“There’s a mini split in the main room here that’ll have you warm in a jiffy.” Clay reached to flip a switch, and then a dial to adjust the heat. “Eat anything in the fridge, and grab whatever you need, t-shirt, sweatpants, whatever. Okay? We’re two cabins down, so we’re close. But let’s exchange phone numbers, in case you need anything.”
“Or in case you see a mountain lion,” said Bea, her eyes lighting up.
“Not very likely, this time of year,” said Clay with a smile as he took Ty’s held-out phone and entered his number, then waited while Ty did the same in reverse. “We’ll be opening presents before breakfast, according to Bea, and then we’ll have pancakes afterwards.”
“Message me the second she wakes up,” said Ty, doing his best to smile, to put warmth in his voice. The last thing he wanted was to douse the bright sparkle of the evening’s festivities, and Bea’s anticipation of what the morning would bring. “I’ll be ready.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Clay buttoned his jacket back up, and looked around the little cabin with its wood paneling and sparkling clean kitchen area. “Seriously,” he said, looking at Ty. “Call if you need anything.”
What Ty needed was to be alone, but all he said was, “I will and thank you.”
As they left, he made himself keep the door open a crack so he could wave them off before shutting the door on the night. Which he did as easily as he could, not slamming it or anything, before he turned and leaned against it, palms to the door, the quiet settling around him.
Along the wall, just near the ceiling, the mini-split sighed like a silent ghost. The air in the main room of the cabin warmed little by little, but seemed unable to reach the parts ofhim that felt truly cold. Like the edges of him. The center of him. His heart.
It wasn’t just the holiday blues, which he could ignore most of the time. It was those blues and their long, mournful wail, a ribbon lacing through him, seen in sudden, blazing gold contrast when compared to the gathering in the barn. A found family, solid as any made by blood.
He felt the wall beneath his fingers, feeling as though he was leaving prints behind, and lifted his hands away.
He’d shower and check the heat and, wearing borrowed clothes, would sleep in a borrowed bed, living a bit of borrowed life, all the while tamping down a sense of sadness that threatened to swamp him. Then in the morning, he’d try again.
It was the best he could do, at least for now.
CHAPTER 5
Ty had managed the shower, found a t-shirt and a pair of sweat-pants that looked long enough in the leg for a ten-foot-tall man, and got ready for bed without taking a slug of whiskey that he’d spotted in the cupboard while looking for a glass to take a drink of water.
After he turned out the bedside lamp and crawled into the very comfortable queen-sized bed, he relaxed his head on the pillows, and watched while the darkness in the room grew. Then that darkness eased into a faint glow coming from the kitchen into the bedroom, produced by the clock over the stove, perhaps, or the single unblinking green eye of the smoke detector somewhere in the very short hallway leading to the living room.
At least the light was gentle, the whisper of the mini split unobtrusive, so he was able to fall asleep inside of minutes, rather than the hours it usually took. And in the morning, after he pulled on his now-dry blue jeans, he discovered, as he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, that he’d missed two phone calls and a text message, all from Bill.
We’re at the barn, and Bea couldn’t wait for presents, but we will wait breakfast for you.
Ty scrambled into his clothes, breathless, pulled on his flannel shirt and down vest, stomped into his boots, and stepped out onto the front porch.
The sun was up, the sky bright as a shining blue stone, the sun a spotlight of gold. The air was utterly still. Frost speckled the air and when he took a deep breath the cold reached all the way inside of him.
He hurried up the path, half erased by the blowing winds the night before, and stepped into the barn. There, by the doorway to Leland’s office, was a paper bag full of crumpled holiday wrapping paper. A metal pail held ash from the fire pit the night, cold and gray and still, and his heart dipped because he’d missed Christmas.
Near one of the box stalls stood Bea and Austin, and just inside the open door to the box stall was Cinders. Her head was down, curved in a gentle way, and Bea’s two hands cupped her muzzle, an expression of warmth and love all at the same time.
By the faint tear streaks on Bea’s face it was easy to see the little girl was upset.
Ty figured the same issue from the night before was the cause. He went closer, even as he knew there was nothing he could do about the air of dejection that hung about her like a cloud.
“Bea,” said Austin, steadily. “We talked about this. The winds will come and scour away the snow but there’s just too much of it now.”
“But if I fall off, the snow will make it soft,” Bea insisted, like she’d been saying this since the sun came up.
“It’s not about you, Bea,” said Austin, more sternly now. “It’s about Cinders.”
Bill came out of Leland’s office. He was holding out a small wrapped package that Ty knew in his heart was a present thathad been snagged from someone else’s pile. Still, he appreciated the gesture and held his hand out for it.
“Thank you,” he said as he unwrapped the present.
“You gotta have something to open on Christmas morning,” said Bill, swiping his thumb across his gray mustache, silent, warmly watchful.
The present was a warm red wool scarf that looked hand knitted. The tassel ends were tightly done, the red threads silky. As Ty wrapped the scarf around his neck, a shiver of warmth went through him, and he smiled at Bill, feeling a small joy at the moment.
