweaty snowblowing anyway.
Snow was great for business, though. Nothing brought people out to buy Christmas trees like a fresh, photogenic blanket of snow on everything.
“Come on, let’s see how you feel about snow, Cup?—”
She turned around and discovered that she was talking to a dog-shaped dent in the bed.
“Cupcake?!”
The door of her room was still shut, she reassured herself with a hasty glance. So he was in here.
Somewhere.
The room was a messy combination of her teenage decor and the things she’d brought back from the city, when she had arrived in September with all her belongings in two suitcases along with a few boxes she had mailed ahead to herself. Despite being the second oldest, Holly had been one of the last of her sisters to move out, since she had been helping out on the tree farm and then helping during Mom’s final illness. She’d moved out for good five years ago, but the room remained like a time capsule of her teenage self. There were all her old posters on the walls, her doll collection on the shelves, books and games from her youth—all the stuff she’d kind of vaguely thought she ought to do something about, but there never seemed to be any time, or any point.
Now it was mixed in with half-unpacked boxes and other clutter. There were a lot of places for a small dog to vanish.Uneasily, Holly realized that she didn’t know how Cupcake was about chewing on things or messing in new places. She thought she heard rustling from somewhere.
“Cupcake! Come out!” she whisper-hissed, crouching down to look under the bed.
She finally retrieved him from the closet and separated him from a bra he had somehow become tangled up in. Apparently dog-proofing her room needed to be a priority. But first she needed to introduce Cupcake to her dad.
Gently, if possible.
With Cupcake tucked in the crook of her arm, she padded downstairs in her woolen sock feet.
The living room was dim and quiet. Rocket was missing from her bed by the radiator, which meant she was probably either begging in the kitchen, or outside playing in the snow. A delicious smell of frying bacon filled the air. Dad was a good cook, even if his cooking skills ran toward quantity over variety. Now that it was just the two of them, they ate in the kitchen at the kitchen island. The big, heavy dining room table, which during her childhood growing up with four sisters had always been piled with homework and projects, now gathered dust except at holidays.
But the kitchen was bright and cheery. A radio played Christmas carols on the windowsill, and Dad was wearing his favorite apron, the one that said GRILL INSTRUCTOR with two crossed barbecue forks. He was stirring pancake batter. Her plate was at her place, loaded with eggs and perfectly cooked bacon. And it was her favorite plate, the one she liked best from the household collection of mismatched china. She had learned from looking it up online that the pattern was called Snow Plum, and she’d thought about getting a full set of it, but there was something fun about having a perfectly unique plate, the only one like it in all the kitchen. It was a nice change from the solid-colored, matching,mass-produced IKEA dishes she’d had back at her city apartment.
“Morning, Dad.” She hurried to the door, Cupcake wrapped firmly in both arms as the small dog began to squirm.
“Whatcha doing, bean?” her dad asked.
Holly opened the door and crouched down, shivering as a blast of cold wind hit her. She placed Cupcake on the ground. His instant reaction to the cold and the snow was an emphatic NOPE. Holly caught him as he tried to dart between her legs and put him firmly in the relatively snow-free area near the door. He gave her a look of absolute betrayal before scuttling along the side of the house to find a place to do his business.
Holly squinted after him. Now she was worried he was going to get lost and end up in a snowbank and she’d have to go retrieve him.
She became aware that her dad had loomed up behind her, holding a spatula, and was leaning over her to stare after Cupcake.
“What in the Sam hill is that?” At least he sounded more curious than upset.
