Chapter 41
Chapter Forty-One
Finn
Copper Ridge crests into view as I drive up over the rolling hill near my childhood home.
As I pull up I see several pickup trucks and SUVs parked outside. I don’t have to walk inside to know that most of my family is in that house. After all, it is Christmas Eve.
I stare at the cars, parked this way and that, and I think it’s foreshadowing of the craziness that awaits me inside that house. Come as you are, leave your stuff outside, and welcome to the family—thank you very much.
It’s a nice thought after the ones I’ve been fighting with for the past hour.
I get out of the car and walk toward the house, struck by the smell of cinnamon the second I open the door.
It’s late morning, almost lunchtime, but the overcast skies make the house glow with light from the fireplace, mingling with the white lights of the Christmas tree in the living room.
Pop and my brothers, Quent and Boone, are sitting in the leather armchairs, drinking coffee and most likely talking ranch business, but when they see me, they all stop.
It’s the first time I’ve seen my brothers since I’ve been home.
Immediately, we’re all kids again.
They jump up, hollering my welcome. Quent rears his hand back to clap mine, which I do, making that satisfying pop, and Boone wraps his arms around my midsection and tries to lift me off the floor.
Unfortunately for him, I’ve got two inches and twenty pounds on him now, and I sit on him.
“Might want to rethink your tactics, little guy.” I feel him squirm beneath me.
“Get off me, you tub a’ lard!” He tries pushing me, but I don’t budge. He jabs me in my side, and I finally release my grip on him.
Quent shakes his head and sits back down.
“Where’s everyone else?” I ask, pushing Boone over one last time.
“West is out back,” Pop says. “Hudson and Hattie aren’t here yet.”
“The girls are here,” Quent says. “And they expect piggyback rides and lots of presents from their rich uncle.”
I laugh. “Guess I need to go shopping.”
“Christmas is tomorrow, dude.” Quent shakes his head like the disapproving older brother he is, but I ignore him and walk into the kitchen where Momma is kneading dough.
She looks up at me, caution in her eyes, but I smile and nod at her.
“Buttons and bows?” I ask when I spot the ingredients on the counter.
“Your favorite,” she says. Then quietly adds, “The way to your heart was always through your stomach.”
I lean against the counter. “You’re not wrong there, Momma.”
She stops. “I should’ve told you.”
“Yeah. You should’ve told me,” I say.
She nods, going back to the dough. “I was afraid you wouldn’t understand.”
“I don’t.” I pour myself a cup of coffee, something I never drink this late in the morning unless I’m home, where there’s always a fresh pot on the counter. “That woman—”
She turns and faces me. “Has done her time.”
I scoff and look away, thinking the rest of her life wouldn’t be enough time. I have to remind myself, again, to forgive. I’m bad at this. I look at my mom. “Did she send you a letter too?”
“She sent us all letters, Skip,” Momma says. “Every single person in the family. You think you were the only one she had to apologize to?”
That actually never occurred to me.
“And how each of you kids—and your father and I—responded to her was everyone’s own personal decision.” She looks at me. “I don’t want to live my life angry and bitter. Do you?”
I close my eyes and force air into my lungs, her comment reinforcing my lakeside decision. “No. I don’t.”
She takes a towel in her hands, cleans them off, and then reaches up and pats my cheek. “I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you about it first. I always planned to—” She looks away, puts her hands back on the towel, squeezing and wringing it. “I didn’t know how to bring it up, but I should’ve found a way.”
“You’re right,” I say. “You should’ve.”
Her face changes. “Is this the way it’s gonna be? You gonna be mad at me now too?” Her tone has that Momma-didn’t-raise-a-fool sound to it.
I immediately straighten up. “No, ma’am.” Then, after a pause, I add, “I just—”
I shake my head, not knowing how to finish.
She takes my hand and pulls me into a tight hug. “I know, Skip. I know. It’s hard . . . but I got you.”
I hesitate a long moment, then hug her back.
She holds me the way only she can, and when I exhale, some of today’s anger dissipates, if only a bit.
“Uncle Finn!” Quent’s oldest, Libby, rushes into the room and attaches herself to my right leg, while her sister Jordy grabs my left. It’s a game we play every time I see them, one they never seem to tire of.
I walk around the house like Frankenstein, dragging them behind me until my quads burn or until Momma calls them in for a meal, whichever comes first. On my way through the kitchen, I tousle my little sister’s hair.
“Rowena,” I say. “Cinnamon rolls were good, for once.”
She smacks my hand away. “You been out to the stables yet, lazy?”
“Uncle Finn! Don’t stop!” The girls both giggle, and Jordy calls out, “Giddy-up!”
“Not yet,” I say to Rowe. “Show me the new mare after lunch?”
She sticks out her chin at me and nods.
The side door opens and West, walks in. “Anyone know whose car that is?”
“Boots off,” Momma points at him without looking up.
“Ma’am,” West calls out, like a sous-chef acknowledging he heard the direction from his boss. He kicks one of his shoes off, and it hits the wall.
“Weston Thomas!”
“Sorry, ma’am!” He’s mid-kick with the other one and it flings down the hall.
Boone winces and nudges the boot toward the boot mat. He walks over to the front window. “Who do we know with a—” he squints. “What is that? A Taurus? Camry?”
My mom frowns. “Nobody.”
“Everyone we know drives a truck or an SUV,” Rowe says.
West sees me for the first time and pulls me into a bear hug. He can lift me off the ground—and he does. Easily.
“Little bro. Welcome home. Looking a little slow out on the ice last week.”
“It’s the Chicago pizza, chubs.” Boone calls, still staring out the window.
“Let’s see you keep up, old man.” I pull out of West’s grasp and pinch his belly.
He wriggles back and gives me a shove—something that would normally escalate but doesn’t, only because West is still trying to figure out why there’s a sedan parked outside.
“There’s someone in the car,” Boone says, peeking out the window. “A woman?” He tips his head toward the front room. “Any one of you knuckleheads ask for a woman for Christmas?”
A throw pillow comes flying into the kitchen, and Boone ducks.
Momma’s eyes dart to mine, and I know what she’s thinking.
Eileen.
Is she crazy enough to come to our house? On Christmas Eve? I thought I made myself clear.
“I’ll take care of it.” Momma unties her apron, wipes her hands on a towel, then tosses it aside and pulls on her rubber boots. She grabs a jacket and walks out the back door, probably trudging through the yard like an angry neighbor sick of people tearing up her lawn.
I’m the only one not at the window now, because if it is Eileen, I don’t want to risk going back on my decision to forgive her—and if I have to see her right now, I might.
Forgiveness isn’t a one-and-done thing, I guess.
“Who the heck is that?” Boone asks.
“She’s pretty,” Libby says dreamily.
“Ooh, she is pretty,” Rowe says. “Means she’s not here for any of you,” she cracks. “Probably needs directions.”
I frown. Eileen is in her late fifties with wiry blond hair and frumpy clothes. I can’t imagine my niece and sister would describe her as “pretty.”
“Probably Boone’s fault.” Quent walks away from the window and refills his coffee. “He’s left a whole string of broken hearts in this town.”
“I can’t help it if I’m irresistible,” Boone says, wagging his eyebrows.
“You can help being a total tool, though,” Rowe cracks.
I glance at Pop, who chuckles to himself but doesn’t look up from the newspaper.
“But I can safely—and sadly—say I’ve never met that woman in my life,” Boone says. “I could go now—” He tugs his pants up like he’s about to make an entrance, but it’s all bravado that quickly fades.
“The license plate says—” West squints out the window—“Pennsylvania. Is that a rental car?”
“Maybe you should just wait for Momma to come back in and tell you who it is,” I say, trying to figure out if I have time to go Christmas shopping before we head over to the community center for the party.
“Momma doesn’t look mad anymore, so I guess that’s something,” Boone says.
Quent walks back into the living room and sits down on the couch.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and see I’ve missed two calls and a text from Raya.
Raya
Hey, not to seem like a crazy stalker but . . . is this your house?
I check the timestamp and see that this text was sent fifteen minutes ago, right after I got home.
I jump up and look out the window. “Holy heck!” I rush over to the front closet, grab one of my dad’s old work coats, pull on a pair of boots that are at least one size too big and ignore all the questions being hurled my way.
Raya is here. In Montana. At the ranch.
And she’s talking to my mother.
Raya
“I’m so sorry to intrude, Mrs. Holbrook,” I say, my third apology since Finn’s mom walked out of the sprawling house at the end of the long driveway.
When Finn said he lived on a ranch, he failed to explain what that meant.
This isn’t just a farm with a bunch of cattle.
This is a whole operation. Acres and acres of open land, rolling plains against the most stunning backdrop I’ve ever seen.
Now I understand why he doesn't like living in the city.
God vacations here. If I’d grown up on this ranch, I don’t think I ever would’ve left.
“Don’t be silly,” his mom says. “And call me Melinda. It’s nice to see you off the screen.” She smiles.
“It’s so nice to meet you in person.” I smile, awkwardly, because what am I doing here?