Page 31 of The Rancher’s Bride

Toby squints at the train. At six, he’s begun questioning everything. “How did he get here without his sleigh?”

“He probably wanted to try the train,” Wren says. Our eight-year-old delivers this with the impatience of someone explaining the obvious. “Even Santa needs vacations.”

“Santa doesn’t take vacations at Christmas,” Toby argues.

Before Wren can explain why he’s wrong, the man dressed as an elf beside the train door waves them forward.

“That’s you three,” I say. “Stay together and listen to the adults.”

Brielle grabs Toby’s hand and pulls him toward the steps. Wren follows close behind, pretending she isn’t nearly as excited as the younger two.

I watch until all three disappear inside.

A warm cup presses against my hand.

“Extra whipped cream,” Damian says beside me. “And cinnamon.”

I turn to find him carrying four more hot chocolates in a cardboard tray. He’s wearing jeans, a heavy coat, and the black cowboy hat I bought him last Christmas. A few strands of dark hair curl beneath the brim, touched with gray near his temples now.

The years have been unfairly good to him.

“Thank you.” I wrap both hands around the cup. “You remembered.”

He gives me a look. “I’ve been married to you ten years.”

“You still forget where you leave your keys.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Keys don’t get mad when I disappoint them.”

I laugh, and he leans down to kiss me. His mouth is cold from the evening air, but the hand he settles against my lower back is warm and familiar.

“You all right?” he asks when he lifts his head.

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve been staring at the train.”

“I was thinking about how different everything is now.”

His nods thoughtfully. “Better truck.”

“Much better truck.”

“Better husband.”

I pretend to consider it. “Debatable.”

He hooks an arm around my waist and pulls me against his side. “Careful.”

The warning in his voice still sends a thrill through me.

Damian has softened over the years, though I doubt anyone who doesn’t know him well would use that word. He’s still built like he could wrestle a steer into submission. His voice is still rough, and one hard look from him can stop all three children in their tracks.

Behind our bedroom door, he can still be as demanding as I ask him to be.