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Carlos loves Christmas and his family. His girlfriend is undecided on the holiday. His family is undecided on the girlfriend. What to do?

Continuing the story arc in which Carlos is joining Danny as a driving narrator of Cannon Shoals. For as long as he sticks around. Like "Picture Perfect Memories," this is a Shoals story that mostly takes place outside of the town itself. It's a Christmas Story, so you know roughly what you're getting yourself into :p I hope you enjoy it!

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

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Dramatis Personae:

Carlos Ortiz moved to Cannon Shoals a few years ago and thinks of it as home. He struggles with his role, though, and the sense that his life is uncomfortably close to a "dead end" for someone in his 30s. Ironically, for a coyote, he's one of the least... problematic people in the Cannon Shoals Police Department.

Danny Hayes is not. The stoat is licentious, sharp-tongued, and closest to being the genius loci of the town and its insular nihilism. Despite his cynicism and dubious reputation, he's legitimately protective of his friends. This includes Carlos, whom he calls "Scout."

Morgan Finch first appeared in "Graceland." The young vixen "left" the Shoals before Ortiz arrived. She was wary of Dan Hayes, whom she knew by reputation, but the stoat has proven to be an ally in shutting down any discussion of her name, gender, or right to forget her past in the Shoals. She freelances for Dawn Danis, an artist in town, and is occasionally deputized to do office work for the CSPD.

Robert Dean is an employee of the Martin-Barlow Western logging company, most closely identified with its union. MBW is the town's largest employer; its shutdown before the very first Cannon Shoals story augured the town's ensuing slide. Bobby was instrumental in getting the mill to reopen, through underhanded means that have not yet been exposed. The dingo is a good person, and regrets that any of it was necessary, but thinks the sacrifice was worth it.

Samantha Rigney is a barista by trade but an aspiring photographer whose work tends to focus on abandoned places. The mixed-breed dog and Carlos dated through college, drifted apart, hooked up in "Picture Perfect Memories" and agreed to begin a sort-of-relationship in "Graceland."

Zoe and Ben Ortiz are Carlos's parents. Zoe is a romance novelist and Ben is a teacher. They are extremely respectable coyotes with an immaculate house and suburban sensibilities. They are skeptical of their son's vocation, and were disapproving when he dated Sam Rigney before.

---

"All I Want for Christmas," by Rob Baird

"I know your dirty little secret, coyote. Don't forget that, and don't ever--for one fuckin' second--think I'm on board with it."

Carlos Ortiz just grinned. And when Sergeant Hayes glared at him, the coyote's smile widened. "Where do I even start with that, Danny?"

"Don't," the stoat suggested. "How about that?"

Thing was, though, coyote secrets were bound to be 'dirty' almost by definition. And they'd worked together for so long that one more 'secret' didn't really matter, especially considering the dubious value of Dan's approval was a matter of public record.

In any case, the enameled holly pin stuck to the coyote's breast was hardly inconspicuous. Nor was the mug of candy canes on the desk between them. Nor was his humming, which had provoked the most recent remark.

Carlos was in too good of a mood to rise to the bait. He kept on smiling. "Are you ready to go?"

"Might as well get this over with."

"At least you're off elf duty, right?" That, in particular, was a sticking point for the weasel. His thin frame had made him ideally suited for the role; it was only his temperament and glare that made the effect less than convincing.

Morgan Finch didn't officially work for the Cannon Shoals Police Department, which had neither the budget nor the need for another employee. But the vixen made herself available as temporary labor when Chief Pacheco required it, and given a choice between having Danny disabuse the town's children of their Christmas sensibilities, and paying Morgan to dress up for a few hours...

"Deputy," Carlos greeted her, sticking out his tongue. She playfully shook her head until the bell on her hat jingled. "We just about ready?"

"Well, I got a text from Mrs. Claus five minutes ago saying her husband would be a bit late. But the garage is ready." She handed him the keys and Carlos went off to unlock it. He could hear his partner and Morgan carrying on in the background. Why the fuck are you in such good spirits? and then: why the fuck aren't you, Danny?

There wouldn't be a straight answer. At least some of it boiled down to Dan's need to be contrarian. 'Grumpy,' as Melissa Dean put it, and the dog was in as good of a position as any of them to know. Even if nobody, including Carlos, was certain they were actually dating.

Or it might've been familial; Carlos had yet to see Dan's mother at any of Cannon Shoals's holiday activities, and the stoat never spoke of his father. Considering how eagerly the small town threw its dilapidated self into the season, his mother's absence was conspicuous and possibly meaningful.

Either way, his reaction to the coyote was always somewhere between teasing and scornful. He wouldn't have come to the charity drive if Mike Pacheco hadn't mandated it. Carlos, already back to humming as he unlocked the garage and pushed the door open, was cut from different cloth.

Never mind that his own affection for the holidays had no particularly consequential roots, or that with the exception of Chief Pacheco his coworkers tended to share Danny's perspective on the whole affair. Carlos was humming, and the smile he gave the first visitor was genuine.

The collection, which ran every year, was the third of its type in Cannon Shoals--a secular counterpart to those organized by the town's churches. Even some of the faithful came, though, because it was where Santa Claus made his brief appearance and could be borrowed for pictures.

Carlos only recognized half of the people who stopped by. There was Dougal Galvan, who ran the credit union, and Amy Riley, the pharmacist, and a few fishermen he knew from Annie's--the dive bar where they all gathered to forget how truly awful the fishing had been. Awful or not, they contributed at least a bag or two. Packaged food, mostly; a few clothes, some of them even suitable for winter.

He dutifully recorded it all as his iPod filled the garage with Bing Crosby. Presently, he heard Morgan's voice, and looked up to see the vixen poking her head around the corner to the garage. "Keep dreaming. We don't get many white Christmases here."

"True. We didn't back home, either."

"It's too bad, really." She padded the rest of the way in, and Carlos realized the outfit was not, in fact, much less ridiculous on Morgan than it was on Danny. At least the vixen smiled; she also set a small bag down on the desk he was using to log the donations. "Cookies from the bakery. Dan also says you should get ready."

The rattling sound of a truck engine answered him before he could ask what he needed to ready himself for. The tailgate gave him the rest of the story, with the bumper stickers that said--among other things--"BUY LOCAL," "DON'T LIKE LOGGING? TRY WIPING WITH PLASTIC" and "I BRAKE FOR SPOTTED OWLS... IT'S EASIER TO AIM THAT WAY."

But there were no spotted owls in the bed of the F-150, only half a dozen or so large brown boxes. Robert Dean, the truck's owner, cut the engine and walked around to lower the tailgate. On the way, the dingo nodded his blunt, age-whitened muzzle. "Good morning, sergeant. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," Carlos answered. "That isn't for us, is it?"

Dean chuckled, and pulled himself into the bed of the truck so he could begin pushing the boxes out for the coyote to grab hold of. "Who else? From the boys, y'know?"

He had other jobs, but 'patriarch of the lumberjack union' was the one that most clearly defined the man. "Six boxes?"

"Eight." Heavy, too; Carlos almost lost his grip on the first one. "Been a pretty good year for us. Ain't so great everywhere, and..." The dingo trailed off, still bent over one of the boxes he was moving. "Well, y'all have been here for us when we weren't doing so hot, right? Paying it forward."

A pleasant morning, with Santa Claus on the other side of the station and sentimental music on the speakers, was not the time to comment on the specifics of what Dean meant. A lot of things could've happened on the timberland Martin-Barlow owned while the mill was shut down and the logging operations with it.

Carlos didn't know, because Pacheco looked the other way whenever he was able to do so. Nowadays they didn't really have to. And with the mill running almost at capacity, there were fewer people with too little to do and too much trouble to get in at the bar--another type of willful ignorance that made up the CSPD's support for Local 491.

Dean carried the last of the boxes into the garage on his own; he was in his 50s, Carlos guessed, but were it not for his whitening pelt--and the glasses he was finally obliged to wear--the dingo could've been his own age. He showed no sign that any effort was required to set it down. "There ya go."

"This isn't just a pretty good year," the coyote teased. "I'm gonna be sorting this until dinner."

The dingo shook his head and pulled a roll of papers from the pocket of his field jacket. "Ain't nobody knows logs like a lumberjack, sergeant. Here's everything, with receipts where I got 'em. Some of the boys didn't have any, but I did what I could."

Carlos would, at some point, double-check the numbers. But it was a good start. "Thanks, Bobby. You gonna need a form from us?"

"Eventually, yeah. We'll file it an' all to keep things on the level whenever you get around to it. The important thing is we got it to you."

It amounted to something like a thousand dollars in donations. Bobby just shrugged, repeating what he'd said earlier: Cannon Shoals had looked out for the millworkers, and now it was time to return the favor.

After the dingo left, Danny came over to read the paperwork. "What's the angle, Scout? What do you suppose he's got up his sleeve?"

"Tax credit? I dunno. He could just be a nice guy. Said it was a good year, and maybe it's as simple as they want to thank Mike for not locking up half the local when we had the chance. How're the lines out front? Everything's going okay?"

"Morgan's busy, and I'm not, so... yeah, it all looks good."

Danny seemed like he intended to hang around--probably he didn't want to deal with the crowds--and Carlos took the opportunity to ask a question he'd been pondering since the vixen's return. "Hey. How come you call her Morgan?"

"'Cause that's her name. And I don't know her well enough to come up with something better."

"You knew me for all of three hours before you started calling me 'Scout,'" Carlos pointed out. And, indeed, Danny almost never referred to people by their given names. Whatever epithet replaced it tended to be something that mattered only to the stoat. Sometimes it appeared fondly intended; sometimes not.

In all the years they'd known each other, the coyote hadn't learned what the rules were. Why some of his closest, oldest friends had such nicknames, along with some of the people who most irritated him. Or why Melissa Dean, Bobby's daughter, was still 'Melissa,' and Morgan was still 'Morgan.'

It was possible that the stoat was simply growing out of that phase. But, after all, he hadn't started calling the coyote 'Carlos.' He braced himself for an answer that was not likely to be satisfying.

"Yeah, well you rolled up in that piece of shit International Harvester and told me how proud you were of it. That kinda makes an impression, doesn't it?"

"I guess, maybe."

And maybe it was that simple. Carlos could've suggested other explanations. Mel had some fondness for the stoat that, whatever the reason, Danny tolerated and returned in kind. Morgan was native to the town despite a period of absence; Dan hinted that her backstory was irrelevant.

Danny would, no doubt, bristle at the implication of sensitivity, though. The same way he'd patently refuse to have anything to do with Christmas, without saying why. The stoat had always been something of an enigma. He provided no further clarification before leaving the coyote to his work.

The event wound down fairly smoothly; there were only so many children in Cannon Shoals, and although it was scheduled for the entire morning the line was gone well before noon. As Carlos reviewed the last few bags, Morgan wandered over, still wearing her green costume.

"Who is this? Dean Martin?"

"I think it's Perry Como."

"He's so upbeat about it. I like Judy Garland's version best. It's more... wistful? No. No--I guess 'poignant,' that's what I mean. The 'hang a shining star' line? They added that one to make it happier... but it came out during World War Two, you know? How happy can you really be in the Ardennes?"

"It would make more sense. Considering that. I don't know..."

"I wasn't trying to be depressing, sorry--just making conversation. Do you have plans for the holidays, Carlos? You seem like the holiday-planning type--you and your... excessively jolly 'Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.'"

She added a teasing smile, though, so Carlos decided to take the remark fondly. "Sometimes. This year I might stay local. What about you?"

"Same. Dawn and her roommate are having a little get-together. I'm sure if you wanted to drop by, it wouldn't be a problem."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Would be nice if they had a tree. That was one good thing about Brian Crow working for Martin-Barlow. Bobby was good about getting us trees; I don't know if they were from Martin-Barlow's land or not. They just... appeared, sometimes."

"Does Dean know you?" She'd made herself scarce when the dingo appeared, he realized somewhat belatedly.

"Of me, yes. I imagine he doesn't know what to think. Brian always liked him more than Uncle Harlan did, for sure. And Harlan had shitty judgment, so I guess I should like him, too. He's not bad."

"Donated enough, at least."

"That doesn't surprise me. You're not convinced? Danny wasn't either. I just don't think it's a guilty conscience. The more I think about it, I guess some years the presents must've come from Bobby, too, when Brian wasn't getting enough work."

"Maybe. Could be Danny and me are just a bit jaded from all the stuff the union's put us through."

"I wouldn't know about that. I was expecting him to back off a bit, considering... well." Morgan paused, glancing towards the open garage door. "Okay, so, look: I don't want to gossip, but... I want to gossip. Are Danny and Dean's kid... you know..."

Carlos shrugged. "Beats the crap out of me, honestly. If you find out, let me know. It would be out of character, and he won't say a damn word, but there's some Ockham's razor stuff going down. You want to needle him sometime, ask Danny if he likes the smell of vanilla."

"What?"

"Oh. You were working for Dawn that week, weren't you? Two days in a row he came in smelling like a pastry shop. Maybe his nose wasn't good enough to notice it, but me and Clint sure did. I think Mel was teaching him to bake. But again: mystery."

"Mystery," Morgan echoed. "He doesn't really have to be needled. He's been okay to me. I wasn't expecting that. I still don't quite understand it." She laughed. "Is that a mystery, too?"

"Beats me. If you two go back or something, I don't know anything about it. He just says it's none of my business."

"We don't go back. He's just--"

The stoat himself rounded the door, interrupting her explanation. "Hey, Scout. Hey, Morgan. Chief says we're done here. Looks like ya did well enough."

The floor of the garage was half covered in paper bags, boxes, and other loose supplies. "Better than last year, I think," Carlos agreed. "I'll check the numbers, but it should make the mayor happy."

"Well, it should make us happy, too," Morgan said. "I'm going to get changed and head home. If Mike doesn't need me again, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year and all that. I already told Carlos, but Dawn and Ray are having a little party. If you want to come over."

Danny shrugged instead of answering. When they were alone, Carlos let curiosity get the better of him a second time. "What are your plans, anyway? I've always been back in Stayton over Christmas; never knew what you got up to."

"Don't got any plans except picking up hours at holiday pay. Ain't all that much exciting here." He rolled his eyes. "I don't need it to be exciting, either, Scout."

"I was just going to say that if you wanted to grab a beer or something, I'll probably be around."

"No Stayton?"

He was still undecided, despite what he'd told Morgan. The prospect of independence seemed less tantalizing the more he reflected on everything he'd miss about his parents and their traditions. Quirky as they might've been, they were still familiar ones, and they never failed to boost his spirits. His girlfriend was in town; he had half a mind to leave the final decision up to her--but Danny didn't need to know that. "Dunno. Just saying, if you want to do something."

"Nah. And I don't have a powerful need to be fuckin'... saved from scroogedom, or whatever the fuck you're plotting. I get enough of that from Melissa."

Carlos grinned. "You let her?"

He was rewarded with a scowl. Before he could probe further, or Danny could curse him out, a new figure peeked her head into the station's garage.

"Oh, hey. There you--"

"Donation's over. If y'got stuff to give, head to the church."

"What if I want to take stuff? Like a coyote, maybe?"

Carlos stepped in before Danny wound up needlessly provoked. "Hey, Sam. I guess this is as good a way as any to meet Danny Hayes. My partner. My... partner," he repeated, introducing the mixed-breed in turn with a wave of his paw.

"Wait. This is your girl? Huh. Figured if anybody'd own ya, they'd at least be taller. Not bad, Scout." It was difficult to judge the stoat's tone. Carlos was quite aware that 'in a relationship' was, at best, a minor complication for him. Indeed, he'd participated in a few of Dan's more colorful explorations of the subject.

Sam seemed to be having the same sort of trouble in reading him, although she was also unscrupulous enough to be dating a coyote and the possibility existed she would simply play along. She grinned. "I consort with him. I'm not sure it rises to the level of ownership..."

"You have the keys to Scout's place, though. He never gave those to me."

"Do you want a copy? I know somebody who--"

Carlos coughed. "Hey. I keep Danny out of my apartment for a reason."

"What, so I won't interrupt ya?" His eyes glinted; sharp teeth were bared in his smile. "The fuck kinda smalltalk were you expecting, Scout? Ain't like I'm gonna ask what brings yer girl to Cannon Shoals, am I? Kinda obvious."

"You know, Mr. Hayes, I'm starting to get why I've heard so much about you from Carlos."

"No doubt. When y'ain't knotted or nothin', are ya at least enjoying our festive spirit?"

Sam's grin didn't falter. "I mean, it's kind of dorky. I'm not sure that Santa would pass muster anywhere else. But if you all like it, who am I to judge?"

The stoat held up his paws, shaking his head. "Huh-uh, don't look at me. They just love an excuse to put up tinsel and shit. Your dog's really the one to ask if ya gotta go all Dickens on me."

"I know. He's always been into this. I have a box of his stuff from way back when with, like, ornaments and cards. A candle with his name on it. Stuff like that."

Carlos perked his ears, ignoring Dan's impending scorn. "Hold up a sec. Candle?"

"Yeah. It's candy-cane striped. It's been lit before, but most of it's still there. I was gonna use it for something, but then I saw your name on it. You know what it is, coyote?"

"Of course I do. You still know where it is?"

"Sure. I can get it, if you want."

"Look at me, not asking what exactly you were doing with the candle and all."

"Jesus Christ, Danny," Carlos muttered. "Yeah, I'd love that, actually, Sam."

And it was a convenient excuse to clock out, in any case. Sam had to work the next day, and since he'd been the one to drive her out to the coast he was going to have to drive her back.

"Nice to meet you," Sam said. Danny grinned. And then, instead of any straightforward reply, he leaned forward and whispered something into the mutt's ear. She snorted. "Me? You don't know me very well."

The stoat shrugged, and padded off without another word.

Sam watched him go. "You have... you have interesting friends, coyote."

He shrugged too, adding a noncommittal answer, and checked to make sure that the garage door was locked. Sam had already tossed her bags into the back of his FJ40--she had keys for that, too.

She said nothing more about the Christmas display, and nothing about the playlist he'd chosen. But, fifteen minutes of idle banter into the drive back, she finally asked: "So what's the deal with the candle?"

"Some old family thing. You want the story?"

"Sure, why not?"

His older brother, Tony, had carved a yule log with two candle-sized holes tapped in it--a Scouts project, as far as Carlos knew. Rather than burning the log itself, they burned the candles, one for Carlos and one for Tony.

When Mat got old enough to join in, their mother changed the tradition. Two of the brothers' candles occupied the log for any given year; the last used his candle to light the other two. Year by year, they traded off.

But at some point Carlos misplaced his candle. That was the first year Tony didn't join them for Christmas Eve, too. His mother had commented that all traditions had to end at some time, but despite her customary stoicism he could see the sadness that accompanied the admission.

"Well, like I said, I know where it is. If it matters so much, you know... you could at least stop by, right? Or we could, together."

"We could. It might be a little busy... I don't know." In the silence that followed, the iPod he'd plugged into the radio found its next song. You know Dasher, and Dancer, and Prancer, and... he turned down the volume. "We could if you want?"

Sam's brow furrowed as she looked between the coyote and his paw on the radio dial. "Are you, like... worried what I'll think? Fuck, 'yote, I was thinking you were worried about what your family would think, but..."

"No. It's not that."

Perhaps a bit of worry--in any case a realization that he was in his 30s, listening to "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" on the radio of the FJ40 that was supposed to have been a project car he was going to trade in for something more respectable. And that he was seriously considering trying to rekindle fifteen years of nostalgic tradition with his mother.

And that Sam Rigney, who made a regular habit of breaking into abandoned hospitals and dodging rattlesnakes to take pictures of derelict mining equipment in the Utah desert, was not the kind of dog likely to have that sort of inclination on either front.

"Uh huh."

"I just figured..."

"I'm aware you have a soft spot, Carlos. It's not all mischief, coyote or not. You want me to sing along? You don't think I recall the most famous reindeer of all?"

His ears splayed. "You don't have to sing along, trust me."

"You are embarrassed about this! Oh my God. Turn it up, then."

"You do not have to--"

She rolled her eyes and batted his paw away from the dial. "--'And if you ever saw it, you would even say it'--c'mon. C'mon, Carlos! Sing the main bit so I can do the part where I say 'like Pinocchio!'" She put an uncharacteristically girlish lilt on the phrase.

"You're enjoying this."

Sam snickered; shrugged. "I am now. Poor coyote. I see why Danny likes teasing you."

"Danny likes teasing me because he's a..." Carlos shook his head. Burl Ives continued his saga of reindeer redemption in the background. "What did he tell you back there, anyway? When he whispered in your ear."

"Oh, that? He told me I needed to keep you from getting into trouble. Has he actually been your chaperone all along, coyote? You made it sound like he was some kind of sociopath."

"He's... unconventional. I don't know... I get it pretty easy, because I'm on his good side most of the time. His heart is sometimes--but not always--in the right place, if that's what you're trying to ask me."

"Unconventional like 'make this ticket go away'? Yeah, I got that impression. Not like I think you're above that yourself, coyote." She stuck out her tongue, because the mutt knew him problematically well. "You worried he might try something? Or you worried I'd go along with it?"

"No. Nah. Like, you're right. It doesn't worry me, and even if it did worry me, it's not really my place. I knew you and Cody were still dating when we hooked up and it didn't stop me."

"Didn't stop me, either."

"Neither of us are very domesticated."

She let that hang for a bit. "You want to be? We could try. You know I'm not seeing anybody else. We didn't talk about it, not since the last time I was out here, but I'm not."

"We could try. I'd like to see where it goes."

"Then what's the catch? You're worried we won't stay domesticated?"

"I'm not worried, no."

"But?"

It was a jarring conversation to have with the music. Carlos kept his attention focused on US-520 until the song finished, and then paused the iPod altogether. Was he actually bothered by the thought of Sam and Danny Hayes? Probably not, not as such.

Nor was he bothered, exactly, by 'what his family would think'--though that was closer to the truth, and Samantha zeroed in on it. "If you want to swing by your folks' house, I can stay in the car, you know."

"No. You shouldn't have to do that. We'll make it quick. Anyway I wanted to spend the holidays with you, not them." He stole a glance over at her, and the look she was giving him. "I don't think it's a problem. There wouldn't be... trouble trouble, or anything."

"You don't sound convinced. I know you have a weird family, Carlos."

"It's just hard to tell how it'll go. With mom, especially. And especially with relationships. You haven't read anything of hers, right?"

"I don't think so? Why?"

"I tried a couple times, but it's pretty... well, romance. Flowery. Kinda weird. Not written for me, I know. Lots of being swept off your feet by a handsome, wealthy stranger. She liked my older brother's girlfriend. Fuck, though, was she ever pissed when they eloped."

And there was always that hint that maybe, maybe it was a little more than fantasy for his mom. That she expected that sort of narrative from her children, too.

Or, possibly, he was overthinking things, which is what Sam suggested before giving him a careful kiss and turning the radio back on. The rest of the way back, Carlos tried to convince himself that she was right.

Sam had packed up most of her teenage years in a storage unit just outside Stayton proper. She promised to only take a minute; Carlos let the truck idle. Mom might be okay with this. Yeah. She has Emma to play with...

His older brother was the hard-working one. Even if he'd divorced his wife, Tony had a steady, respectable job with the Bureau of Land Management and that kept him in Zoe Ortiz's good graces. Carlos's younger brother, Mat, was the creative one--a photographer for the city of Salem.

Their mom had thrown the full weight of her energy into Mat's recent marriage, and Carlos hoped that she was distracted by the thought that Mat and Emma might presently return the favor by providing grandchildren.

Carlos was supposed to be the smart one: the one most likely to earn a doctorate and make his family proud by attaching the Ortiz name to a Nobel Prize. It was just that coming of age in a downbeat economy clipped those wings, ever so slightly...

Back at Mat's wedding, Tony let slip that their father faulted himself for letting Carlos go astray. If only he'd been more attentive, if only they hadn't moved from New Mexico to Oregon, if only, if only--a lot of hypotheticals that, in honesty, the coyote mostly found insulting.

Much as he liked Christmas, and spending time with his family, he'd resolved to skip returning--a decision complicated because now Tony was planning on flying in. If Sam found what she was looking for, that might--he hoped--at least smooth things out a little bit.

And now the dog was returning, twirling a red-and-white striped object between her fingers. "This candle?"

He nodded. "That one exactly. Haven't seen it in years..."

She brought out her other paw from behind her back, and set the red cap in it on the coyote's head before ruffling the white-furred rim. "This was in there, too. And some cards. And some... pipe cleaners?"

"They used to be a team of reindeer," he explained. "I made it in second grade. Never got around to fixing them."

"Want 'em now? I locked up, but..."

"No big deal. It's gonna be dark soon, anyway."

She got back into the car, and they started towards the highway. "So what do you think? Will your folks have decided they can put up with me by now?"

"I think so. I hope so. I don't really care, but..."

He was whistling past the graveyard, but she didn't call him out on it. "It'll be fine. Put on some music and get back in the mood, coyote."

"Mood?" He laughed, and hit the 'play' button on his iPod without looking. "Which one? This one?"

It was 'Jingle Bell Rock,' and Sam rolled her eyes, her own laughter staying on the affectionate edge of teasing. "God, Carlos. You're hopeless."

"I come by it honestly, at least. You didn't ever come over at Christmas, did you? Mom picks up a new project every couple of years--last time it was cross-stitching an Advent calendar, but she's about due for a new one. Just warning you. It might be bad."

"Worse than this?" She pointed to the truck's radio.

But they were reaching their destination. Sheets of multicolored LEDs picked out the roof of his parents' house. The candles ringing the driveway were unlit, and the motorized deer stayed inert while fading daylight lingered, but the message, generally speaking, was clear: yes, it was worse.

And Sam had obviously gotten it. She blinked at the display which, even darkened, pushed the edges of 'good taste.' "Oh, my God."

"What did I tell you?"

He parked the car, and Sam followed him up the walkway to a doorbell hidden under a wreath. The door opened after a moment. His mother had her hair tied back and the gloves she wore suggested she'd been at work on something.

"Hey, mom."

"Carlos!" Zoe's head tilted as she looked over the pair. "Well, you're a surprise. Hello, Samantha. Sorry I can't hug you--I think there might be paint on my fingers." She turned, calling over her shoulder into the house. "Ben, come here! Your excuse canceled."

"It did?" He heard his father's curious voice, and then the sound of footsteps. "Oh. So it did. Hey, Carlos. Are you two staying for a bit?"

"He is," Zoe declared. "Is he your ride, Sam? Yeah, then you're staying, too. Come in. Not those," she added, pointing at the mutt's boots. "And not you either, son. Though it is good to see you."

Ben was pulling on a jacket; he slid past Zoe to join Carlos on the porch. "One of the lights went out on the tree. So..."

"How can you tell?"

On the walk to the garage the older coyote explained that the lights used older bulbs, and when one had burnt out the entire strand died with it. And that his mother had seen fit to buy new lights to replace them, which Carlos was given to understand followed a few days of Ben's unwillingness to diagnose and fix the problem.

"Getting too old for climbing trees, dad?"

"Too lazy, is more like it," his father answered, laughing. Together they set up the ladder and Carlos unraveled the old Christmas lights from the branches of the tree in the front yard. And then, together, they put up the new ones--Zoe had taken the opportunity to double the number of strands, ensuring that the tree would reflect the season in full Vegas-strip glory.

Ben grinned, and joked that she was worried he wouldn't be able to find the house otherwise. He was three weeks out of surgery for his cataracts. But feeling better, he said; his vision was back to normal and his new glasses prescription was all but perfunctory.

There was no segue before his next question. "So what's the deal with you and Samantha? Friends?"

"A little more than that."

His dad nodded. "She's still at the coffee shop?"

"Yes. But talking about going back to school."

"Some people do that, I hear." Carlos stared his father down from atop the ladder until Ben gave up with a shrug. "What? I do hear that. What would she study?"

"Maybe an MFA. Her portfolio is coming along pretty well, from what I can see. She has something online, a blog she runs--bit of supplemental income. Not a starving artist anymore."

"That's good, though." The lights were up; Ben held the stepladder in place while his son clambered down. "Guess I should plug it in and see if it works, huh?"

It worked, at least on purely electrical grounds. The hapless tree vanished behind a cloak of blinking LEDs, multicolored lights chasing each-other through the branches in erratic patterns.

His father came back, observing the results of their hard work in silence for a spell. "You were right." That, at last, proved to be his judgment. Then he held his paw up, as if highlighting a marquee. "'Girls, girls, girls'--very high-class."

"Very. At least they're more efficient. Helps with the power bill, I imagine?"

"Ever heard of Jevon's paradox? Make something cheaper, and we just consume more of it. I guess we should go let your mother know that we've finished out here." He paused. "You know--between you and I--she'll be fine with you and Samantha. She's still busy with the Mat Project."

"I figured. And happy about Tony coming, too, I'm sure. When does his flight get in?"

"Tomorrow. Do you think you might still be here?"

"I don't know yet."

Despite his father's reassurances, he still felt a slight pang of apprehension, because there was no telling what Sam and his mother had actually gotten up to, and no guarantee that the coyote was not even at that moment interrogating her.

He needn't have worried.

The two were at the kitchen table. Zoe was leaning over a tiny figurine, dabbing it with a fine-tipped paintbrush. Samantha, opposite her, observed with interest. In her paw was a glass of--

"Hot buttered rum," the dog explained, seeing his expression.

"I see."

"You're welcome to some," Zoe said. "Are the lights up?"

"Up and on. But I'm making you call the FAA this time, dear." Mindful of the paintbrush, Ben carefully kissed the bridge of his wife's muzzle. "Two planes already tried to land on the roof. So when you have a minute..."

The figurine, it transpired, was one of many--part of a nativity scene Zoe had sculpted and was now meticulously decorating. It didn't really surprise him; his mother had a hard time staying idle.

With company over, she stopped painting early, tidying away the supplies and refreshing her own drink. "You know I always love seeing you, Carlos. A bit of warning might've been nice--the house is a mess."

The house, from all appearances, was spotless. "We just happened to be in the neighborhood. And I had a question for you: do you still have the yule log Tony made anywhere?"

"In the attic. Why?" Zoe's eyes widened when Carlos pulled the candle free and held it up. "Oh, my God--Really? Where'd you find that?"

"Sam had a box of my stuff. I guess maybe it must've been from around college when I was packing and everything."

"Makes sense. I'll get it down later." She took the candle from him, running her fingers along the beaded wax as a smile spread over her muzzle. "Wow, that takes me back. Did he explain how this works, Samantha?"

"He did."

"We should start doing it again, then. I'm sure Emma would love to see that. What were your plans, exactly, son? She said you were going to go back to the coast."

He nodded. "Probably. Sam has to work tomorrow, but after that we'll head home. I know the house will be busy for you, anyway."

"That's the point, Carlos. Besides," she went on, holding up the candle. "It's your responsibility this year, and we have to get that off on the right foot if we're going to be serious about it. Stick around."

"I never met your sister-in-law," Sam pointed out. "It would be nice. And you can stay at my place. There's no point in driving back if you can get the time off. How's the song go? Baby, it's cold outside?"

"How much rum did she give you?"

"A medicinal quantity," Zoe answered primly. "I didn't know how long you and Ben were going to take."

It was a 'medicinal quantity' sufficient to make the coffee that followed pleasant and untroubled. Sam leaned against the coyote's side while Zoe talked about her latest novel.

And, in turn, when his parents asked about the dog's photography. Carlos kept his surprise muted when his mother said she already followed it online--but he felt Sam's ears lift, and the subtle twitching of her tail as she recounted the effort involved in taking the pictures for her latest collection.

When they got up to leave, Ben suggested they take a look at the other lights up in the neighborhood. Like always, he added. In case you wind up going back to Cannon Shoals after all. You don't want to miss out.

"What did he mean?" Sam asked.

So he decided to teach her, taking the long way back to Rigney's apartment on a detour that showed off the neighborhood to full effect. Not all of the houses were visible from the main roads, but years of making the trip had told the coyote where to go.

"So much work goes into this." It was hard to tell whether the tone in her voice was admiration, disdain, or simple astonishment. "I never really looked before."

"A lot of work, yeah. Even what my parents get up to is..."

Someone had enveloped a pine tree on the corner in strands of clear blue LEDs. Glowing icicles hung from them, pulsing softly; next to the tree was a carved wooden nativity, picked out in dancing light.

"Tame," Carlos finished.

Sam laughed. "You could've fooled me."

"One of the houses... well, tell you what. I won't spoil the surprise. Don't your folks have a tree, though?"

"A tree, yeah. And ever since I went to school, they put up a bunch of green and yellow lights. That's it. We're decent bohemians, coyote. None of this."

"You've been missing out. That's what dad said."

"Have I, though? Really?"

His own parents had shameless aspirations of respectability. Carlos remembered his grandparents only dimly. Ben's dad was career army; after he died his mom stayed in the suburban home they'd clearly been proud of until she'd followed her husband when Carlos was still a teenager.

Zoe's parents worked at a university in North Carolina. Or had--they were retired now. They'd never visited Oregon. But both families had passed on to their children a desire to defy coyote stereotypes.

"And the lights were part of that," he said, finishing the explanation. The lights, and baking cookies for the neighborhood, and organizing Scouting events.

"What's so funny?"

Carlos looked over. "Thinking about stuff we used to do at the church. I'd stopped being a Boy Scout when we met, but man... if Danny knew that, I'd never hear the end of it."

"That's not where the name comes from?"

"Danny doesn't need his names to be quite so meaningful. He'd make fun of me anyway, though." The house he'd been looking for was still there: ablaze with rhythmically flickering lights, and a motorized train that raced in a circle around the yard's trees.

"Holy fuck."

"Huh-uh. Not yet." He shook his head and turned the truck's radio on, hunting for the right station. At last it hit--a jazz ensemble playing a medley of Christmas music.

It took Sam a few seconds to figure out that the lights and the music had been synchronized. "Holy fuck," she repeated. The music came to a halt. So did the train, whose red-suited conductor leaned from the cab to give an awkward, mechanical wave.

Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas from the Millers, the radio boomed. We hope you're enjoying your stopover from the North Pole. Happy holidays, God bless you, and stay in good cheer. The train, and the music, started again.

"It's not even the same song!"

"Nah. They're pretty serious about it."

"Apparently. It's so... ostentatious."

"But pretty? What about from an artistic sense? Worth taking a picture?"

"It's really more gaudy than anything else."

Carlos patted her thigh. "Maybe. I guess I like it because it's just a tradition, you know? Mom stresses out about getting the lights up, and dad grumps a little, but they'd never think about stopping or anything."

"Even though it's stressful."

"Yeah. I imagine making the radio transmitter work is stressful, too." He put the truck back in gear, getting them back on the road. "I used to look at the lights and think about how they made me feel like a kid, all excited for Christmas morning."

"What about now?"

"Now, it's the tradition part. I see them and I think about the traditions these families have. And the ones my family has. And I guess... I mean, you know, the ones I might want to start with someone."

"Domestication?"

"Nah. More about... realizing I'm thinking less about other folks' memories, and more about the memories I'm creating."

Samantha nodded. He'd returned his paw to her leg; now he felt her fingers brushing it. "Not by yourself, huh? 'With someone.'"

"Yeah. What I said earlier? All true. If you want to try to make something of us, I want that, too. I was being... defensive. Still thinking it was high school and mom was going to ask how I was spending my time and cluck her tongue if it was with you."

"Even back then, you did anyway," she said, teasingly.

"Yeah. But it doesn't matter. It's not her business. It's ours."

"Of course, she's not stupid. She sees that, too."

He shrugged, and was grateful they were driving slowly enough that he could squeeze the dog's paw. "It was hard to tell. But anyway... anyway, it doesn't matter. What matters is I'd like to see where this goes. Together."

"So would I."

"I don't need promises or anything. I know it'll be hard if you go back to school. If it's not local, and you want me to move with you... I want to have that conversation."

"Now?"

"Not now. Doesn't have to be now." It was good to have said it, anyway; the lights seemed to be less discordant, less intrusive. The interior of the truck felt warmer. "We don't need to plan out the future right now. But I see you in mine."

"Me, too."

Hell of a Christmas present, he thought; he was not so bold as to say that much aloud. But he did smooth the fur of her fingers, then take her paw back into his. "Happy holidays, Sam."

"I do kinda like the sound of you saying that."

"I like you being here to say it to."

"Stop the car?"

They were approaching another display--somewhat more sedate than the Miller house, but just as colorful. Lights rippled gently along the gutters, and drew a brilliant star on the sloped roof that faced them.

Samantha was not looking at him. She was watching the house intently. "Huh," she finally said, softly. "There is... something to it."

"You want to get your camera out?"

Her fingers threaded through his; she squeezed, and then pulled herself across the seat to kiss him. "I might be done with this, maybe. What would you say to going back to my place?"

"We could do that. I guess it's later than I thought."

"That wasn't exactly my point." She gave him another kiss before settling down. "But yes, it is. You want to stay with me for a few days? Your family would like that. I'd like that."

And he was sure Danny would agree to fill in--as the stoat pointed out, it wasn't like there was much excitement in Cannon Shoals, whose citizens had even managed to get out of the habit of setting the wrong things on fire over the holidays.

It wasn't too late for the drive back to the coast to be dangerous, and he'd left a few things there. So he took the loading-zone spot in front of Sam's apartment, and helped her carry her things inside.

She closed the door behind them. "Thanks for sharing your... traditions... with me."

"Thanks for putting up with them."

"Hey, who said anything about 'putting up with'? I can get into it. Watch me."

"I can't tell if you're being serious."

She nipped his nose. "Of course I am." Then she worked her paws under his coat, slipping her arms around him. "You don't think you taught me the true meaning of Christmas?"

It was getting harder to think about such philosophical matters with Sam's body pressed against him, though, and her breath ruffling his whiskers. His claws dragged down her back until his fingers were on her rump and he could give her the grope she so richly deserved. "Did I?"

Her eyes flickered, drifting shut; her breath deepened to a moan. "Maybe I need another lesson."

A growl drizzled the coyote's laugh before he kissed the mutt deeply--a hinted, sweet taste on her lips as he worked his tongue between them. He ran his fingers over her heavy tail, feeling it twitch and wag. "Maybe you do..."

"Move your car. You're staying here for a bit."

Carlos let himself be shoved away, and ignored the uncomfortable constriction in his pants to make his way back to the truck. In the best-case scenario, his parents were getting along with the mutt. Maybe he could even talk her into more music...

He reparked quickly, in any case, because in the worst-case scenario, an evening spent with the dog was still a hell of a lot more fun than one spent alone. They'd learned that pretty quickly after rekindling their relationship. Still had a hard time keeping their paws off one another. Still couldn't manage to stay clothed for more than a handful of minutes if it wasn't absolutely necessary. Still took every opportunity that presented itself...

Sam was sitting up in bed, her knees drawn up and her paws gripping the edge of the blanket. His red cap was perched between her pricked ears. "Hey, coyote." Her voice was lilting, and her teeth showed in the grin that accompanied the words. "This the right spirit?"

"Could be. Are you wearing anything other than the hat?"

The mutt's eyes danced with the obvious answer, though she wouldn't say it directly. "Why don't you find out?"

The first few seconds of his growl were covered by the sound of the coyote's jacket coming off. As it hit the floor he was already on the bed; a heartbeat later their muzzles met, and locked. Awkwardly, increasingly hurriedly, Carlos got his belt off and kicked the jeans away with it.

Somewhere along the way she'd lost the hat, though in truth Carlos thought she looked better without it anyway. Really, she looked best without anything--just her short-cropped hair, and her brindled mane with the stripes like evening shadows down her sides.

"You want me on all fours?"

It gave the best view of those stripes, and it was where they generally wound up. That would entail disentangling himself from her, though. With Sam's leg hooked around him and the warmth of the blanket keeping winter at bay, he wasn't in the mood for that. "Stay where you are."

"Yeah? This works?"

He shifted until the angle was just about right--a short, firm thrust brought them together, nudging the head of his cock between her lips. Sam gasped at the touch, her claws scoring furrows on his shoulders. His hips swiveled, working his tip against her, keeping the pressure just light enough to tease the mutt. Her paws squeezed him hard.

"Coyote..."

"Sam?"

"Fuckin' take--"

Carlos gave a stronger push; felt him sink that first inch or two into the satin, inviting warmth between her parted legs. Sam's eyes had lost focus; her claws slackened. "What's that, now?"

She nodded dazedly, bucking gently to meet him when he drew back and thrust again. "That's better," the mixed-breed purred, panting as he took her in shallow, slow strokes. "Good coyote."

Matter of perspective. He was still savoring her, enjoying the wet, textured heat slipping along his tip while he let her adjust... get comfortable... feel the canine's length gliding into her, stretching her along its curves. He was not a good enough coyote.

Not yet.

One last time he pulled back gently. Then his hips pumped forward and he pushed in deep--all the way, until he was hilted in the mutt's pussy and her wavering, groaned oath filled the bedroom. He gave her a second, full thrust; a third.

Another groan--fuck, Carlos--and a strong arch to her back that drove them roughly together. Sam's voice was low and strained, husky, those simple two words all but an admission of being not just taken but owned. His answering growl was involuntary.

So was the energy of their heated mating, with the mongrel bitch gasping under him, her raised legs spread for the eager bucks that joined them. Sam clawed at the coyote, tugging him closer while he hammered into her, cock plowing slickly into her folds. And in turn he bit at her ears, filling them with his panted groans.

Each new, heavy thrust rocked the brindle dog back into her mattress, pinned by his clashing, feral tempo. She choked back a howl, stealing a few seconds of distraction by taking handfuls of the coyote's fur. He let out a startled bark at the sharp sensation.

Then there was a deep, vicious snarl and by the time Carlos realized it was his own he was already grabbing for Sam's paws, fixing them in place above her head. "Stop that!" And to drive the point home he rammed his hips home, sinking to the swelling hint of his knot in her. "Be good now. Got it?"

No answer. He bucked hard and heard the clack of her teeth snapping together, and a fresh cry forced between her clenched teeth. "Yes!" And again, the next time he took her. But just in case, he kept her wrists held down when his pace resumed.

Within half a dozen thrusts she was wordless, yelping every time the coyote stuffed her with his cock like it was driving the breath from her. He growled to the mutt, telling her she was a good girl after all--a good bitch--his good bitch--but exertion slurred his words and anyway all that mattered was the possessive tone of it all.

And the way his thrusts traded length for power--shorter, pounding strokes that forced them together, his knot squelching as he worked it into the other dog. Warm, tightening pressure gripped the base of it when he shifted from side to side, tugging his cock against the snug hold of the tie.

Every twitch, every erratic, purposeful hump of his hips brought the end closer. Sam grunted his name hoarsely between gutturally panted oaths, the pitch rising--knowing he was pounding her to his own release--that she was about to be claimed--that the only thing that mattered was breeding her--and urging the inevitable all the same.

Her fingers flexed and quivered, trembling as she squirmed under him... then with no other warning Sam's voice choked off in a howl, and with her pulsing around him Carlos thrust madly over his own edge. His muzzle tucked into her shoulder, biting down to quiet his groan of satisfaction as he finally jerked to a halt and his seed jetted into her.

Mine. It was probably still audible, though anyway it didn't matter: he was undeniably knotted to her, spilling his load into the bitch in one throb after another. She was so snug around him he could feel the heat of his own cum spreading back around his tip from where he was pumping it into the shuddering canine.

"Or you're mine," she mumbled--it was a few seconds later, at least; long enough that the urgency was gone from their movements and he was coherent enough to know that he had said it aloud, and she was responding to him.

Short enough, though, that his panting made it difficult to answer. "Fuck." That was the best he could do. "Both?"

"That works." She worked her paws free--not that he had the strength to offer much resistance--and hugged the coyote tightly. When, finally, she relaxed her grip, the coyote stayed put atop her. "So when they talk about a white Christmas, is--"

"No. It's not that." He twisted his head until he could, with some effort, manage to lick her nose. "I guess it could be?"

"You do want me to enjoy the season more, right?"

"True."

"And I'm still learning, right?"

"I'm here to help."

"Oh, I know." She grinned, her fingers lazily wandering up the coyote's back. "I do have to wonder. What's supposed to happen if I hang some mistletoe?"

"Depends on where you hang it."

"Figured you might say that." Her claws dug in, and he felt her teeth brush his ear. "Happy holidays, Carlos. I think you were right."

"Hm?"

"I have been missing out."