“Good expensive.”
He smiled.
“Very.”
The Son ran in.
“Did we win?”
The Rancher looked at him.
“What?”
“The cattle.”
“Did we win?”
The Woman answered:
“Yes.”
The boy raised both arms.
The Rancher laughed.
The Woman laughed.
For a moment, they were a family before any of them admitted it.
The Rancher built a second bookshelf.
The Son claimed it was for books.
The Woman knew it was because hers had begun appearing around the house.
Ledger books.
Novel.
Almanac.
Two poetry volumes.
The Rancher pretended not to know what poetry was.
The Woman caught him reading one at midnight.
“You read poetry?”
He nearly dropped the book.
“No.”
“You’re holding poetry.”
“I’m checking the binding.”
“At midnight.”
“Quiet time.”
The Woman leaned against the doorway.
“Which poem?”
“Go away.”
She laughed.
The Rancher looked at her.
Hair loose.
Nightdress covered by a robe.
Bare feet.
Soft lamplight.
Something inside him tightened.
She noticed.
The laughter disappeared.
Neither moved.
The house became very quiet.
The Rancher closed the book.
“You should sleep.”
The Woman’s voice was softer.
“So should you.”
He nodded.
Neither moved.
Then the Son coughed in the next room.
The spell broke.
The Woman smiled faintly.
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
The Rancher listened to her bedroom door close.
Then looked at the poem.
He did not read another word.
Winter arrived early.
Cold rain first.
Then one morning, frost.
The Rancher checked animals before sunrise.
Returned with ice in his beard.
The Woman stood by the stove.
“Sit.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sit.”
He sat.
She poured coffee.
Placed it between his hands.
Then touched his cheek.
Cold skin.
Her fingers remained a fraction longer than necessary.
The Rancher looked up.
She noticed.
Her hand withdrew slowly.
Not fast enough to pretend.
The Son entered.
“Morning.”
Both adults moved apart.
The boy stopped.
Looked from one to the other.
Then:
“Did I interrupt something?”
“No.”
They answered together.
The boy stared.
“Interesting.”
The Woman laughed into her coffee.
The Rancher threatened to send him to the barn.
One night, snow began.
Rare enough there to make the Son stand at the window.
The Woman joined him.
The Rancher watched from the table.
The boy looked at her.
“Will you stay for Christmas?”
The Woman froze.
The Rancher’s pencil stopped.
The Son turned.
“Dad said you could leave.”
The Rancher stared at his ledger.
Coward.
The Woman looked toward him.
Then at the boy.
“Yes.”
The Rancher lifted his head.
The Woman continued:
“I’ll stay for Christmas.”
The Son smiled.
The Rancher tried not to.
Failed.
Christmas morning was simple.