The Mechanics of Mistletoe - Liz Isaacson Page 0,86

his temper. He wanted to jump to his feet and upend the table before growling—no, roaring—like the grizzly everyone expected him to be. Then he’d stomp into his den and stay there for the winter.

“Cactus,” Ranger said, still just as quiet.

Bear got up, skipped turning over the table, and took his empty plate inside. It was paper, and all he had to do to clean up was toss it in the trash. He sighed as he did, hearing someone open the door and come in behind him. They let in plenty of chatter too, and Bear could only imagine what the family was talking about now. Him. Sammy. The lack of him and Sammy. His lack of being able to keep a girlfriend.

“I’m sorry,” Cactus said, coming to stand next to Bear at the island. “That was just a freaky weird coincidence.”

“It’s fine.”

“You’ve changed,” Cactus said, and Bear turned toward him.

“How so?”

“Six months ago, when you’d have gotten embarrassed like that, you’d have thrown something, yelled something, and stomped away.”

Bear couldn’t deny it. He’d acted rashly sometimes. Sometimes his temper got the better of him. Sometimes he just got so mad.

His fists started to clench, and he breathed in deeply through his nose.

“And yes,” Cactus said next. “If I could ever get up the courage to get off the ranch, and I met someone else, I think I could fall in love again.”

Bear’s surprise flowed deeply through him. “Let’s get you off the ranch then.”

Cactus smiled—one of the rare times he did—and he looked a decade younger. “I’m not ready for that.”

“What do you need to get ready?”

“A therapist and a lot of medication,” Cactus quipped, but Bear didn’t think he was joking.

“Well, someone better get married and start having babies,” Bear said. “Or Shiloh Ridge is going to be the only ranch with billions of dollars in the bank and no Glover to run it.”

Cactus let several seconds of silence go by. “What happened with Sammy?”

Bear didn’t want to talk about it, but he wanted a real, trusting relationship with Cactus. His brother had told him things no one else knew, and Bear trusted him.

“She’s upset with me,” he said. “Because I treated her like she couldn’t handle things herself.” He went on to explain it all, ending with the text he’d sent that morning. The text she hadn’t answered yet.

“Anyway,” he said, clearing his throat. “Let’s get the tree out.” He moved into the foyer, where the twelve-foot tree waited for them in a box. Together, he and Cactus unboxed it and started plugging all the lights in to make sure they worked.

With the three sections together and lit up, Bear started pulling branches out to make a fuller-looking pine tree.

“I’ll go get the others,” Cactus said. “And start the coffee.” He did that first, and then went out onto the deck to tell the rest of the family they were ready to decorate. The homestead filled with people, with laughter, with holiday cheer.

Bear didn’t care that it was only November—and the very beginning of the month too. He loved their longer Christmas traditions, and he’d feel a part of a much bigger family unit every time he walked into the homestead.

“Okay,” Zona said. “This box is from the seventies. Should we do decades like we’ve done before?”

“Let’s just put them wherever,” someone said. “It’s too complicated to go piece by piece.”

“I agree,” someone else called. “Two or three people end up decorating if we have something too organized, and the rest of us just sit here.”

Bear let them talk it out, and Arizona was definitely out-voted. “Okay, okay,” she said grumpily. “I’ll just open the boxes, and you guys can start putting them wherever, like savages.”

Bear chuckled, because she tried to get them to decorate by decade every blasted year, and every year she got shot down. He stepped out of the way as a surge of people came toward the tree with the crocheted ornaments Grandmother had made over the years.

He usually put on two or three ornaments, and he retreated to the boxes to find the ones he wanted. He pulled a horse, delicately done in white thread, with tiny black tips on the ears, from the box. This one would be for his father.

Bear missed his dad powerfully in that moment, his grief there as he inhaled, the breath tight. Then gone as he pushed the air out. “Love you, Dad,” he whispered as he found a hook and laced it through the top