Chapter 26 #2
Linc handed me a plate. “Eat,” he said again.
“You’re always so convinced I’m starving.”
“You usually are,” he replied, and I really smiled for the first time in longer than I wanted to admit.
When everyone had food, Kipp raised his glass from where he stood near the table. He didn’t clear his throat or get dramatic. He just lifted his cup so that the room, which was already mostly listening anyway, went the slightest bit quieter.
“To another year on the Diamond,” he said. “To good horses, bad jokes, and the family that makes this outfit worth running.” The room answered with laughter and clinking mugs.
I caught Linc watching me again. This time I didn’t look away.
I let him see me steady, I let him see that I was still standing here in this kitchen surrounded by people who would ride through fire for us if we asked.
His hand found mine under the table, and his thumb brushed across my knuckles once, slow.
He gave the slightest nod, almost nothing.
The noise around us faded for a second, and in that second, I could only hear the clatter of plates and the low hum of conversation and his breathing beside mine.
It was the first moment in three years that I felt steady, grounded in the place I knew I belonged.
After the toast, everyone started talking at once again.
The volume went right back up. The room filled with laughter and the scrape of chairs and the clink of serving spoons against casserole dishes.
I found myself wedged between Nash and Ryder at the long counter where Nora had laid out enough desert to feed three towns.
Ryder handed me a slice of pecan pie. “Eat up, Kris. You’re skin and bones.”
“I’m fine,” I laughed, trying to push the plate away.
“You will be after this meal,” he said.
Nash bumped Ryder’s shoulder with his own. “Ignore him. He’s already on his third helping.”
“Fourth,” Ryder said without shame, his mouth full of the delicious-looking pie.
Kipp moved through the crowd, refilling mugs and telling stories about the early days of the ranch.
He had a way of talking that made everyone lean closer.
It wasn’t loud, or flashy. It was steady, sure, and lived-in.
Every time he spoke, the room shifted toward him just a little, like a herd turning toward the rider they trusted most.
When the food was gone and plates were scattered across every flat surface, someone started handing out the wrapped gifts. No fancy ribbons. Just brown paper and twine and Linc’s handwriting in black marker across the top of each one. The care sat right on the surface of the room.
Griffin unwrapped a set of new reins and lifted them with a grin that pulled all the way across his face. “You remembered,” he said.
“You complained about the old ones every day for a month,” Linc said.
“I was making conversation,” Griff said.
“Loudly,” Linc said.
The room broke into laughter.
Nash opened a box and found a heavy belt buckle inside, the kind with clean lines and weight to it. He ran his thumb over the engraving, as if he were unsure if he was allowed to touch it.
“You didn’t have to go this far,” he said quietly.
“You earned it,” Kipp answered. That was all. He didn’t turn it into a speech, or let it get overly sentimental, he just said the truth and left it at that.
Ryder pulled a new horse blanket from his package and held it up to the light. “My mare’s going to look sharp in this.”
“You better not get mud on it,” Griffin said.
“That’s what blankets are for,” Ryder shot back.
The laughter rolled again, but softer this time. Warm.
The afternoon light shifted across the room, settling honey colored along the floorboards and catching on the side of the tree.
Everything glowed. It had that slow, full feeling of a ranch house in winter when work paused just long enough for people to breathe and tell stories about the work instead of doing it.
When it was Kipp’s turn, someone handed him a flat, careful bundle wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. He didn’t tear into it. He undid the twine slowly and smoothed the paper as he pulled it back. Inside was a framed photograph.
I knew the photo. We all did. It was from branding five years ago, before the ranch grew with wives and kids.
Back when it was just the five, living in this big house together, working from sunup to sundown to create the life they all had now.
The five of them leaning against the old cattle gate with the mountains behind them and the sun low and gold and the whole world looking like it belonged to them, standing shoulder to shoulder like nobody could ever lay a hand on this place without going through them first.
Kipp stared at it for a long time. No one spoke. For a few seconds, the house was quiet in a way that felt reverent. He stood and moved across the large room, setting the frame on the mantle with a sure hand, right in the center where everyone could see.
“That was a good day,” he said quietly. “It’s going right here where I can see it.”
“It looks great,” Linc said.
Kipp nodded once. His jaw worked like he had more he wanted to say, and decided not to. He turned back to the room and clapped his hands once. “All right, enough of that. Somebody start the music before we all get sentimental.”
Griff grabbed the old guitar from the corner and started strumming a few familiar chords.
He was quickly joined by Ryder, who’d found his guitar in the mess of paper and string.
Kipp sat down at the large piano and plunked away with the others.
The sound loosened whatever tension was left in the room.
Kids spun in uneven circles. One of the dogs barked along, half in excitement, half in protest.
I leaned against the doorframe, watching it all.
The heat from the stove and the weight of those voices settled low and warm in my ribs.
I could feel something inside me unknotting that I hadn’t even known was that tight.
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like the Little Match Girl peering through windows, longing to be let in; I was fully part of this place now.
Linc found me there, and he handed me a mug of cider that was still steaming. The cup warmed my fingers. He studied my face the way he always did when he was trying to measure what I was not saying. “How are you holding up?” he asked.
“Better than I expected.” I tugged at the sleeve of my sweater, hoping the bruises on my arms didn’t show. Nobody really needed a reminder of last night.
“You’ve done good today.”
“I haven’t done anything other than just show up.”
“That’s enough.”
He looked toward the others, toward Kipp and Nash frowning over wrong notes, and Ryder pretending he knew all the lyrics, and Fallon laughing so hard she had to grab the counter to keep from slipping. Then he looked back at me.
Stories turned into jokes and jokes turned into more stories until everyone was laughing too hard to remember who had started what argument or who the punchline technically belonged to. It didn’t matter. Laughter bounced off the cabinets and windows, coming back twice as loud.
At one point, I caught Kipp at the head of the table, sitting back with both hands wrapped around his coffee cup, just looking at everyone. Not talking. Just taking it in. The lines in his face had softened. Pride sat there. Relief too.
“Another good Christmas,” he said.
“Best one yet,” Nash answered automatically.
“Because we’re all standing here with the ones that make us whole,” Kipp said. “That’s all that matters.”
The words hung in the air longer than the laughter that followed. I carried them like a weight and like a promise both.
Later, when the house started to settle and the noise dropped into a low, comfortable hum, Linc helped Kipp carry the empty dishes into the kitchen.
I moved through the living room, collecting torn bits of twine, balled paper, and folded tissue, stacking them into a neat pile.
My hands moved easily, without needing to be told what to do.
Griffin took the trash out to the bin. Ryder and Nash bent by the hearth to poke at the fire, shifting the logs until the flames flared higher and the room filled with soft orange light again.
Fallon wrapped leftovers in plastic wrap, and Nora ushered the kids to bed.
It didn’t matter who’s they were, there was a place for them in this house.
Lydia and Faith had taken Auntie Helen back to Everton. Phil, Julie, Wes, Gwen, Fred and Wanda had retreated to a table in the corner and were playing a spirited round of women vs. men Canasta. Their laughter and arguments filled the living room with a murmur.
Nora reached around me with a cup of something steaming, “white chocolate, cranberry latte?” I asked as I wrapped my hands around the mug.
“It’s what brought us together. You could almost say we’re responsible for all of this,” she whispered as she pointed around the room. She took the spot next to me on the couch, and I sipped at my drink.
I thought back to that day in Fred’s cafe when I confessed I’d broken up with Linc yet again and I was done with him. All these years later, I was so not done with him, this ranch, or the people that were my family.
“I’m really glad I met you when I did.” I beamed at her, and she put her arm around my shoulders. I took another sip and smiled, “Can you believe Fred didn’t think this drink would last?” We both laughed, making the entire room turn to look at us.
I held my mug up to Fred and he shook his head, “damn latte’s,” he mumbled, which made us laugh even more.
Linc came back from the kitchen; he touched my arm with a quiet, gentle touch, using the back of his knuckles. “Ready to head home?” he asked.
I looked around at everyone. All of them still talking in low voices. Faces soft with warmth and full stomachs. The kind of easy contentment you only get when you know, deep down, that if something tried to break through your door, five other people would reach it before you did.
“Yeah,” I said, as the buzz from the latte wore off.
We said our goodbyes. There were hugs and shoulder squeezes and promises about tomorrow that everyone knew meant we would all be in each other’s pockets again before lunch, whether we planned to be or not.
Fallon told me to call if I needed anything, and then corrected herself and said call even if you don’t need anything.
Kipp told us both to get some sleep while there was some to get.
Nash handed me an extra pair of hand warmers without comment and then pretended he needed to check on the woodpile so I wouldn't thank him out loud.
We stepped back out into the night.
The air was crisp in that way winter air gets when the temperature has dropped fast and the sky has cleared.
I could feel it in my lungs, sharp and clean.
I let it wake me up after the warmth of the house.
Our boots crunched over the packed path leading back toward our place.
The only sounds were our steps, the muted thud of music still drifting from Kipp’s windows, and somewhere in the distance the low, content murmur of cattle munching on their feed.
Halfway down the road, Linc reached for my hand.
He did not make a show of it. He just laced his fingers through mine like it was the most natural thing in the world and let our arms settle between us.
His palm was warm, rough along the heel, where the reins had worn a callus over the years.
I let my hand rest there and let him set our pace.
“You all right?” he asked.
“I am now.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
We walked the rest of the way without talking. We did not have to. The lights from Kipp’s house faded behind us, softening to a distant glow. Ahead of us, our place sat quiet, porch light on, windows warm. The snow along the fence line shone pale in the moonlight, unbroken and clean.
When we stepped inside, Linc hung our coats by the door and turned on the tree in the corner.
The colored bulbs flickered to life, washing the room in a soft glow that felt almost like candlelight: reds, greens, golds, low blues.
The light shifted along the ceiling and across the floorboards, warm and familiar.
I stood there and let it wash over me. The house smelled like pine and coffee, and Linc. The quiet here no longer felt empty. It felt earned.
Linc came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist. His chest pressed to my back, solid and sure. His chin settled on my shoulder.
“Thank you,” I said.
“For what?” His voice brushed against my ear.
“For today. For making sure I was okay, for holding me together, and for being you.”
“I didn’t do much.”
“You did more than you’ll ever know.”
That was the truth of it. He always tried to act like the way he held the line for me was not a thing, like anyone would do it.
But the way he had moved around me all day, the way he had watched the room without making me feel like I was under a spotlight, the way he had stayed within reach without caging, that was not nothing.
He turned me gently until I was facing him. He didn’t let go. His eyes were tired but still steady, the way they always were when he had made up his mind and planted his boots in the dirt and dared the world to move him. It was that same look now, only softer around the edges because it was me.
“We made it through,” he said.
“Yes, we did.”
He brushed a strand of hair behind my ear and kissed my forehead. His mouth was warm. His beard scraped just a little. The whole thing lasted two seconds, but it felt like a vow.
“You should rest,” he said.
“I will. In a minute.”
He stayed with me and didn't rush me. The two of us stood in the glow of the tree and listened to the house breathe.
The fridge hummed low. The heater kicked on, emitting a soft sigh through the vents.
Wind pressed against the windows and then eased off.
Somewhere outside, near the barn, a horse stamped once and settled.
The ranch had its own heartbeat. I could feel it, steady as his pulse under my palm.
Outside, the world was still winter dark. In here, the light felt like something we had built with our own hands.
When I finally went to bed, he followed and lay beside me. The mattress dipped under his weight in that familiar way that made my body stop bracing. His hand found mine under the blanket, palm to palm, fingers lacing and staying.
I held it until sleep came.
It was still Christmas, and for the first time in months, I felt safe enough to dream.