by Lexi Whitlow
I like watching her get frustrated in the ring when Mirabel won’t do what she wants. She huffs and swears like a sailor, rolls her eyes and glares at me. She makes me laugh at her without trying to be cute. Watching her, whether she’s struggling with riding lessons, or sitting with Emma cradled in her lap, or even curled up with a book of her own, lost in her thoughts, is my greatest singular pleasure in the world.
Aside from being Emma’s father, of course.
Before Beverly and I got together, I got around a lot. I had a string of girlfriends, one after the other. Not one of them did much more than distract me for a few minutes before they were talking about dresses, flowers, preachers, and vows. Beverly was different. She was hard to please. She took real effort on my part, like trying to break a feral. In the end, I think she broke me.
I gave up on her. I knew she’d never be happy no matter what I did to try to please her. When Emma came, with all her problems, Bev’s bad disposition turned mean, and then it turned self-destructive. And I didn’t do a thing to stop it. I just took care of Emma, because that was all I could do.
Grace isn’t like a feral. And she’s sure not looking for dresses and vows. She’s standing on the edge of this boisterous herd like she’s looking for wolves in the bushes. She’s vigilant and quiet, making plans, then remaking them as the terrain shifts. She’s always checking her flank and sniffing the air, looking for signs of predators.
I would do just about anything in the world to be her shelter, but she doesn’t seem to want it. She doesn’t know what to do with closed spaces. Or maybe, she knows those closed spaces too well, and believes they always become traps.
She doesn’t talk about her past, or her family, or the old boyfriend. The only things I know are what I’ve read on her blog; those things she’s willing to share with the world, anonymously. She shares more with strangers than she shares with me. One day, I will draw her out, but it’s going to take patience and earning her trust. It’ll only happen on her schedule.
But maybe I can move things along just a little.
I circle the room, coming up alongside Grace, offering to get her a real drink instead of that cocoa she’s grasping like a shield. It’s gone cold in its cup.
Keeping up the façade, she doesn’t make eye contact.
“Thanks, I’m good,” she says, returning her attention to the kids on the floor at the center of the room.
I turn halfway toward her, so my back is to the room and only she can hear me or see what I’m saying.
“You are good, when you’re not being bad,” I whisper, grinning slyly. “I can’t wait for this night to be over and all these people to go home. Santa Claus has something special planned for you.”
Grace cuts her eyes at me. She can’t help but smile, suppressing a giggle. She shakes her head, choosing not to reply, instead just rolling her eyes in that adorable way that makes me cherish her.
“You’re not going to get any sleep tonight,” I threaten. “Between Emma, and Santa, and me, and getting up early to see what Santa left, you’re gonna be dizzy.”
“Behave,” she warns me in a low tone, her lip turning ever so slightly. “Or Santa will bring you a bag of coal.”
She glances up, her eyes smiling. “Now go away, Bossman. Or you’ll have tongues wagging.”
Let them wag.
I swagger away, only glancing back long enough to confirm she’s checking out my ass as I go. She is. We both grin. I move on, leaving her alone.
I think that’s all there is to it until twenty minutes later. Tyler comes up, handing me a cut crystal glass with my favorite, brown beverage swirling inside it. He’s wearing a smirk across his face and he seems like he wants to say something.
“What?” I ask him.
He smiles. “Nothing.” He sips his whiskey.
“What is it?” I press.
He shrugs, still grinning. “I dunno. You’ve just been in an awfully good mood the last few weeks. And I don’t think it’s ‘cause you’re in the Christmas spirit.”
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.
