“He liked it,” she says, satisfied.
“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.
