Free Christmas With You by Tracey Alvarez

asked.
    “I was six.”
    “Tell me what happened?”
    The grief feathered over her skin like an outfit she tried on once a year but which still fit perfectly. No longer constrictive and uncomfortable, as it’d been those first few years she’d worn it; age had loosened the weave, so the hurtful memories felt as familiar as flannel pajamas.
    “Mom drove to meet some friends while I was at school—we lived at Malmstrom Air Force Base at the time. I remember the principal came to the classroom door and called my teacher out. Mrs. Whitman—who probably had a stash of trophies for being the strictest first grade teacher ever—burst into tears.” Carly closed her eyes, the vibration of the tires on the rough road strangely soothing. “We could hear her sobbing from inside the classroom. When she came back in, her eyes met mine, and I knew. I knew my dad had died.”
    She blew out a sigh and opened her eyes again. Green trees and bright blue sky stretched in front of her. Not the four bland walls of a classroom where her life had irrevocably changed.
    “You thought something had happened to your dad?”
    Carly glanced over at his eyes, and found them warm with sympathy. At least, she hoped his direct gaze, flicking between her and the road, contained sympathy rather than pity. She couldn’t stand the idea of anyone pitying her.
    “You don’t grow up a military brat without understanding from a young age that something could happen to your mom or dad when they’re deployed.”
    “He was overseas when your mom…?”
    “Yeah.” She sagged into the seat and took a deep breath. “Drunk driver ran a red light and killed her instantly. I don’t remember much of what Mrs. Whitman said; it didn’t start to register until hours later, when Mom never came for me. For a while, I thought the adults were lying, that Dad had died, and Mom had gone to find him. I didn’t believe she was gone…Not until Dad got back to Montana, and I saw his face.”
    The narrow road curved into the hills above Oban, and Kip kept his eyes locked to the windshield. He didn’t say anything but settled his larger palm over her whitened knuckles—the hand she’d balled into a fist without realizing.
    With a glance over her shoulder to check the boys were still occupied, she cleared her throat. She could wallow and wreck the twins’ excitement at choosing a tree, or she could allow the warmth of Kip’s touch to buffer away some of her sharp, brittle edges.
    She injected a light tone into her voice. “You’re good at this—the sympathetic listening thing. It’s probably why you’re good at your job.”
    Kip removed his hand to flick on the turn signal. They pulled into a driveway, a massive, hand-painted “Xmas trees” sign jammed into the ground next to it. He sneaked another glance, his small smile telling her he knew she had changed the subject for the boys’ sake.
    “I learned a lot from watching cows every day. They’re not as dumb as people think. After a while, you get to know which one will stand there docile as anything while you attach the cups, and which one will stomp on your toes for looking at her the wrong way.”
    A laugh bubbled in her belly at the thought of Kip talking to his big black and white beasties in a barn, and she couldn’t help but compare them to the women who always clustered around him in the bar. “So, Due South is just one big milking shed to you? And I and the other women are just cows?”
    Kip parked the ute at the end of a short line of other vehicles and killed the engine.
    “No,” he said, unclipping his seatbelt. “I wouldn’t dare compare a woman to a cow; I’m not an idiot.”
    “I heard Poppa say you were,” said Lucas.
    Kip froze in the act of reaching for the door handle, and Carly’s hand stilled on her seatbelt clip.
    Lucas, aware he had the adults’ attention, but not realizing the tension running through his uncle’s big body like an electric current, wriggled in his booster