2. Dallas
CHAPTER TWO
Dallas
Christmas Eve dinners used to feel louder.
Must’ve been because Dad was still alive back then, or because we were younger and stupider and didn’t know yet how fast things can crack clean in two.
Now, the noise in Mom’s kitchen is softer around the edges. Warmer, sure. Fuller, even. But there’s something different in it, as if somebody turned the volume knob down just enough to see if you’re paying attention.
Lila is curled up beside me in the corner seat, her skinny legs tucked under her, dark hair falling over her cheek as she pokes at her mashed potatoes.
Ellie sits opposite her, feet swinging, eyes bright, talking with her hands so much she nearly knocks over her milk twice.
Rusty lies under the table, head on his paws, pretending to be asleep while he slowly inches toward the dropped dinner roll I know he’s been tracking for the last five minutes.
Maggie McCoy’s kitchen, the heart of Buckhorn’s favorite ranch, is doing what it’s always done best: stretching food to feed too many mouths and making space for whoever needs a chair.
The long, scarred oak table is crammed full tonight. Boone at one end, Rose at his side with baby Wyatt propped in the crook of her arm. Nash sprawled beside me, Clay opposite him, Mom at the head with her Christmas apron still on.
The counters are packed with bowls and platters. Ham, cornbread stuffing, green beans cooked with bacon, mashed potatoes glistening with butter, rolls that Ellie helped shape into whatever she swears are Christmas trees.
I take another bite of ham, listening more than talking. It’s easier that way. Always has been.
“So then Mama told them she isn’t going anywhere,” Rose is saying, eyes shining as she looks at Boone. “She told Dr. Patel she’s feeling better than she has in years, and if he wants proof, he can come out and see her garden come spring.”
“That sounds like her,” Boone rumbles, smiling into his sweet tea. “Stubborn woman.”
“Wonder where you get it,” Nash mutters, smirking into his own plate.
Rose bumps his shoulder with her free hand. “You want more green beans or not, cowboy?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says quickly. “Love your mama, love her green beans. That’s the rule.”
Everyone laughs. Even Clay, who’s been picking at his food with a distracted air, cracks a reluctant grin.
I watch Ellie as Rose talks, the way the kid’s whole face lights up hearing about her grandma doing better. She’s leaning between her parents, brown hair falling into her plate until Boone absentmindedly sweeps it back with one big hand.
Rose breaks a roll and hands her the softer inside piece without even looking, all muscle memory, kissing the top of her head in passing.
Ellie beams. For her, this right here, rolls and stories and her parents bracketing her, is the safest place on earth.
My chest tightens. I glance down at Lila.
She’s listening too, quiet as always, eyes big and dark.
At five, she already has that watchful McCoy gaze, cataloging every detail so she won’t be surprised later.
When Rose says, “Mom asked what Ellie wants Santa to bring this year,” Lila’s mouth pulls to one side.
Not a frown, not exactly. Just that expression she wears when she’s trying not to care about something.
I know it too well. I see it every morning when she asks, so casually it hurts, if Nana’s making breakfast again today.
Of course Nana is. Nana’s always making breakfast. Nana’s always there.
Because Lila’s mom isn’t.
The thought lands heavy, as it always does. I swallow it down with a sip of coffee gone lukewarm, the ceramic mug warming my fingers anyway.
“…and she’s not needing support as much now,” Rose continues. “Says she’s sleeping through most nights instead of waking up coughing. Dr. Patel seemed really optimistic.”
Mom’s face softens. “That’s wonderful to hear, honey. She can spend more time here once she’s properly back on her feet.”
“She will,” Rose says, smiling. “She wants to come for the Spring Branding BBQ. Says she’s not missing one more year of watching all you McCoy boys run around like chickens with your heads cut off.”
Nash raises his glass. “Now that’s a woman with priorities.”
“Language,” Mom snaps on reflex.
Nash blinks. “What? Chickens?”
Clay snorts. “You almost said something else.”
“That’s slander,” Nash says mildly.
Lila leans closer to me, whispering, “What’s slander?”
“Something your Uncle Nash does a lot of,” I murmur back, and she hides a small smile behind her fork.
At that moment, Rusty decides subtlety is overrated and makes his move on the fallen roll. His gray muzzled snout sneaks forward, tongue snaking out.
“Don’t even think about it,” Mom says without looking, reaching down to nudge him with her foot.
Rusty flops back on his side with an exaggerated groan that makes Ellie giggle. A moment later, she breaks off a bit of her own roll and drops it “accidentally” under the table.
“Oops,” she says, not fooling anyone.
Rusty’s head pops back up. The roll disappears in a single gulp.
“Ellie,” Rose warns, trying and failing to hide the amusement in her voice.
“He was hungry,” Ellie protests. “His eyes said so.”
“His eyes always say so,” I point out.
“Don’t body shame the dog, Dallas,” Nash says solemnly. “It’s Christmas.”
Rusty burps. Loudly.
Clay chokes on his water. “Oh my—”
“Language,” Mom says again.
Clay lifts both hands in surrender, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
Wyatt chooses that moment to let out a squawk, face scrunching.
Rose instinctively starts to bounce him, crooning under her breath.
Boone reaches over, steadying her elbow and kissing her temple.
They fit together so easily now, it still catches me off guard sometimes, remembering how damn complicated things used to be between them.
It’s a good thing, I tell myself. A miracle, really, seeing my oldest brother settled and happy, seeing Rose here, where she was always meant to be. Watching him help Ellie with her art projects. Watching him hold Wyatt as the most fragile and valuable thing on this ranch.
Family sticking.
Family staying.
I force my gaze back to my plate, rearranging my remaining ham and green beans.
“Daddy?” Lila whispers.
I look down. Her eyes flick from my face to Rose. “Can we see Miss Rose’s mama soon?”
I swallow around the lump in my throat.
“Maybe,” I say, careful. “We’ll see how she’s feeling, baby.”
“Okay.” Lila nods, accepting that.
She doesn’t ask the other question, the one that sits unsaid between us most days.
When’s my mom coming?
She’s stopped asking it out loud. That doesn’t mean she’s stopped thinking it.
I angle my body so I can really look at her.
She’s wearing the red Christmas sweater Mom knitted for her, the one with the slightly crooked snowman.
Mom made matching ones for Ellie and Wyatt, but Lila’s is the one she fussed over the most. The one she measured twice, three times, muttering to herself about sleeve length and shoulder width.
If she could just get this right, she could fill the other empty spaces, too.
“You doing okay, Beanpole?” I ask quietly.
Lila shrugs one shoulder, poking the snowman’s carrot nose with one finger. “Can we have cocoa after dinner?”
“Yeah,” I say. “We can do that.”
She nods, content with that much. Her side presses against mine, solid and warm.
I breathe her in. Shampoo that smells of strawberries and the faintest hint of crayons.
Everything that’s good in my life right now is sitting beside me, attention snagged on the way Nash is trying to balance a spoon on his nose and failing spectacularly.
“She gets more like you every day,” Mom says later, when dinner plates have been cleared, and the girls are showing Clay their paper snowflakes in the living room. Her voice is quiet, almost lost under the murmured TV specials and the pop of the fire.
I’m stacking dishes by the sink while Rose runs water and Boone dries. The windows over the counter are fogged from the heat of the kitchen, but I can see the faint white glow of snow in the yard beyond.
“How’s that?” I ask.
Mom passes me a serving bowl, her hands reddened from hot water.
“She watches,” she says simply. “Like you did. Eyes always moving. Taking everything in before she decides what she thinks.”
Boone huffs a faint laugh. “That’s one word for it.”
Rose bumps his hip with hers. “I like it. Someone’s gotta balance out all the impulsive cowboy energy in this family.”
“Hey,” Nash protests from the couch. “I will have you know my impulses are highly refined.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Clay says.
“It sounded important, though,” Nash replies.
Ellie dissolves into giggles, nearly dropping her snowflake. Lila catches it for her, holding it carefully while her cousin recomposes herself. Rusty takes that moment to sneak closer to the table, his nose hovering near the leftover ham on the counter.
“Rusty,” I warn.
He freezes. Slowly, his eyes cut toward me, full of innocence and betrayal.
“Don’t give me that look,” I say. “You already conned Ellie out of half her roll.”
Mom sighs. “Just give him a piece, Dallas. It’s Christmas.”
“Thought we weren’t body shaming the dog,” Nash calls.
I cut Rusty a small piece anyway. He gulps it down, tail thumping against the cabinet. If he could talk, he’d probably call this a win for diplomacy.
After the dishes are done and the girls have had their cocoa and Mom has told them the traditional story about how Santa almost skipped Buckhorn in the winter of ’89 because of a blizzard, complete with dramatic pauses and hand gestures, the night starts to wind down.
“Come on, kiddo,” Boone says, stretching to his full height and scooping a yawning Ellie into his arms. “Time to get you to bed so Santa doesn’t pass us by. He’s on a schedule, you know.”
“Does Santa have a Google calendar?” Nash asks solemnly, zipping Wyatt into a fuzzy sleeper while Rose gathers up gifts to take over to the guest house.
“What’s a Google calendar?” Ellie mumbles into Boone’s shoulder.