Page 58 of Christmas With A Stranger

I walk out through the courtyard doors. Evening's come down over the lot and the heat's gone soft. The large oak tree throws long shadows across the white cars.

My phone goes off against my hip before I reach the car. I take it off my belt clip to see Wade's name.

"What's up?"

"Weather turned." His voice comes flat over two thousand miles. "Hot and dry the last two days, and there's no rain in the forecast."

I lean against the fender. The metal's still warm from the day.

"East meadow's ready when you are," he says. "Been ready two days. It'll only lose feed value sitting."

I know that. I picture the field, the grass gone to seed head, the color of it dulling a little more each afternoon the sun stays on it. It's perfect weather to cut. It's the exact week I told Mackie about in February, when I said I couldn't promise her time all summer. Now the time's here and I'm standing in a parking lot in Florida.

"Ten days," I say. "I'm staying here ten days."

There's a pause.

"I'll find a couple hands to help you get the east meadow down," I tell him

I don't really have the extra money, but I'll move something around. Ranching is mostly deciding which bill can wait for the one that can't.

"All right."

He doesn't push or run me the numbers I'm already running myself. We both know the fields need to be worked to produce the hay.

"I'll call Friday," I say.

"Yep."

He's gone.

I linger against the fender a minute. Somewhere behind the building, a sprinkler ticks on. Hildie's in there working her way toward another bad night, looking for a bus that won't come. I moved her two thousand miles because I wanted her closer, and I've spent the last three months wondering how much of what happened after that is on me.

I get in the clown car.

Out of habit, I pull out my phone and open the weather for the little town nearest the ranch. Sure enough, it's hot and dry with sun all week.

I text Dutch and ask if he has a couple of hands he can spare. The message shows delivered.

I stare at it for a second, then set the phone in the cup holder, start the car, and drive to the house.

FOURTEEN

Mackie

Infant holy, infant lowly / For His bed a cattle stall

Carson's in the chair nearest the door, hat balanced on his knee. I still haven't figured out when he decided this counted as one of his appointments, too. He looks up when the glass door swings shut behind us and doesn't say a thing.

Lis makes for the row of chairs by the window and picks up a magazine that's been read to softness.

I sign in and sit. Carson is two seats down. A toddler somewhere behind the reception desk is losing an argument about a snack.

"Mackie Larkin?"

The nurse has the door propped with her hip. Carson stands the second my name is called, then catches himself halfway up, because no one has actually told him he's allowed back there. His hand goes to the brim of his hat.

I look at him and tip my head toward the door. That's all it takes. He follows.