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snow, pouting.
    Ivana leaned over her daughter, speaking to her in Swedish. Belle understood the caring, encouraging tone well enough.
    Belle glanced over her shoulder. Immediately her balance shifted and her foot wobbled. Zebulon’s mouth gaped, likely to warn her, but too late. How did one stop with these things?
    Her skis tangled together and sent her face-first toward the snow. The cold sucked the breath from her body, and she inhaled sharply as she sat up, brushing the snow from her face and coat.
    At this rate, she figured until the spring thaw, she’d remain snowbound or use snowshoes to get to town in the worst of the snowy weather.
    “Are you all right, Miss Murray?” Zebulon rushed to help her to her feet.
    Their hands lingered as he helped her up, and the cold didn’t seem so hostile anymore.
    “I’m quite all right.” Heat bloomed through her cheeks.

Chapter 6
    T hey made for a soggy and wet group—at least two of them, anyway, as they sat in the snug Quinn kitchen after Belle and Tilde skied and fell, skied and fell. A few times, though, Belle even laughed out loud when Zeb passed her on the trail. After an hour or so, Belle suggested they join her in the house to warm up before they all left for home.
    She’d capably added more wood to the stove and had the kettle heating for coffee. If she felt any wounded dignity after the hour of sliding and falling, she didn’t let on. Instead, she served up some shortbread cookies as if she were in a grand kitchen, offering the first cookie to little Tilde, who perked up at the mention of sweets by her mother.
    “So, you will do the scripture readings on Christmas Eve?” Sven asked Zebulon.
    “Yes, I will.”
    “Good.”
    “And we ladies will make our traditional Christmas treats, from our home countries, and bring to share on Christmas Eve,” Ivana said. “Do you know what you will make, Belle?”
    Zeb caught a flicker of a frown across her face. Did she not have the means to make anything for Christmas Eve? She’d said she had provisions, but usually provisions didn’t include ingredients for a holiday meal.
    “I … I’m not quite sure. I thought of making a clootie dumpling. I haven’t had one in ages. My … our mother used to make it for us when we were children, every Christmas.” She pulled out some mugs. There were four, one of which had a missing handle and chipped rim.
    “I’ll skip coffee,” Zebulon said.
    “Nonsense.” Belle shook her head. “You’ll have coffee.”
    “So, what is this clootie dumpling?” Ivana asked. “Is it sweet?”
    “A bit. It’s like a fruit pudding. But I’m not sure if I’ll have the ingredients.” Belle poured coffee into the three mugs. “If not, I’m sure I’ll figure something else out.”
    “Whatever it is, I know it will be good.” Zebulon did his best to encourage her. He knew she probably didn’t feel like celebrating this Christmas.
    “Thank you, Zebulon.” She handed him a steaming cup then gave cups to the others. She sat down in the chair beside him. “I’m really not much of a cook, so I can’t guarantee you how good it will taste.”
    “Ah, but I know you’ll do your best,” Ivana said. “I know Sven had to put up with a lot of my burned meals before I learned to cook better.”
    “I lost ten pounds during our first year after the wedding.” Sven gave his wife a warm look. “But now, I must watch I do not overstuff myself with her cooking.”
    Zebulon found himself envying their interaction. Belle sat beside him, and he wanted to know if she’d felt what he’d been feeling these past days and weeks. Ever since the meal at the Smythes, something had happened.
    No, really, it was since losing Hamilton and Melanie. Not as though he’d never lost anyone unexpectedly to an early death before. But maybe it was the promise he’d made to Ham not long after Belle moved to be with her sister and brother-in-law. If anything happened to him, Zeb would be there for Melanie