Page 96 of Christmas With A Stranger

Inside, the lamp is low, and the house smells like the squash Mom mashed for dinner. Both babies are quiet. I stand in the doorway of the den and count breaths out of habit. Hildie's little face is turned to the side.

"She went down at four-thirty." Mom is folding a burp cloth at the table. "They took to him immediately. It's like they remembered him."

Hildie has fought sleep every night this week. She screamed through the swing, the bounce, the drive I took her on at eleven. I take off my coat, hang it on the chair, and pull a glass from the cabinet. I fill it at the tap and drink half of it standing up.

Mom lets me have about four minutes.

"He stayed the entire two hours, in case you were wondering," she says. "Sat on the floor the whole time. He tried to hold both of them at once, but he admitted they are so much bigger that he can't do them both like he used to."

She sets the folded cloth on the stack. "And I sent him home with the chicken tetrazzini out of the freezer."

I lower my glass. "Mom."

"He's lost weight, Mackie. His belt's cinched down to a hole the leather wasn't made for, and he ate two of my lemon bars standing up like he'd forgotten what a plate was for."

She smooths the cloth flat with both hands. "A man has to eat, and he's clearly not handling it on his own."

I drink the rest of the water.

"He drove out past Marshall this morning to look at some land." Mom keeps her eyes on the burp cloth she's folding.

I lower the glass. "What land?"

"Eighty acres. There's a house, barns, some pasture."

"For what?"

Now she looks at me. My stomach drops before she says anything.

"Why was he here looking at land, Mom?"

"He's buying it."

I set the glass on the counter because suddenly I don't trust my hand with it.

"Buying what? Cattle?"

"The place outside Marshall. I just told you, the eighty acres."

"Why would Carson North buy eighty acres in North Carolina?"

Mom folds the cloth once more, although it was already folded.

"Because he's moving here."

For a second, the words don't arrange themselves into anything useful.

"What?"

"He's selling the Wyoming ranch."

I stare at her. "No, he's not."

"He most certainly is."

"Mom, that ranch is his whole life."

"I know."