I haven’t lived there in years. I’ve visited for holidays, smiling through my father’s tight comments about “small-town mentality” and “wasted potential,” counting the hours until I could get back to my city life and prove I wasn’t making a mistake.
But right now, with my cheeks still damp and my veil askew and my dress spilling over the edges of the driver’s seat, that little town in Oregon feels like the only place my feet might remember how to stand.
My blinker clicks on, loud in the quiet cab.
I take the exit.
CHAPTER TWO
Dallas
December 24th
Christmas Eve dinnersused 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.
