It wasn’t what Hank would call morning when Grace wriggled out of his arms. He mumbled in protest, but she fended off his sleepy grab.
“I have to get up.”
He cracked an eye to see it was pitch-dark outside. “Told you I’d do the chores so you could sleep in.”
“I did,” she said. “It’s five thirty.”
Hank swore.
She laughed. “Go back to sleep. I’ll see you tonight?”
He sighed his agreement, buried his face in her pillow, and inhaled. Mmmm. Cookies. He didn’t hear Grace leave. It was after eight when he arrived at the ranch to find Bing dressed as if she had someplace to go, with a bag by her feet. A jolt of panic shot through him. “What’s with the clothes?”
“Good morning, Bing!” she said brightly. “You look great!”
“Sorry.” He belatedly realized she only had her laptop bag, not a suitcase, and breathed a sigh of relief. She wasn’t so pissed about Grace that she’d decided to abandon him.
Johnny shuffled out and glared at her through sleep-drugged eyes. “Why do you look like that?”
She gave him a wide, red-lipped smile. “Wow. The Brookman charm is in full force today.”
He growled and slumped onto the stool across the bar, hair standing on end and the stubble already thick on his jaw. Hank got a cup of the magic potion that would turn Johnny from bear to human and set it in front of him.
“I am going to work.” Bing stood, picking up the computer bag at her feet. “My supervisor emailed and asked if I would do the mandatory chart review that’s supposed to be finished by the end of the year, so I’m borrowing a desk and the high-speed Internet at the Sanchez office.”
Johnny’s head jerked up. “Are you gonna be gone all day?”
“You mean Do you expect us to feed ourselves? Yes.” She put a hand on Hank’s shoulder and turned him toward two tattered cardboard boxes on the living room floor. “That is the sum total of Christmas decorations I could find, and it’s mostly junk. If you go into town today, take the grocery list and don’t come home without a tree and all the trimmings.”
Hank set his coffee down with a clunk. “I don’t know anything about tinsel and crap.”
“Figure it out. And no damn tinsel. It sticks to everything.” She pulled on her coat, plucked the keys for Johnny’s pickup from where they’d been tossed on the bar, and left.
His dad smirked. “Have fun with the shopping, honey.”
“Bullshit,” Hank said. “You’re coming with me.”
Johnny’s brows snapped flat. “The hell I am.”
“Your choice. I’m gonna head on over to Dumas when I’m done with chores.” And at this rate, his old Chevy would be able to navigate the route on its own. “I’m having lunch over there, but you’re welcome to stay here and rustle up something for yourself.”
Johnny breathed out a curse. “I’ll be ready.”
* * *
Three hours later, they stared down the Christmas aisle at the Super Saver store. Johnny poked a nearby box. “There must be twenty kinds of lights. How do you know what to buy?”
“White.” Hank scooped the closest four cartons into their cart. “That way, we don’t have to worry about whether they match whatever else we get.”
“Match? We used to just throw any old thing on there.”
“I remember…which is why we’re getting new stuff.” He held out the smartphone he’d borrowed from his dad to browse for inspiration. “Nowadays, they’re supposed to look like this.”
Johnny recoiled. “I am not doing a pink Christmas tree.”
“There are others. Just swipe.” Hank demonstrated with what he felt was remarkable patience. “What’s your favorite color?”
“Purple.”
Of course. It couldn’t be red or green or even blue. Hank flicked through more screens. “Here. What about this?”
Johnny studied it closely. “Looks pretty easy. We’ve got the white lights. Just gotta grab some purple ornaments and those silver things that wrap around.”
“Garland,” Hank read from a package he’d picked up farther down the aisle. Then he spotted some three-dimensional silver snowflakes and set one spinning slowly. “Cool.”
“These look classy.” Johnny held up a carton of clear glass balls with silver decorations.
“Nice.” This wasn’t so bad. Hank peered at a ceramic replica of an old-fashioned stone bridge over a frozen pond. When he turned the crank on the display model, tiny skaters began to circle to the tune of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” And for the first time in three years, he would be. Then one of the tiny figures caught his eye, and he grinned. Oh yeah. He had to have one of those.
When they were done, they had two full carts, including a fake tree. Hank had campaigned hard for a real one, but his dad whined about pine needles in the carpet.
“Besides, then we have to do this again next year,” Johnny pointed out.
Next year. As if it was a given that they would be spending Christmas together from now on. A part of Hank still balked, sure the minute he relaxed his guard, the rug would get jerked out from under him. Something must have shown in his face, because his dad gave a pained sigh.
“I’m not saying you have to take up permanent residence, but I’m not gonna lay awake at night wondering where you are. And you can damn well come home for Christmas.”
Before he could respond, a woman sideswiped their cart, then glared as if it was Hank’s fault. Over the speakers, George Strait professed his undying love for Christmas cookies, and down the aisle, a toddler got hold of a set of sleigh bells and gave them an enthusiastic shake. Not exactly the best place for a heart-to-heart.
Hank cleared the lump from his throat. “Okay.”
“Good.” Johnny grabbed a set of cowboy-shaped cookie cutters and tossed them in the cart. “Now get on that phone again and look up what we need for cookies. This damn song is giving me a craving.”
He plowed off through the shoppers while Hank searched for recipes, and returned with a potted plant.
“What’s that for?” Hank asked.
“Bing.”
Hank’s gut did another of those weird clutches. “Because?”
“Can you bake?” Johnny scowled at him, then at the plant. “If we want cookies with sprinkles, we’re gonna have to suck up to her.”
“You have to suck up. She likes me.” Hank gave the pot the side-eye. “And I’m not sure that’s the statement you wanna make.”
Johnny just grunted and stuck it in the basket of the cart. When they’d fought their way through checkout and piled the back seat full of bags and boxes, Hank steered the pickup north on Main Street, the opposite direction from the café.
Johnny frowned. “I thought we were going to eat.”
“It’s only eleven o’clock. You’re not gonna starve if you have to wait an hour.”
“I might. Shopping is hard on a man.”
Hank angled into a parking space in front of a full-service barbershop. That morning, looking in the mirror, he’d realized the image staring back didn’t suit him anymore. He wasn’t the man-child who’d left the Panhandle—thank God—but he wasn’t the fugitive from humanity who’d hidden out in the Montana woods, either. Forty minutes later, he emerged from the shop looking more like he felt—a man who was slowly but surely finding his place somewhere in between.
Plus the woman who’d cut it said he looked hot. He sure hoped Grace agreed, since he’d talked her into letting him come over again tonight.
Back at the ranch, they unloaded their booty. When they got in from doing the evening chores, Bing was standing in the living room, contemplating the mountain of boxes and bags in the corner. “Let me guess. You weren’t sure what to buy, so you grabbed one of everything.”
Hank laughed. “Something like that.”
She glanced over at him, and her eyes widened. “Wow. The house isn’t the only thing getting spruced up.”
“You like it?”
“Very nice.” She took in his dad’s clean-shaven face and short-clipped hair. “Looks like it was boys’ day at the salon.”
Johnny grunted and disappeared into his bedroom, then came out a moment later carrying the potted plant. He thrust it into her surprised hands. “Here. This is for you.” When she just gaped at him, he scowled. “Consider it a thank-you for everything you’ve done around here. And I’m not just talking about the cooking.”
For a rare instant, Bing was speechless. Then she tilted the pot, examining the scatter of delicate pink blooms among thousands of needle-sharp spines. “So you bought me a cactus?”
“If the plant fits…” Then he shrugged. “I figured you could take it home. Something to remember us by.”
The two of them just stood there, staring each other down, and there was a syrupy kind of tension in the air that made Hank uncomfortable.
“He also wants cookies,” he said.
“I should have known there was a catch.” Bing broke away to set the cactus on the bar, then made a beeline for her room. “I have to change clothes.”
The door thunked shut behind her. After a few beats, Hank asked, “Was that a yes or a no on the cookies?”
“Who the hell ever knows with that woman?” And Johnny stomped off to his own room.
Hank stared down the hall after them, that indefinable itch crawling under his skin. Then he shook it off and went to build a sandwich from the cold cuts they’d brought home. He had enough on his mind. Bing could deal with his father.
When all else failed, he knew he could trust Bing.