Part of the time he did it, I watched from the side porch, listening to my family, happy and together and celebrating and trying to pull me into that feeling long distance, and I did it with that something I was denying I was feeling bubbling up inside me.

It was a super-awesome thing for him to do. Giving me time with my family. Giving me a break from the constant work.

When he got back, I thanked him.

His reply was, "Chile dip."

I took this to mean badasses weren't good with gratitude.

I'd noted that too.

"Things are good with the fams," I assured him as he put Love Actually in its case and tossed it on the TV stand.

It was then he surprised me by asking another question, this one more personal than the first.

"Why aren't you there?"

"My cabins are rented."

He finished shoving Red in the player, turned, and leveled his eyes on me.

"Why aren't you there?"

I sighed.

Then I explained. "I have an SUV to buy."

His head cocked to the side. "What?"

"I have an SUV to buy," I repeated. "And I'm saving to pay my dad back for giving me money to make a go of this place. I'm doing that with interest so it's taking some time. And I'm buying my SUV with cash because I don't want to finance it. The cabins are filling up and I almost always have several of them rented, but it's not like it's steady and I haven't been here long enough, and the cabins haven't been renting steadily enough to assess how the rentals are going in order to get a sense of what kind of the income I'll have. So I'm being cautious. And I need the money."

He moved to his chair, no longer looking at me, and folded his frame into it.

What he didn't do was reply.

I reached to the remote.

That was when he spoke again.

"Why didn't they come here?"

"Home is closer and Mom and Dad have a huge house."

I felt his gaze so I looked to him.

"You got eleven cabins," he pointed out.

"Home is home, Priest, and my sister just had their first grandchild. My mom and dad live on the ranch in Oklahoma where my dad grew up, his dad grew up, me and my brother and sister grew up. With Lacey having her first baby, the ranch was where this Christmas had to be."

"Have you met her kid?" he asked.

I shook my head.

He looked to the blank TV.

I took that as a sign it was time to fire up the movie, so I did that.

We were ten minutes in before Priest said quietly, "Nothin' more important than family."

His words made me catch my breath, mostly because he was right. I should have taken the financial hit, closed Glacier Lily, and taken a few days to drive down and spend Christmas with my family, meet my nephew, get to know my soon-to-be sister-in-law better, commune with my beloved uncle.

I really should have.

I also caught my breath because those words came from him and they were surprising, seeing as he was here with me, a stranger to him like he was to me.

Which meant he either didn't have any family or he knew just how true those words were because he lost his somewhere along the way. Neither option, by the by, sat very well with me.

But bottom line, I couldn't deny that deep inside I liked it that he felt that way.

It was my turn not to reply and I didn't.

I just reached to a cookie tin, settled in, and watched the movie.

"So, badasses drink hot cocoa," I remarked.

"Yup," John Priest confirmed.

I grinned into the steam coming from my cup and snuggled deeper into the blanket I'd wrapped around me prior to sitting in my Adirondack chair on my side porch, Priest beside me.

I had my eyes trained through the trees to the glimmering Christmas lights fighting through the dark to give a subdued but nevertheless merry feel to Priest and I sitting in the cold and snow, drinking cocoa late at night after tons of movies, good food, a dinner that Priest tucked into-his first bite of duck making his face change momentarily, showing me he liked it, making me like giving that to him more than was healthy.

Now Christmas was almost over and it wasn't a good day. It was an excellent day. He wasn't talkative company. He wasn't warm. He wasn't affectionate. He hadn't even smiled.

But that didn't mean he wasn't good company. That didn't mean in his own unique way he didn't communicate without words or even looks that he appreciated being there. My company. My food. My goofiness. Just being somewhere nice with a decent person on a holiday. It meant something to him and he communicated that to me.

And I knew that because there we sat, in comfortable silence broken only by me occasionally saying something stupid just because I had the feeling he enjoyed me being a dork. So much it put the comfort in comfortable for him.

I listened to the river flow, allowed the stillness of the night to shroud me, warm in my blanket with hot cocoa in my belly, and definitely warm in the companionship of the man at my side.

I sighed quietly and relaxed deeper into the beautiful tranquility.

"We don't change."

That came from Priest and it came quiet. Not ugly. Not icy. Not mean.

But firm.

And the bubbling inside me stopped gurgling.

"Okay," I whispered.

"'Preciate the kindness," he went on.

"Good," I said softly.

"You're a good woman, Cassidy."

I closed my eyes, opened them, and murmured, "Thanks."

"But we don't change."

"Got it."

He said no more.

I licked my lips and took a sip of cocoa.

The night was no less still. The view no less beautiful. But the tranquility was gone.

I sipped my cocoa and got to the bottom of the cup, doing it making a decision.

So he was scary. So he was badass. So he was closed off in a way that he'd made clear more than once he was never going to open.

I didn't care.

I had this one shot, the only one I knew I'd ever get, so I was going to take it.

He would give nothing, this I knew.

I didn't care about that either.

I was going to do what I had to do.

No.

I was going to take what I needed and give what I wanted.

Therefore, I said, "Gonna call it a night," as I unwrapped myself and got to my feet.

I threw the blanket over my arm and made to move between our chairs as Priest remained silent.

I stopped by his chair and I looked down at him gazing at the trees.

"I know you don't wanna hear this," I started quietly. "I know you don't do friendly. But I don't care. It's still Christmas and I still get to give friendly and you're gonna take it."

He didn't move and he didn't speak.

I did.

"It was a good Christmas, John."

I didn't see him tense but I sure as heck felt it.

That didn't stop me.

"It was going to be a crappy one, but you showed and made it good. I'll remember it forever, the year the stranger who wasn't a stranger saved me from a lonely holiday."

Before I lost my nerve, I bent to him, my lips at his ear. So close, I could smell his scent. And it was his. Not cologne. Not aftershave.

All Priest.

Heavenly.

"It meant a lot," I whispered. "So I thank you for that, John Priest."

I moved my head, my lips now at his temple while he remained stone-still.

"Merry Christmas," I finished softly, brushed my lips against the dark hair beyond his temple, and quickly, before he could rebuff me and take away all the goodness he'd given me, I scurried to the door and through it.

I made sure the house was locked up (all but the side door off the kitchen so Priest could get in, of course), but kept a few lights on to lead Priest's way to bed.

I got in my own and laid there for a long time, listening.

He didn't come up for ages. I checked my alarm clock and it was over an hour.

Only when I heard the door close in the hall did my eyes finally drift shut so I could go to sleep.

And I slept not knowing that the man in my guestroom sat outside for over an hour, quietly, unmoving, all the while waging war.

He won.

But he lost.

And so did I.

Because the next day, before I got up, he was gone, but he left behind three hundred-dollar-bills on my registration book, taking away the kindness I'd given him, seeing as he paid for it.

And two months later, when he came back, Christmas had not changed him. He rented cabin eleven. He paid in cash. He spoke few words. After he checked in, I barely saw him. And when he checked out, he shoved the key through the mail slot on my door.

Three months after that, more of the same.

Six months after that, the same.

This lasted for four years.

Four.