Chapter One

Elk Mountain, Wyoming — December 24^th, 1881

16 years prior

The last thing his ma said was, “Afore you know it, you’ll be opening your eyes to Christmas morn.”

Ma was right. The next time fifteen-year-old Christian Briar opened his eyes, it was Christmas morning, but it was all wrong. He awoke coughing, shooting up straight. His vision slowly adjusted, but it barely helped. The room was filled with a thick haze. His lungs burned as acrid smoke filtered in through his nose.

He yanked the blankets from his body, clumsily rolling from bed. He held one arm in front of his mouth and nose as he stumbled from his room, straining to make out the environment. To his left, he saw the vague shape of the Christmas tree ablaze with flames, the tin star dripping down the branches.

“Ma?! Pa?!” he called out. The floor was hot beneath him, stray embers scorching his clothes as he struggled toward the front door.

Flames crept up the walls, rapidly swallowing them. The entire home was bathed in angry orange.

Christian thought, Surely this must be Hell. He clawed his way toward his parents’ room, but as soon as he got close, the door came crumbling down; one of the fiery boards fell atop his leg. A pain like no other shot through his body, and he cried out.

When he looked back at the door, it was charred to a crisp, and there was no chance he could make it through. The rest of the house was crumbling in kind. He knew if he didn’t hurry, he would be a goner. Each heartbeat rang in his ears, each cough tore at his chest. The fire roared around him, louder than any thought in his mind.

He ignored the agony in his leg, his hands now black with ash as he pulled himself toward the nearest window. It took all of his strength to heave himself up. The sill was too hot to touch, and in one final act of desperation, he flung his body against the glass. It cracked beneath his weight, and he fell into the snow.

The cold bit through his clothes, painfully stinging against his burned flesh but also providing a sense of relief. He was alive.

He heard the cabin groan behind him and scurried away as quickly as he could. When he turned around and finally saw the extent of the fire, he was struck dumb, mouth falling agape at how rapidly the flames devoured the roof and walls.

He heard voices in the distance, shouts carrying across the hollow. He turned his head to see lanterns bobbing in the darkness. His ears were ringing, and as the initial shock wore off, the pain in his leg intensified tenfold, but he didn’t care. He forced himself up, limping as fast as he could to meet the onslaught of townsfolk.

“Christian!” the familiar voice of the sheriff broke through the others. Wyatt McAllister’s boots crunched on the snow as he picked up speed to meet the boy. “Is anyone still inside?”

“Ma… and Pa…” he panted out, filled with pure, unadulterated fear. “I ain’t see them come out… I don’t know where they are…”

“Hold your horses. You stay right here!” Sheriff McAllister ran back toward the other men, his exact orders lost in the roar of the fire. Christian watched helplessly as men of the town lined up with buckets and shovels, doing what they could to combat the raging flames.

He ignored Wyatt’s orders and managed to make his way toward the crowd, his eyes darting all over for any sign of his parents. He expected to see them any moment now, covered in soot and perhaps a little burned, but safe.

It was mere hours ago the house was filled with nothing but love and eagerness for the coming yuletide. He closed his eyes, conjuring every detail he could:

Christian stopped as he passed the Christmas tree, running his fingers over the two parcels for his parents: a small wooden comb for his mother, polished and carved with care; a leather strap for his father’s Bible, its edges softened from hours of sanding. He couldn’t wait to see the looks on their faces, eyes sparkling with pride at Christian’s handiwork, and the loving compliments they’d shower him with.

Margaret Briar was an expressive and affectionate woman. She was staunch in her faith, extending care without a second thought to anyone in need. His father, Ezra, had a more reserved warmth, but there was never a doubt in Christian’s mind that his father loved him as much as a father could love a son.

Christian’s thoughts were interrupted by a firm clap on his back from his father, who patted him thrice before saying, “Don’t go stayin’ up too late tonight, son. Let’s thaw out, then get some shut-eye.”

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it, Pa.” He laughed softly, watching as his father stoked the fire. “Sooner I go to bed, sooner tomorrow’ll come.”

“Now, that’s a right smart way to look at it,” his mother joined them by the tree. “Far cry from the boy who couldn’t keep his peepers shut long enough to fall asleep.”

“I ain’t done that in years,” he said, laughing once more.

“S’pose not, but I still think of you as a young’un, even though you’re fixin’ to be taller than your pa soon.” She glanced between them. Christian suspected she was noting all their similarities, something she commented on often as Christian aged.

Christian always thought he was a fair mix of both of his parents. Dark hair and a sharp jawline like his pa. Blue eyes and expressive features like his ma.

“You’ll always be your ma’s boy, and that’s just the long and short of it.” Pa stepped back from the fire, the heat melting Christian’s frozen body not long after. Ma lit some candles near the tree, giving the star more flames to reflect. The orange glow danced over the paper chains and straw ornaments.

“Little bit of sparkle to keep the Christmas spirit alive,” Ma commented, setting her hands on her hips to admire the tree.

Christian did the same, nodding in approval. “Must be the finest tree we ever had, even if Ma still won’t let me chuck that ol’ star.”

She gave him a withering look. “You’ll get me riled up somethin’ fierce if you try.”

“Only jokin’, Ma.”

“Best be.”

“Quit pokin’ fun at your ma, son. You know her heart’s as tender as a peach.” Pa reached up to straighten the star. “And I reckon I’ve taken a shine to the rusted hunk o’ metal, likewise.”

After some more light banter, Pa spoke up, “High time we all hit the hay.”

Ma promised him, “Afore you know it, you’ll be opening your eyes to Christmas morn.”

Christian grew more frantic, asking anyone he passed if they’d seen his parents, begging them. In the chaos, he couldn’t get a straight answer from anyone.

“I told you to stay back, boy. It’s too late,” Sheriff McAllister told him, every feature filled with sorrow. His eyebrows were knitted, mouth downturned, and he was shaking his head. He gave Christian a pat on the back, attempting to comfort him, but it did little to ease the churning in Christian’s gut.

“No… can’t be… they gotta be inside… they just gotta!” Christian shook his head, refusing to believe it could be true. The sheriff’s contrition turned into pity as he placed his hand on Christian’s shoulder.

“I’m awful sorry…” he mumbled, looking over toward the house. It was scarcely more than its very bones now, the flames dissipating as the volunteers continued their work.

“No!” he insisted. He made a move to run toward the house. If he could just get inside before the whole thing caved in, he could find them. He knew he could.

He didn’t get more than a few steps before the sheriff grabbed him, pulling him back. “Have you done lost your mind? Ain’t gonna do no one good if you get yourself killed in there.”

“I don’t care. I have to try… I have to!” He tried again, using his remaining strength to pull free from the man’s grasp, but it was futile once more. He was hit with a coughing fit, his leg giving out beneath him.

He stood there, numb to the world, watching as the fire slowly went out. The roof collapsed with a deafening crash, sparks twirling into the night like dying stars. When most of the flames were extinguished, his home—the one that held his fondest memories—was little more than rubble and ashes. At the center of everything, blackened more than anything else, was the Christmas tree.

“The candles…” he mumbled, voice deadpan. “No, it couldn’t…”

She blew them out. His ma always blew them out. He shook his head, refusing to believe it, but what other explanation was there? When he’d gone to bed, they were still lit.

***

By dawn, things had cooled down enough to search the ruins, and the fire department came to the same conclusion he did, muttering under their breaths about candles too close to the garland. He was still numb, but that broke when he saw men come around from the back, carrying two shapes—swaddled in blankets, undeniably human.

His stomach turned, and he was fixing to keel over then and there. He tried to lunge toward the forms, but his knees gave way. A strangled scream escaped his throat, voice cracking, before his pain was swallowed by the mountains.

“Christian!” The familiar voice of his sweetheart, Ella Carmichael, filled his ears. He turned to look at her, finding her only a few feet away, running up the path, skirts wet with slush. Her voice trembled as she knelt beside him. “I came as soon as I could. My pa said he wasn’t sure you made it out. I was worried sick!”

Christian stared at her. She reached out a soft, gentle hand to him, setting it on his shoulder. That was something he’d always been keen on about Ella—her kindness. She was like his ma in that way, never thinking more than a second before comforting someone.

But sitting here, with his heart shattered to pieces, tear stains streaked through the soot on his cheeks, it made him feel all the more ill. He didn’t react to her touch, didn’t say a word, just sat there staring with his eyes unfocused at the remnants of his life.

“You’re hurt, ain’t you?” She gasped suddenly, her eyes falling on his leg. “I saw Dr. Hollis just down the way. I’ll fetch him, you hear? Don’t you go nowhere.”

He couldn’t move if he wanted to, and he didn’t want to. Ella ran off, yelling out the good doctor’s name. It was clear in her tone how concerned she was, how much she cared for his well-being, but Christian felt nothing.

The only thought that made its way through the haze of grief, anger, and sadness was why? Over and over, he thought that single word.

Finally, when he could bear it no longer, he tilted his face up to the Heavens, brows knitted together. Voice low, raspy, and full of betrayal, he asked, “Why, God? Why’d You take ‘em from me? They never did nothing to deserve this. Neither did I!”

“What did ya say?” Ella asked as she came running back with Dr. James Hollis just behind her.

“Nothing,” Christian mumbled. She reached for him again, but this time he flinched away. He hadn’t meant to do it, but the thought of her warm, gentle touch… it was too much. He didn’t look at her face, knowing he would find hurt in her eyes, and he didn’t have it in him to handle it right now.

Instead, he looked up to the mountain peaks, gray in the early light, and felt the first seed of anger take root beneath his grief.

Chapter Two

Willow Springs, Missouri — November 24^th, 1897

Now

Ivy Ashford wanted nothing more than to feel happy on this day, like she used to. Though she was young yet, only twenty-four years old, she felt a deep heaviness in her heart that only came with a stolen youth. It was now eleven years since Phoebe Ashford, her dear mother, ascended to Heaven.

There was a time when she would awaken on the first of December filled with nothing but joy for the season to come. She would spring from bed, ready to run to Mama, who would greet her with open arms, wearing a smile nearly as wide as Ivy’s own.

Ivy longed for that same hopeful, anticipatory warmth in her gut that she had been accustomed to in her youth. She felt no such thing. It was as if a void lay within her, somehow both heavy and empty all at once. She couldn’t pretend to understand how that was possible; she only knew it to be true, holding true for over a decade of her life.

As she thought this, it sent a sharp pain into her heart. Ivy had only gotten thirteen years with her mother, and being such a young child when she passed on, most of those memories were either fuzzy or long gone, fading more with each passing year. Every year, Ivy hoped and prayed that she would finally feel the childlike wonder that Christmas brought again, but as yet, no such feeling had returned. Instead, that emptiness inside of her only seemed to grow.

That was part of the trouble, wasn’t it? As she grew older, Ivy lost more and more memories of her mother. She closed her eyes, conjuring up the strongest memory she could: a gentle voice filled with love, and green eyes that sparkled with the deepest affection when she saw her daughters. If she tried her very best, Ivy could smell the light, floral scent that engulfed her when her mother pulled her to her bosom—rosewater and lavender.

Ivy opened her eyes, staring at her reflection in her dressing-table mirror. She had inherited Phoebe’s eyes and hair, and as she grew older, she resembled her mother more and more. It was something she was grateful for, acting as an eternal bond between the two women.

She twirled her wavy auburn hair into the modest chignon she often wore, reaching into one of her drawers for hairpins. She found none, letting out a soft hmph as she realized. She let the wavy strands drop back around her shoulders, making a note to get some more the next time she went into town. She dug around in the other drawers, hoping to find a few stray pins among her other odds and ends. She froze when she opened the third drawer, where she found a small stack of yellowed papers. She ran her fingers over them, featherlight and at a snail’s pace, as she reminisced on their origin.

***

November 1886

12 years prior

“I suspect these are the very best poems I’ve read in my whole life,” Celeste stated matter-of-factly. That was just like her older sister. She had unwavering confidence in Ivy’s abilities and was, along with their mother, determined that Ivy never gave up on her passions.

“Oh, you stop that!” Ivy scoffed, crossing her arms and huffing a bit. “You don’t have to tell tales to make me feel good. I know I have a long way to go yet.”

“Oh, you know what I meant. Let me rephrase, then.” Celeste cleared her throat dramatically; that was also just like her. She had the biggest personality Ivy had ever known. “I have never known someone so talented as you, Ivy, truly. I have read some of the other girls’ poems in school, and they are dreadful. Sometimes I wonder if it would do good for us all to hide their ink pots.”

“Oh, Lessie, don’t say such unkind things!” Even in her upset, the nickname sounded fond. It was what Ivy had called her sister since she was young and struggled to pronounce her full name. She reserved it for the times when it was just the two of them, however, not wanting others to follow suit; it was something special to the sisters alone, and she wanted it to remain that way.

“You don’t need to be such a goody-goody around me. I know you’ve thought the same things, have you not? Don’t you remember last spring when Bridget stood up in front of the class and read that poem all about how beautiful the clouds were?” She punctuated the memory with a laugh.

Ivy’s lip twitched the faintest bit. She did remember the poem, and it was simply awful. Despite Bridget being four years her senior, the same as Celeste, the poem was leagues below the ones Ivy wrote.

“Oh, I have an idea!” Celeste said suddenly. “Why don’t you write some poems for Mama for Christmas this year? You’ve been lamenting what you’ll get her, have you not? And not that you need it, but I’ll even help you until we get them just perfect. She’ll be so proud to show everyone at church.”

***

Mama had never gotten the chance to show everyone at church the poems her girls had written for her. Two weeks later, Mama suddenly fell ill, and before the end of the month, she was gone. It was the first December filled with deep sorrow. Father hadn’t even bothered to bring a tree in, nor was there a yule log; the fireplace was as empty and cold as the three remaining Ashfords felt. Samuel Ashford was so stricken with grief it was as if he became a different man. He grew worried about the girls’ safety, steadily becoming stricter and more controlling. Come next December, not long after her eighteenth birthday, Celeste must’ve snapped, because she disappeared without a word. One evening she was there, and the next morning, when Ivy woke, her sister was gone. Ivy was only fourteen then, but that was the moment she ceased to feel like a child. It was grief atop grief, and Ivy would be lying if she said hadn’t also felt like a different person since.

Ivy nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard knocking on her door. She slammed the drawer shut a bit too harshly, as if she had been doing something wrong.

“Father?” she called out through the closed door, glancing at the clock. It was already past seven. She’d been so engrossed in her thoughts she’d lost track of time entirely.

“Make haste and come to the table,” her father replied in the monotone voice he often adopted. “We have a guest this evening, so do not make us wait. Am I understood?”