4. Dallas #2
“Of course he did,” Mom says. “My girl bakes good cookies.”
A knock sounds at the back door, followed by it swinging open without waiting for an answer, which is Boone’s specialty.
He steps in, a puff of cold air and snow with him, Ellie wrapped around his leg tight as a koala.
Rose follows, cradling Wyatt against her chest inside her coat, his little knit hat barely visible.
“Merry Christmas!” Ellie crows, letting go of Boone to launch herself at the tree. “Daddy, look! Santa put more presents!”
“Merry Christmas,” I say, stepping forward to help Rose with her coat. “You all make it ten steps without anyone falling on the ice?”
“Only because your brother insisted on salting the path at six a.m.,” Rose says, kissing my cheek. “Merry Christmas, Dallas.”
Boone claps a big hand on my shoulder. “Merry Christmas.”
He gives me a look that says, We’ll talk. He must see the tiredness around my eyes. Or maybe I just have the look of someone who spends the night wrestling ghosts.
“Coffee?” I offer.
“Yes,” Rose and Boone say in unison, then laugh.
The house fills up fast. Ellie and Lila circle the tree, whispering to each other about which present might be whose. Rusty wedges himself between them, tail sweeping ornaments off the lower branches until Mom shoos him back.
Nash stumbles in next, hair sticking up in five directions, T-shirt half tucked into his flannel pajama pants.
“Is it legal to be awake before six on Christmas?” he grumbles.
“Legal? Yes,” Mom says. “Mandatory when you have children? Also yes.”
He sniffs the air. “Is that cinnamon rolls? I knew I lived here for a reason.”
Clay is last, as usual. He wanders in about fifteen minutes later, jeans on but T-shirt wrinkled, eyes still at half mast. “Thought we agreed we’re all adults now and presents are a post-eight a.m. activity,” he says, but there’s less bite than usual in it.
He bends down so Ellie can shriek “Merry Christmas, Uncle Clay!” in his face without having to jump.
Once everyone has coffee or cocoa in hand and Mom declares herself ready, the paper carnage begins.
“Stockings first,” she announces. “Oldest to youngest.”
“You just made that rule up,” Nash says.
“I did,” she agrees. “And as the person who filled all those stockings, I get to make up all the rules.”
Boone goes first, then me, then Nash, then Clay. We take turns pulling out the usual suspects: socks, beef jerky, new work gloves, little bottles of fancy hot sauce Mom pretends are “fun” instead of “I want you to stop eating bland food.”
Then it’s Rose’s turn, then Ellie and Lila, who practically vibrate out of their skin waiting.
Ellie squeals over a set of watercolor paints. Lila cradles a hardcover book about horses.
“For me?” she whispers.
“For you,” I say, watching her face. “Thought you might want to read about something other than princesses.”
She gives me a look that’s way too knowing for five.
“Princesses can ride horses,” she says.
“Fair point.”
She hugs the book to her chest and beams, and the tiredness behind my eyes eases.
Between stocking rounds, I catch Boone’s eye over the top of Wyatt’s fuzzy hat and jerk my head toward the kitchen. He nods, passes the baby to Rose, and follows me.
We lean against opposite counters, listening to the girls shriek over some glittery thing in the next room.
“What’s up?” he asks quietly.
“Had a late-night visitor,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Faith,” I say.
Boone chokes on his coffee. Actually chokes. He has to turn and cough into his elbow.
“I’m sorry,” he wheezes when he can breathe. “Did you say Faith, as in Ross?”
“Yeah,” I say. “She hit the ditch at the bend last night. I pulled her out, brought her in.”
He stares at me, then scrubs a hand over his face. “Well, shit.”
“Yeah,” I say again.
“Is she okay?”
“Physically, yeah,” I say. “Shaken to hell, car’s a mess, but she’ll be fine.”
He narrows his eyes. “And you?”
I shrug, staring into my mug. “Work in progress.”
He is quiet for a long beat. “You mad at her?”
I think about the moment those headlights crest the hill. The way my gut dropped when I saw that navy pickup in the ditch. The wild, choking relief when she looked up and said my name.
“I was,” I say. “For a long time.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know.” I let out a breath. “Mostly I’m just… surprised. Tired. She ran out on her wedding, Boone. Of all places, she drove here.”
“You always were her safe place,” he says. “Even when you didn’t know it.”
“Yeah, well,” I mutter. “Safe places have kids and responsibilities now.”
He tips his head toward the living room. “You’re gonna tell the others?”
“Bit by bit,” I say. “No sense dropping that bomb right in the middle of Santa’s big moment.”
He nods. “You need anything, you holler.”
I clap him on the shoulder. “I know.”
I catch Nash while he’s trying to sneak an extra cinnamon roll.
“You know Mom can see you from literally every angle of this kitchen, right?” I say.
He freezes, hand halfway to the tray.
“I’m testing to make sure they’re edible,” he says. “Very noble of me, actually.”
“Faith’s here,” I say, because going in gentle with Nash is pointless.
He blinks. “As in—”
“Yeah.”
A grin splits his face, fast and bright. “No shit.”
“Language,” Mom calls.
“Sorry,” he calls back, then turns to me, lowering his voice. “Are we talking ‘stopping by for coffee’ here, or ‘full dramatic entrance with fireworks?’”
“Ran away from her wedding,” I say. “Hit the ditch. She’s sleeping in the back room.”
He whoops so loud, Rusty barks. “You’re kidding.”
I glare. “Keep your voice down.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he says, still grinning. “Man, if fourteen-year-old you could see this… runaway bride literally falling into your lap—”