2. Dallas #2
“Something your Uncle Nash doesn’t know how to use,” Clay says.
Nash presses a hand to his chest. “I am deeply wounded by this attack on my organizational skills.”
“You don’t have organizational skills,” I say.
He points two fingers at me. “Exactly. Can’t attack what doesn’t exist.”
“Boys,” Mom cuts in warningly, but there’s a smile tugging at her mouth.
Boone helps Rose into her coat, taking the diaper bag off her shoulder and slinging it over his own. He moves differently these days. Same big stride, same quiet presence, but there’s a lightness in his eyes that wasn’t there for a long time.
Watching him now, I feel my chest ease and pinch at the same time.
They’re happy. They fought for it and found their way. I’m not sure if that makes me more hopeful or more aware of the fact that I’m not there. Not anywhere close.
“Y’all go slow,” I say as Boone opens the back door.
He snorts. “It’s about twenty steps to the guest house, Dallas.”
“Yeah, well, ice is ice.”
Rose smiles at me over Wyatt’s hat-covered head. “Merry Christmas, Dallas.”
“Merry Christmas,” I say, meaning it. “Text if you need anything.”
She lifts her phone. “Always do.”
They disappear into the cold, boots crunching on the porch. The door closes behind them with a soft thud that leaves the house feeling just a little quieter.
Clay disappears down the hallway a minute later, muttering about packing for an early run into town tomorrow. Nash stretches out on the rug in front of the fire, hands folded behind his head.
“You’re not sleeping there,” Mom tells him, standing and wiping her hands on her apron. “You’ve got a perfectly good bed in your room.”
“This is your couch,” he says. “It’s like, a sacred holiday nap space.”
“Do I need to get the spray bottle?” she asks.
He sighs dramatically and hauls himself up. “Fine. But only because it’s Christmas and I respect tradition.”
“Mm hmm.” She leans over to kiss his forehead as he passes. “Goodnight, baby.”
“You can’t keep calling me that,” he protests halfheartedly. “I’m twenty-two.”
“You’ll be my baby when you’re eighty-two,” she replies.
He grins and shuffles down the hall, shoulders loose.
Mom turns to Lila, who’s slumped against my side, eyes half closed. “Time to get this one tucked in.”
Lila makes a soft noise of protest. “Not tired.”
“Lila baby, your eyes say different,” Mom says gently. “Come on, honey. We’ll read one story.”
“Two,” Lila mumbles.
“One,” Mom counters, but she’s already reaching for her hand.
Lila looks up at me. “Daddy?”
“I’ll be up in a bit,” I say, smoothing her hair back. “Nana’s gonna tuck you in. I gotta finish a couple things, okay?”
She nods, lower lip sticking out just enough to show she’d rather have me there, but not enough to push it. She’s always been careful that way. Careful not to be too much. It kills me.
I press a kiss to her forehead. “Love you, Lila.”
“Love you too,” she whispers, and lets Mom lead her down the hall.
The house settles into quiet as doors click shut one by one. The clock over the stove ticks softly, calm as a heartbeat. The fire pops. Rusty sighs and rearranges himself, old joints cracking.
I stand there for a minute, feeling the edges of the day finally catch up with me.
Everything’s done that can be done. Stock’s all fed and watered. Pipes are wrapped. Trucks are parked under cover. The forecast called for more snow overnight, but we’ve ridden out worse. The to-do list is as short as it ever gets.
I should go to bed. Be rested in case the cold snaps harder than they think, in case I break, in case tomorrow brings more than the usual Christmas chaos.
Instead, I find myself reaching for the coffee pot.
It’s probably a mistake to pour another mug this late. I do it anyway. The familiar motions, filter, scoop, pour, soothe me. Mom left the pot on warm, which means the coffee’s been sitting for a while. It’s strong and bitter, but I prefer it that way.
I grab my coat off the hook, shrug into it one-armed while balancing the mug in my other hand, and head for the front door.
Cold hits me as soon as I step onto the porch, the kind that stings your nose hairs and makes your breath show up in front of your face. Snow blankets the yard in clean, unbroken lines, except for the little paw prints Rusty left earlier and the faint ruts from the trucks.
Out beyond the yard, the highway that runs past the ranch cuts a dark line through the white, headlights from the occasional passing car sweeping by.
The McCoy place sits right off the main road into town, our long gravel driveway stretching from the highway up to the house as an invitation… or a warning, depending on who you ask.
I lower myself onto the top step, wood cold even through my jeans, and set the mug down beside me.
The quiet out here is different than inside.
Inside, it’s made of people resting, of a house that’s still breathing.
Out here, it’s big and open and humming underneath, the way winter fields always are. Silent but not empty.
I wrap both hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into my fingers, and take a careful sip. Yep. Burnt and perfect.
The porch light hums above my head, casting a soft golden circle around the steps. The snow just beyond it shines faintly blue in the moonlight. It’s still coming down, thin flakes drifting sideways in the slight breeze.
I take another sip of coffee and let my mind wander like it does when I’m alone.
It lands on Lila. It always does.
I picture her in the small bedroom at the end of the hallway, wrapped up in the pink quilt Mom sewed for her the first Christmas after… everything. Her little body curled around her stuffed horse, the one she named Star when she was three and the world still held room for wishes.
Mom will be reading something, probably that same worn-out book about a kitten at Christmas. Lila will interrupt to ask questions about the pictures, clever eyes tracking every detail.
She has so much love around her. Mom. Her uncles. Rose. Ellie. Even Rusty, who’ll sneak onto the end of her bed if he thinks no one’s watching.
It’s not the same as having a mother.
I know that. I feel it every time I watch Ellie look at Rose as if she hung the moon. Every time I catch Lila watching them with that expression that’s not quite envy and not quite curiosity, but something in between.
My jaw tightens. I take another drink of coffee, swallowing hard.
“You’re doing the best you can,” people tell me. “You’re a good dad.”
Most days, I believe them, at least for a few minutes at a time. I work. I show up. I tuck my kid in at night and make sure she never has to question whether I’m staying. But there are holes I can’t patch just by being steady.
I scrub my free hand over my face, breath fogging the air.
“Knock it off,” I mutter to myself. “It’s Christmas. Be grateful.”