“Coming from a chocolate snob, that is a compliment.” Cassidy pulled her stocking cap down further to cover her ears.
“I’ve got the granola bites!” Kit called, snapping her feet into a pair of snowshoes.
“You’re being pretty serious with this hike,” Liam said to Kit.
“Nah, I got them two years ago for Christmas and have never worn them. Figured if not today, when?” Kit laughed.
Kit had invited the new guy in town, Tyler, and his daughter, Emma. They arrived, hugs were exchanged, cocoa was passed round, and their group was complete.
Tyler was tall and broad-shouldered, his shaggy brown hair tucked beneath a knit beanie, a flannel jacket layered over a well-worn thermal. His easygoing grin made him instantly likable, the kind of man who felt like the solid center of any group.
Beside him, Emma practically bounced with each step, her pink snow boots leaving prints in the fresh powder, a rainbow pom-pom hat slightly askew on her head. She was around seven, with a sprinkle of freckles across her nose, her brown hair peeking out in messy braids.
As the group began the hike, they naturally paired off. Zoe and Kit were up front, along with Tyler and his daughter, who insisted on walking Muff, while Madison and Zach brought up the rear. Cassidy and Liam naturally fell in step together. Jackson had been invited but Zoe told Liam he’d decided to pass. That sounded more like his twin, keeping to himself, sticking close to the llamas, the work on the farm.
Zoe crouched beside a snow-covered shrub, brushing the frost off a cluster of red berries. “These are wintergreen. Totallyedible—and they make a great tea, if you don’t mind a little minty tang,” she said, holding one up for the group to see.
Emma leaned in closer, her breath puffing clouds in the cold air. “Do they taste like gum?”
“Better,” Zoe said with a wink. “Nature’s version of it, anyway.”
As they continued along the path, Zoe pointed out more hidden treasures beneath the snow—dried pine needles perfect for fire starters, bark that could be peeled for tinder, and mosses that held onto water in a pinch.
Snowflakes began to fall as they continued their hike. While Zoe talked about foraging for winter eats, Liam and Cassidy gradually fell further behind the group.
“Is your leg okay?” Cassidy asked, hoping the hike wasn’t pushing him too hard.
“Yeah, this is helping actually. I probably should’ve started stretching more last week. I’m glad you suggested it.”
“I figured it would do us both some good.”
The snow started to fall faster, the flakes growing fat and heavy, drifting down in slow spirals. It clung to the tops of their hats and settled in the folds of their scarves, the world around them going quiet under the hush of fresh snowfall.
He watched as a dusting of snow caught in Cassidy’s long blonde hair, the strands curling around her flushed cheeks. She looked like something out of a winter postcard, her cheeks pink and her eyes bright.
“Last Christmas was pretty rough for me,” she said after a while, interrupting Liam’s thoughts. “I’d been in Paris for years, but I decided I needed a fresh start.” Her voice was soft as the group ahead drifted out of earshot. “I don’t know if you know, but I grew up in Hope Valley, not far away.”
“You said something about being nearby. I didn’t realize it was that close.”
Cassidy nodded. “I’d always planned on coming back to the Midwest one day, but I wasn’t exactly sure where. My brother and I were raised by my grand-maman—she was French,” she explained. “After my parents died.”
“I didn’t realize… about your parents.”
“I was young. Almost nine.” Her voice softened. “It was a car accident. Christmastime. We were all in the car. My brother was the only one who walked away unscathed.” She looked down. “I spent quite a bit of time in the hospital.”
His chest tightened. He pictured her, small and fragile, hair in messy braids, curled up in a too-big hospital bed while she stared out the window, waiting for parents who would never walk back through that door.
And God, hadn’t he been there too?
Different year, but same season. Same unbearable silence on the other end of a phone call. He knew the way grief carved its name into your bones, how it changed the shape of a holiday forever.
It wasn’t just a coincidence between them—that they’d both lost loved ones in a car accident—it was a thread, however painful, that connected something deep and unspoken.
“You don’t have to…” he said gently, his voice lower, rougher, not wanting her to feel she had to share it all, even though part of him wanted to know everything.
“I know,” she said, meeting his eyes. “I guess… I just wanted you to know more about me.”
He swallowed, realizing that she was being vulnerable with him and not knowing if he could ever return the favor.
