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She looks like more of the jetting to a ski weekend with her accountant boyfriend type than someone interested in a rancher.” He scanned down the list of upcoming holiday events, something he hadn’t bothered to look into in years. The United Church of Christ had an advertisement for its annual Cookie Walk on Saturday afternoon. Santa’s hours at the log cabin in town square were three to six daily and ten to four on Saturday. Cameras encouraged. Not much had changed in all these years, it seemed.
    Wyatt’s gaze dropped down to the public request asking for a donation of a tall pine for the town square tree lighting. Guilt nudged at the back of his brain. Being Jed’s oldest son had garnered certain expectations over the years that Wyatt had managed successfully to sidestep. When he was alive, Jed Kinnison not only donated the perfect Christmas tree for the annual tradition, but also delivered it himself in a sleigh, dressed as Santa. He would then sit in the tiny one-room cabin, complete with the warmth of a wood stove in the corner, and invite kids to sit with him as he listened to their holiday wish lists. He’d treat them with a candy cane and remind them how important family was and how they should be helpful to those around them. He’d taken the boys with him, and Rein and Dalton had loved the spectacle, but the holidays were always a struggle for Wyatt. Too many painful memories. Too many unanswered wishes.
    Taking risks with his heart was not an easy thing for Wyatt. It was never said outright, but there was the expectation that upon Jed’s passing, Wyatt, as oldest, would take over the responsibility of the ranch and carry on Jed’s traditions, which included posing as Kris Kringle for the children in town. Year after year, he made excuses for not being able to take on the role, until finally, the calls stopped. To his relief Betty up at café had volunteered her husband Jerry for the role. Christmas, to Wyatt’s way of thinking, had become a holiday taken over by businesses who, in trying to make a buck, tapped into the tender hope of children using a jolly stranger in a red suit to guilt parents into buying beyond their means. It was heartless and if that made him a Scrooge, so be it.
    He skipped down through the remaining holiday listings and spotted a graphic for the Billings Community College. It wasn’t so much the idea of getting a degree, as taking courses in subjects of interest to him. He enjoyed the challenge of assignments and research. To his credit, he had completed a two-part course on the Civil War, the history of the Mountain Railway system with its effect on mining in Montana, as well as a few classes on local American Indian history. He pulled up the PDF brochure of the winter schedule and perused the offerings. He wasn’t much interested in the math or science courses, and he needed no class in preparing festive holiday meals. He was about to close the screen when his eye caught the title Insight Through Creative Writing . He clicked the link, which took him to a full description. His gaze narrowed as he read, considering the cost and time frame of class schedules. The soft leather chair sighed as he leaned back and studied the screen.
    He’d once or twice dabbled with writing—poems and random thoughts, mostly, though hadn’t pursued it in many years. He’d never revealed it to anyone, not even Jed, believing it might be viewed as too feminine for a man to do. Comfortable now in his own skin, he figured he could add a male perspective to the class. What could be the harm? It was a bold step, something out of the ordinary for him, but he was feeling antsy. He needed something to keep his mind occupied.
    Wyatt rubbed his palm over his unshaven jaw and wondered if anyone would suspect his identity in the class. Not that anyone would give a red-hot damn, he mused. If it weren’t for Rein and Dalton, he swore he sometimes felt akin to a green monster living on the mountain, a monster