King Size

by Lexi Whitlow

  Tyler Burke and I have known one another since we were six. We’ve been best friends since eighth grade, when he beat me—by the skin of his teeth—in the Youth Class Cow-Cutting event at the State Fair. He probably knows me better than my own mother at this point. There have never been any secrets between us. Now doesn’t seem like a good time to change that fact.

  “It’s that obvious?” I ask him.

  He nods, grinning like a kid. “Oh yeah,” he says, his tone low. “The looks. The passing little jokes between you. You get in her space and start talking low, leaning in. And she just rolls her eyes like you’re full of shit. She’s got you wound up tighter than a two-dollar watch.”

  She sure does.

  “Anybody else picking up on it yet?” I ask him, turning away from the crowd, trying to keep my voice down.

  Tyler folds his arms across his chest, lifting his glass high so no one can read his lips.

  “Not that I can tell,” he says. “But it won’t be long. You know how this town loves to talk. And you’ve always been a favorite topic.”

  Don’t I know it.

  “So why keep it secret?” Tyler asks me, being plain now. “She’s a sweet girl. Emma loves her. Your mom gets along with her. She can’t say enough nice things about Grace.”

  “Her decision, not mine,” I say. “It’s all pretty new. She’s just being cautious.”

  Tyler nods. “Smart girl.”

  He knows my track record.

  A few minutes later our conversation is abruptly halted by my uncle, Bryant Campbell, who comes up smiling broadly and talking loud, his full cheeks flushed pink with drink. He’s an old horseman from way back, with a ranch on the north end of the county and a string of award winning sires longer than my right arm. He specializes in quarter horses and Morgan’s, and he knows the business as well as anyone alive today. He’s also on the advisory board of the Rocky Mountain Breeders Association, which makes him an important man in our small world.

  “I sure hope you’re coming to Big Sky for the awards gala next month,” Bryant says. “You didn’t show last year or the year before and it was a sorry thing not to have a Davis representing for Missoula County.”

  I didn’t go the year before that either. Emma was in the hospital having a third surgery. We still weren’t sure she was going to survive. I haven’t felt much like parties since those dark days.

  “We’ll see,” I say. It’s an awfully long way to go for a dinner and a dance. Especially in January.

  Bryant steps a little closer. “I’ve been charged by the folks at the Breeders Association to make sure you’re there, even if I have to hog tie you and drag you down to Big Sky.”

  I feel my brow furrow with question. Tyler steps up.

  “Why’s that?” he asks, not waiting for me.

  Bryant grins, then sips his drink. “Your name’s come up a few times as they’ve been looking at certain statistics. Seems like the Kicking Horse is putting out some mighty fine horses for the last six or seven years. It’s starting to show up in the competitions.”

  I know our offspring have showed better every year, winning a ton in cash prizes and awards for everything from Western to Dressage Hunt, depending upon what they’re bred and trained for. I keep up with the numbers, but I don’t spend much time comparing my output to other breeders. I don’t have time. That’s one of the things the Breeders Association does for more than a thousand of us across Montana, Idaho, Wyoming, Colorado, and Utah. The right kind of notice from the RMBA can have a huge impact on a breeding ranch’s bottom line, sometimes doubling or even tripling breeding fees, while building demand at the same time.

  “You’re saying we’ve won something?” I ask Bryant, knowing he can’t reveal too much. This is one way they get busy ranchers to turn up at the group’s fancy gala. They keep the big announcements a secret until the awards banquet, protecting the details like Academy Awards winners.

  “I’m just saying you should be there, dressed real nice, maybe with a pretty girl on your arm.” He slugs his drink, setting the glass down on the sideboard beside us. “Check the website for booking details. I’ll call you in a week to make sure I don’t need to hog tie you and tote you down there.”

  He ambles away while Tyler and I look at one another. He smiles first. This could be huge news and we both know it. It’ll all depend upon what we’ve won, and we can’t know that until the gala.

  “We’ll I guess I need to get a suit,” I say as dryly as I can manage. “And I guess you need one too.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Tyler replies, tipping his glass to mine.

  We drink, but our small celebration is cut short by Amanda coming into the room, shouting down my boisterous family.

  “Everybody, listen up. Anyone who’s going on the carol ride tonight, it’s time to start getting ready. The horses are all fed and watered and getting tacked up now.”

  The kids in the room jump to their feet, bursting with anticipation. Their parents, for the most part, are almost as enthused. The carol ride is a big deal with the family. It’s a tradition that’s been going on for as long as anyone living can remember, and probably well before.

  “I’m on,” I say to Tyler. “You coming?”

  He nods, downing the last of his whiskey. “You know I am.”

  Twenty kids, ranging in age from ten to fifteen, lead the horseback procession down Mollman Pass Trail, toward the nearest neighbor’s house. They’re followed by parents and friends, riding along to supervise or just for the pure sentimental entertainment value. The younger kids like Emma and Jacob who are mounted, ride alongside their parents. A few toddlers ride on saddle, tucked into their father’s laps. We Davises start ‘em out early. Emma didn’t ride until she was three, but that was only because she was a very sick baby and toddler.

  Watching her now, seeing how strong she is, what a remarkably skilled young rider she’s become, I’m confident those bad times are behind us. At our least check-up in September her cardiologist said she looked wonderful. The scans revealed that the suture line at her aorta was clean and strong. Her blood pressure was normal. Her heart sounded perfect.

  I prayed for years to hear those words.

  Tonight, Emma rides Stoney between me and Grace. She’s feeling a little held back, as the older kids dismount for the caroling part of this tradition. They assemble near the porches of the houses we visit, then sing at the top of their lungs. When they’re done, the neighbors bring out hot cocoa and fresh cookies for everyone.

  My deal with Emma is that she can join the ‘big kids’ when she’s seven. For me that’s just one more Christmas I get to hold Stoney’s lead and make sure my baby’s safe beside me. For Emma, two Christmases away is an eternity.

  We visit ten houses like this, with the kids sucking down hot, sugary drinks and stuffing themselves. Then the party breaks up, and those who rode in, head to their respective homes. Most of the family live within a few miles of the Kicking Horse, so it’s a short trip on a beautiful, cloudless, cold night.

  Grace, Emma, and I leave Tyler, Jacob, and Amanda at their place, just a mile from my ranch. Emma is chatty all the way home, which is normal. But just as we get near, she looks up at me with the most unexpected question.

  “Daddy, what did you get Gracie for Christmas?”

  She catches me completely off-guard.

  “Um, well, sweetie…” I hesitate. Can I tell her? Should I?

  I catch Grace’s eye, and she’s as shocked as I am. She shrugs.

  “Sweetheart, don’t worry about it,” I say. “I got it covered.”

  She’s undeterred. “Well you better give her something nice,” my daughter informs me. “She takes good care of me, and I love her.”

  “I know, baby,” I tell her.

  What I want to tell her is Grace takes good care of me too, and I… but I don’t say that.

  I should say it, but I don’t.

  Chapter 11

  Grace

  Bossman was
downright complimentary of my riding tonight. We didn’t do anything even remotely challenging, just a gentle walk down the lanes in the neighborhood a few miles. Mirabel responded to my prompts. I have an idea it was less about me and more about just going along.

  It was hard work getting Emma to bed once we were home. She’s excited about Santa. I’m a little excited about seeing her reaction tomorrow when she discovers what Santa brought her. She has no idea what a lucky, cherished little girl she is. Camden adores her, and while he’s a good father who has high expectations of her, sometimes he goes a little too far in the spoiling-her-rotten direction.

  Santa has brought a new saddle with two new blankets, plus new boots. He brought her first pair of leather chaps and a fringed deerskin jacket with pretty beadwork on the lapels and cuffs. Plus, she got all the standard, spoiled-princess fare; a new Barbie with more outfits than seems decent, a baby doll, puzzles and picture books, along with a stack of coloring books and a huge box of markers of every tint in the rainbow (almost a hundred of them.)

  The living room overflows with her haul. Looking at it, I feel guilty. There are kids out in the world, millions of them, some very nearby us, who will have nothing or almost nothing for Christmas.

  Tonight, Camden is giddy playing Santa. When we’re done setting up the haphazard array in the living room, the booty spilling out around the hearth from underneath the twinkling tree, he slips his arm around me, pulling me close.

  “She’s going to be silly when she sees all this. This may be the first Christmas she really remembers. I want it to be special.”

  I have no doubt it will be.

  “You think it’s too much,” he says, turning me into him, looking down into my eyes. “I see your smirk.”

  “I think it’s perfect if it’s what you want to do,” I say. Emma is his daughter, after all.

  I’m well aware of the fact that on some level, I’m jealous of his little girl. In my entire life, no one ever thought about making my Christmas special. I got clothes and books when I got anything at all. I was grateful for both. I never expected more.

  “I’ve got something for you, too,” he says, smiling shyly. “Upstairs. It’s in my room. And on top of that, another surprise I want to talk to you about.”

  Safely secreted behind closed doors in his bedroom, Camden produces a small box with a big red bow on top of purple wrapping paper. It’s a professional gift-wrapping job from a jewelry counter.

  He’s such a guy.

  “Open it,” Camden urges me.

  We’re sitting on his bed, cross-legged, facing one another. I have my gift for him beside me, ready.

  I peel back the paper, revealing a small black box. Lifting the lid, I see a sturdy silver bracelet. It’s a hefty piece of metal, made in a cuff. The outside of the thing is plain with no ornamentation, but inside, on the flat surface that touches the skin, is engraved in large, decorative letters against a contrasting fused gold background:

  It’s not what the world sees that matters. It’s what’s inside that defines us.

  What a sentiment. What a perfectly beautiful execution of that sentiment.

  Camden Davis is deeper and more introspective than he lets on.

  Feeling this custom bracelet in my hand, knowing what it took to make it, I know he paid a lot for it. It’s no small gesture in either the investment or the sentiment. I love it.

  I slip the heavy ornament over my wrist. The weight reminds me of him.

  “It’s perfect,” I say in a small voice. “I love it. I’ll wear it every day.”

  My gift for him took as much consideration, but it requires a much larger box.

  He peels the wrapping back, revealing a large format book. It’s an oversized, coffee table sized thing. Emma’s photo is on the front cover. The title is, Rebecca Emily Davis, the Early Years.

  “What is this?” Camden asks, opening the cover.

  Every page is one photograph and one caption, with a date.

  The first page begins with a scan of an ultrasound. Cam’s mother gave that to me, along with a raft of other photographs that I scanned and included in this project.

  The first tenth of the book is a little difficult to look at. Most of the photographs are of an infant in the hospital, with tubes and wires connected to her tiny body; some with a ventilator helping her breath. But the photos move on from there to reveal a thriving toddler, who—despite her scars and interventions—smiles from her hospital crib.

  There’s one beautiful image of Emma, at fifteen months old, cradled in Cam’s arms, sitting in the rocker in her bedroom. He’s giving her a bottle, gazing down upon her. She has a heart monitor attached to her, but otherwise the photo appears like any normal father-daughter moment that might have transpired, anywhere in the world. A tired dad, feeding his precious first-born.

  Camden slowly turns the pages, his eyes moist with recollection.

  “Jesus, how did you do all this?” he asks, paging through to the newer images, photographs I began taking when I arrived on the ranch this past autumn. “How did you find the time?”

  “Digital printing makes it possible,” I say.

  He gives me a look. “I do know some things. I might spend all day on the ranch, but I’m familiar with photo calendars and all that. But this is beautiful. It took a lot of time.”

  “It was my pleasure.” I try not to hold his gaze too long when I look at him, for fear this moment might shatter and break into a million pieces. Like it was never real, like none of it was ever meant to be.

  “Without Emma’s mom around, I don’t have time to do things like this. Not this nice, anyway.”

  “I ordered a few of them. I’m giving one to your mom, too.”

  “Thank you,” Cam says, touching the pages reverentially.

  The last portion of the book is all stuff I captured. Emma playing. Emma riding. Emma on her way to or from pre-school. Emma with her grandmother, her father, with Amanda, and Jacob. Emma at dinner or breakfast, or eating a peanut butter sandwich. All the images are basically Emma being herself, free of the complicated medical implications of her earliest years. She’s better now, and it shows. She’s also a happy little girl, thanks to her doting daddy and the very big life he provides for her.

  Camden likes his gift. That pleases me beyond measure.

  “Come here,” he insists, sliding the book off his lap onto the bed, pulling me onto him. He situates me on his lap, facing him, with his hands wrapped around my hips, his blue eyes peering up into mine.

  “What am I gonna do with you?” he asks, “You and all your secret projects, and secret talents. You never stop surprising me.”

  “You’ll figure something out,” I quip, sliding my arms over his broad, muscled shoulders. I love the way he feels. His physicality and strength is breathtaking, and the fact that he’s so blissfully unaware of his own remarkable beauty is even more so. Most guys with his presence and looks are narcissistic dicks. But Camden—once you get past his ‘strong, silent type’ defenses—is as sweet and tender as a kitten. He’s easy to snuggle.

  “I can think of a few things to do with you,” he purrs, nipping my lip. Then he pulls back, his expression shifting, recalling something important. “But not before I tell you some news.”

  His news is the titillating bit of intelligence related by his uncle about the Rocky Mountain Breeder’s Association. It’s easy to see by his animation as he tells me the story that this is a big deal for him, but I only begin to understand how it affects me when he says,

  “I want you to go with us to Big Sky. I’m sure they’re having the thing at some fancy resort. They always have a band for the Breeder’s Ball, with lots of people from all over, all dressed to the nines for the night. We’ll dance ‘til our feet hurt, then go sit in a hot tub and make love ‘til the sun comes up.”

  He wants me to be his date? At the biggest social event in his world?

  That’s not keeping us on the down-low.

  My expression
betrays me.

  “Oh, come on baby, we can’t keep this thing under wraps forever,” he almost whines, absently squeezing my butt-cheeks with his strong hands. “I’m so proud of you, I want to show you to the whole world.”

  What will that mean for us? What new pressures will it put on our arrangement? Will Emma think I’m trying to be her mother? What will Cam’s mom think? She seems to like me, but that could change overnight if she thinks I’m trying to move in, forgetting my place.

  “Cam, I don’t know. It just complicates everything…”

  He shakes his head at me. “Life is complicated,” he says. “But some things are simple. I’m crazy about you. And I’m tired of sneaking around.”

  If he didn’t care about me—genuinely care—I don’t think he’d be willing to out us. What was it Kara said? That I should give him a chance to show? He’s shown me plenty. He’s still showing.

  What am I hiding from? What am I afraid of? What’s the worst thing that can happen?

  “Okay,” I relent. “But I don’t have anything to wear to a ball. I’ve never been to a ball, and I don’t know how to dance.”

  Camden grins at me, “We can solve the dress problem pretty easy. And baby, I can teach you how to two-step in about fifteen minutes flat.”

  His confidence is astounding, and infectious, too. For some reason, I’m inclined to believe he can teach me to dance.

  * * *

  I’ve never been much for playing dress-up, but I’ll admit, getting cowgirl formal for the Rocky Mountain Breeder’s Association shindig, has been a lot of fun.

  Camden gave me his American Express card and told me not to come back until I had everything essential to making a big splash in a room full of people he wants to impress. Amanda, Cam’s mom, and I, went to Missoula for the weekend and we had a blast. Between hitting every decent dress and boot shop in town, we also managed to eat and drink our way into the hearts and minds of half the men in the city.

  Cam told his mom he asked me to the Breeders Association gala. To my surprise, she was happy to hear it. When we were in Missoula, a little tipsy from downing half a pitcher of Margaritas before the appetizers even made it to the table, Beck told me she knew that Cam had taken a particular shine to me, but she didn’t know how long it would take him to get around to acting on it.