The fire had burned down to glowing coals. The bright yellows and oranges quieting to warm reds and pinks. Alexa filled the house with a cheery mix of Christmas tunes. Becky could hear the pots and pans clacking in the kitchen and smelled the aromas of roast beast and yeasty fresh bread. She knew she should offer to help. But she couldn’t pull herself from gazing into the fireplace, wrapped in a fuzzy throw, listening to the pops and crackles as the logs withered. She knew she was being a sulky, ungrateful shit but she just couldn’t pretend a “happy” that she didn’t feel.

Aunt Bev called from the kitchen, “Becky, would you mind setting the table? Dinner is almost ready.”

Becky dropped the fuzzy throw in a chair and ran her finger across the needles of the white pine decorated with lights and homey ornaments. The pine smell permeated the whole house, reminding her every day how much she used to love Christmas.

“Sorry I didn’t help. I got distracted by the fire.” Becky knew it was a lame excuse for avoiding all the holiday cheer Aunt Bev was trying to create for her.

“Oh, that’s fine, dear. I have it all under control,” Aunt Bev assured her. “Let’s eat in the dining room for Christmas Eve.”

~

Dinner was a quiet affair. Uncle Dean sliced the roast and poured the wine, scooting a glass to Becky with a wink. “It’s a celebration, after all.”

Aunt Bev insisted on opening presents before cleaning up and having dessert. “I just can’t wait a minute longer to rip off all that paper.”

Uncle Dean and Aunt Bev had treated her like fragile glass since she came to live with them in October. They were kind and compassionate and treated her like the daughter they never had. Nevertheless, no one asked her if she wanted to live with them. Becky hated Montana. Hated her life. Brightly wrapped presents weren’t going to change that. She hadn’t seen her dad since Thanksgiving and his Christmas Eve flight was cancelled because of the snow storm. How could she possibly have a Merry Christmas?

Almost all of the presents under the tree were for Becky. Aunt Bev and Uncle Dean’s faces were lit with smiles as Becky opened each one. They agreed not to open any from her dad until the airport reopened and he was able to participate. Becky put on a happy face but it turned to wonder as she opened the largest gift.

It was a custom-made saddle with her name tooled in the cantle. Uncle Dean had gifted her his paint horse, Picasso, when she arrived in Montana. That was the bright spot in her time on the ranch. She truly loved that horse and spent countless hours grooming and talking to him. Picasso really seemed to listen and understand her grief. Now she had a saddle of her own to ride him whenever she wanted.

Her smile faded when she realized it had been too cold and icy to ride for weeks. Who knew when she would actually get a chance to use the saddle?

~

Becky made her excuses immediately after cleaning up the dinner dishes. Feigning a headache, she grabbed the fuzzy throw and made her way up the stairs to her room. It was bright and cozy and decorated to make Becky feel at home. But this wasn’t her home. She had been packed up and moved halfway across the country in the middle of her junior year. Who does that to a kid?

It was her first Christmas without her mom and her dad wasn’t even here! Mom didn’t even say goodbye. She just didn’t wake up one morning. How could she leave without telling me what to do after she died? How to cope with the loss?

Dad said both he and her mom agreed that moving to Montana would be the best option for Becky after Mom died. Dad traveled for work and it wouldn’t be safe or healthy for Becky to live at home alone. “That’s just crap. Nobody asked me. I’d be no more alone there than I am here. At least I’d have my friends.” Becky was especially lonely because all her friends were on family Christmas vacations and ski trips. Even when she could get a cell signal here in the middle of the Rocky Mountains almost no one was texting her back.

Becky cried into the fuzzy throw. It was one of the few things of her mom’s that she brought with her to Montana. It was old and gray and needed a wash. But Becky refused to put it in the laundry. She didn’t want to lose the lingering lavender smell of her mom. That throw sat with her mom throughout her cancer treatments and provided a pillow for Becky to rest her head on her mom’s bony lap when her mom was too weak to get out of her chair.

But she wasn’t supposed to leave yet! “She promised to be here for Christmas. Mom NEVER broke a promise.” Becky felt stupid for being angry. She didn’t want to be mad at her mom so she was angry at everyone else.

~

Becky wasn’t sure what woke her. She thought she heard something. After cocking her head and listening, she realized it wasn’t actually a sound. It was more like a feeling, inside her brain, like a poking. Then the feeling coalesced into a picture of Picasso laughing at her. “Wow, I should not have drunk that whole glass of wine.”

She plumped her pillow and as she pulled the duvet back over her head she felt an invisible nudge on her arm. Picasso was head butting her! From his stall in the barn! “Don’t go back to sleep, Becky, come out here.”

“What?!” She checked under the covers to make sure she hadn’t left a paperback in bed to poke at her. Nothing. All she found was another picture in her mind of Picasso laughing.

Picasso did his little ‘I’m part Arab and I love drama’ head toss motioning Becky toward him. “Come out to the barn.” Then he bobbed his head a few times and snickered.

“Okay. Maybe my subconscious is telling me something is wrong out there. It can’t hurt to check, right?” Becky pulled on her barn jeans and barn sweatshirt from the pile next to her bed and quietly snuck down the stairs to the mudroom. She grabbed the new Muck boots and Carhartt jacket she had just opened as Christmas gifts a few hours earlier. Opening the door slowly and gently with no squeaks Becky made her way to the barn, turning on her headlamp once she was ready to open the barn door.

“Could you please point that light elsewhere?” Picasso blinked and ducked his head while Becky froze with her hand on his stall door. His white spots blazed and his black spots faded into the background.

Another, gruffer voice grumbled, “Do we really need to do this now? It’s the middle of the night.” Becky looked into the next stall to view Buster’s sturdy brown Quarter Horse rump directly in her line of sight. His black mane and tail drooped with his lowered head as he swished his tail in irritation.

“Of course we need to do it now! It’s midnight on Christmas Eve! When else are we going to be able to do it?” Picasso again performed his Arab head toss, this time expressing impatience and frustration.

Becky sat down hard on the nearest bale of hay. She took a few deep breaths while allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. With the moon full it wasn’t hard to see Picasso’s white and black head bobbing over his stall door. Within a minute she could make out Buster’s blocky head coming around to peer over his door. His white star was a focal point in the dark. “Okay, the horses are talking to me. Am I still dreaming? It really is the wine, isn’t it?”

Becky “thought” rather than saw Buster’s eyes roll. She definitely heard his grumble. Picasso was much more sympathetic. He consciously shifted his body to ignore Buster’s crankiness and focused on Becky. “I’ve heard you talking about the ‘myth’ of horses talking at midnight on Christmas Eve. You talk to us every day. Why wouldn’t we understand and talk back?”

She stretched out her hand to bury it in Picasso’s mane draping over the stall door, needing to feel something real to convince herself she wasn’t dreaming. He said, “We do talk back, you know. You just don’t hear us. Tonight you can. Merry Christmas, Miss Becky.”

Becky rose from the hay bale and absent-mindedly grabbed a couple apple-flavored horse biscuits from the treat bin. That brought two sets of ears forward. “Assuming this is really happening, I don’t get it. Why now? Why talk to me tonight?.”

Buster munched his cookie then pulled back his lips to savor the flavor. “Don’t look at me. Wasn’t my idea. I said leave it alone.”

Flicking an ear at Buster, Picasso mumbled “Get over it, Grumpy Pants.” Turning to Becky he politely thanked her for the cookie. “Not every human can talk to horses but many can if they just listen quietly. Sometimes there is magic on Christmas Eve.”

“What?! So it’s true that horses talk at Midnight on Christmas Eve? Why haven’t you ever talked to me? Why now? Is something wrong? Are you sick? Is Buster sick?” Becky’s heart dropped to her stomach and her lips felt numb. Uncle Dean had been teaching her about cold weather health problems: colic, abscesses, and all kinds of dangerous issues.

Buster and Picasso both popped their heads up in alarm and flared their nostrils, inhaling her fear. “No, no, nothing like that!” Picasso pushed forward to comfort Becky and Buster swished his tail. “Horses rarely bother to communicate with humans unless their minds seem open enough to hear. But, Becky, we decided,” said with a purposeful look at Buster, “that you needed to hear from us.”

“This is getting weirder and weirder.” Becky started pacing in front of the stall doors. She pulled the elastic from her hair, unwound the stray blond hairs stuck in the band, and methodically smoothed it all back into another ponytail. “Why? What’s going on? It sounds important.”

Buster reached his head over to bump Picasso in the rump. Picasso swished his tail at him but Buster just bumped him again. Picasso turned to Becky with a soft look in his eye. “We know how much you are hurting, but it’s time to make a choice. Buster believes you have the right to be angry at the world, but I don’t. It’s killing your spirit.”

At this point Picasso tilted his head to scratch his jaw on top of the stall door, looking a little embarrassed. Becky slowed her pacing and paused at the shelf at the end of the alley. Needing to avoid eye contact, she grabbed the packet of braiding elastics and stopped in front of Picasso’s stall, fingering his black and white mane.

Buster cocked a hind leg and sighed. “Look. I don’t know it’s any of our business but your anger is leaking out everywhere. Feels like you’re sinking down in a hole that you don’t want to climb out of. That’s your choice. Don’t blame you for giving up. Sounds like your mom just abandoned you.”

That stopped Becky’s fingers momentarily. She took a deep breath and began separating Picasso’s mane into sections and braiding it with the bright purple and pink bands. “That’s not fair. I’m not giving up. I’m carrying on. I’m just sad.” And after a pause added, “She didn’t abandon me; she DIED.”

Picasso and Buster shared a look. Picasso bobbed his head. “Well, you act like she abandoned you. You have so much anger there isn’t any room for sad. You’re not carrying on. You’re hiding. There was a time for that but now it’s passed. It’s time for you to make room for some humans in your life rather than hanging out in the barn talking to us. We enjoy having you to ourselves but we know you need to get through your grief to get happy.”

Becky wiped a tear that was tickling its way down her cheek. She stopped braiding but twined her fingers in Picasso’s mane and slumped against the stall door in defeat. Picasso wrapped his head over her shoulder and Buster stretched his muzzle to breathe in her hair. Nobody spoke. Becky couldn’t push sound past the lump in her throat. Slowly her fingers started moving again and more braids appeared. But she couldn’t see them. Tears filled her eyes and spilled onto Picasso’s neck. Neither horse moved until Becky eventually dropped her hands and shuddered a final sob.

Buster snuffled her shoulder and Picasso lipped the strands of her hair that had come loose from her ponytail. That beautiful black and white soul gently inquired, “How many times have you started to laugh but stopped yourself because you felt it would be disloyal to your mom? How many times have you started to smile but thought someone might think you liked living in Montana? Who are you trying to punish? Seems the only one being punished is you.”

With hands gently cupping both Picasso’s and Buster’s muzzles, Becky raised her head and forced her eyes to address both of them. “I hear you. And I AM damn tired of being mad. It’s just too much to carry.” Becky though of Aunt Bev and Uncle Dean and how kind and patient they’d been. She knew it would be hard but she made a vow to drop her wall of silence and let them know just how much she appreciated their compassion. She hated feeling vulnerable but tried to keep in mind that they had lost a dear sister too. Her mom was Dean’s only sibling and had been Bev’s best friend since high school. The entire family should be sharing a common grief. “Right now I’m exhausted. I’m going back to bed and I’ll see you in the morning. We have so much to talk about.”

~

Becky woke to clear skies and sunshine and the sound of excited voices in the driveway. “Wow, I slept a lot longer and deeper than I thought.” She pulled a sweatshirt over her flannel pajamas and made her way down the stairs toward the warm aromas of coffee brewing and cinnamon sugar.

“Daddy!” Becky could hardly believe her eyes as she rushed down the stairs. Her dad was standing at the front door . . . with a bundle of fur in his arms. Just as she jumped the last two stairs the bundle yipped! Becky slid to a stop in her Christmas socks on the hardwood floors. “Dad?”

“Merry Christmas, Becky. We finally made it.” Her dad pulled the blanket from the face of a furry little moppet as he closed the front door and stepped into the foyer. “I sure wish we could have gotten here last night.” He set the bundle on the floor and pulled Becky into the giant bear hug she didn’t realized how much she had missed.

“What’s this?” Becky asked, dropping to her knees to embrace the squeaking pile of fluff. She had tears in her eyes and felt like her Grinch’s heart had grown three sizes in three seconds. The floofer had blue eyes and couldn’t stop licking Becky’s hands.

Her dad pulled off his stocking cap and ran his fingers through his steel gray hair. Becky noticed it was grayer and longer than it had ever been when her Mom was alive. He untied his boots as he replied, “she’s a 10 week old Australian Shepherd puppy who’s been waiting to meet you. She had a very eventful Christmas travel adventure.”

The puppy jumped in Becky’s lap, or tried to, until Becky sat her bottom on the floor and criss-crossed her legs. “Oh, she’s just beautiful.” Looking toward Aunt Bev and Uncle Dean she asked, “Do I really get to keep her?”

Aunt Bev tried to look inconspicuous as she wiped a tear from her eye. Uncle Dean responded, “Of course! It’s way past time we had a new Aussie on the ranch.”

The puppy rolled on her back to ask for rubs on her round puppy belly. Becky and her dad both chuckled. He dropped to his knees to embrace daughter and puppy.

“Dean, why don’t you grab Bill’s bags from the truck while he and Becky entertain the little imp? I’ll get the cinnamon rolls frosted and ready for a Christmas morning breakfast.”

~

“Dad, I’ve missed you so much.” Becky didn’t know what else to say once she and her dad were alone in front of the fireplace. She pulled the puppy up to her neck for a full body snuggle. “I think we should name her Holly. You know, for Christmas?”

“That’s a perfect name.” Bill squirmed a bit on the sofa, not sure how to say what he needed to say. “Becky, I know it’s been hard. For both of us. I think we’ve both been so wrapped up in our own gloom that we haven’t noticed that it might lighten up if we shared it.”

He picked up a large tote bag, sat it on his lap, and met Becky’s eyes as he unzipped it. “Sweetheart, your mom left us before anyone expected, especially her. None of us were ready. Of course, we could never be ready.” Bill stopped, plucked at his eyebrows and awkwardly fingered his left ear. “What I’m trying to say is that we, I mean I, could have handled this all a bit better.” He just shrugged his shoulders in defeat and pulled a scrapbook from the tote.

“I’ve been in a dark place since we lost your mom, avoiding the pain by working and traveling.” Her dad’s eyes were red-rimmed, with new lines and dark shadows. “I finally got around to going through your mother’s things and I found this.” Handing the scrapbook over the top of Holly to Becky he continued, “Apparently your mom had been working on a book of memories for you. There’s a letter inside.”

Becky held the book in her arms and clasped it tight to her chest. “Oh Dad. I felt so forgotten and unimportant. So much seemed unfinished. I couldn’t believe she didn’t talk to me about her thoughts of having me come to live with Uncle Dean and Aunt Bev here in Montana. It just wasn’t like her to not discuss something so important.” She flipped the pages of the scrapbook until she found a bunch of blank pages near the back.

“She left a lot sooner than she thought or she never would have left a project unfinished.” Becky chuckled at her dad’s weak joke. It’s true her mom would never be so unreliable! An envelope fell from between the pages. “I never would have had you move here if it hadn’t been your mother’s idea. I planned to quit my job and stay home to be with you. But your mom (and Dean and Bev) insisted that you needed a family and a purpose. I could visit often in my travels. And we always loved spending summers in Montana.” He scratched his chin. “I believe that letter explains it all.”

~

After cinnamon rolls, Christmas music, more presents, and the joy of a new puppy, Becky contemplated the words and memories her mother left her. She was surprised to see a smile on her face in the mirror as she washed her faced and brushed her teeth.

Anxious to thank Picasso and Buster for the nudge she needed to let go of her anger and sit with her grief, she snapped a leash on Holly and shouted from the door, “I’m taking Holly out to potty.”

Becky skipped into the barn laughing as Holly literally hopped her way across the yard, stopping to investigate every blowing leaf and twig. “Hey boys. Merry Christmas. I brought you a pet.”

Two heads came over their stall doors. Both blinking and nickering in anticipation of a morning treat. But that was it. Nobody said a word. Becky’s heart sank. “Picasso? Buster? Didn’t we talk last night?” Nothing. “Okay. I knew it. Just a dream.” With slumping shoulders Becky turned to pick up Holly but froze mid-stride.

Picasso had turned his head. He cocked it and bobbed it up and down. From his ears to the middle of his neck his mane was braided, with purple and pink little elastic bands.