Grady's POV

I've never been particularly fond of Christmas. The terrible childhood memories are quite clingy to this date. They just don't fade as well as the rest do. I guess it's taught me to keep my expectations in check.

Over the last handful of years, I must say, I've lowered my guard. The season has grown on me. We got the farmhouse back and have the whole ranch to decorate, when we find the time and inclination, and this year we did. It's Christmas-card perfect. The lights go on for almost half a mile.

I don't want to jinx it. Christmas isn't quite over yet. But it is 8PM on the day of, and at this point, I think I can safely call it the best one ever.

As always, when it comes to anything good that I've received, I have Taryn to thank. She's an amazing wife and mother. The kids and our guests are all entertained and stuffed to the gills. As far as I can tell, there's never an end left dangling.

As I'm seeing Knox and his wife, Lori, and their two kids to the door, I take a moment to gaze at Taryn, who has made this house a home again. We've all aged, me probably more than anyone, but Taryn is barely any worse for wear. She doesn't even look tired, filling drinks and serving dessert with a smile.

My eyes dip from her lips, to cleavage, to bellybutton for like the thirtieth time tonight. She looks sexy as hell in that red dress. She's all leg and baby. She's eight months pregnant. Any pound out of place is all in her chest, and it pretty much melts right off her before the new baby is even sleeping through the night. I think by now it's a pattern. I've seen it four times before. She never sits still, she rarely sleeps, and goes from one money-making endeavor to another, nine out of ten of them successful, and she makes it look easy.

I watch her move and my heartrate picks up. The dancer in her shines through, sure as the sun. Our competition boots may be in the back of the closet somewhere. Yes, she got me up to snuff. We did the competition circuit before we had too many kids to keep track of, and we even won occasionally. But you'd never know that she's out of practice. It's the way she carries herself. Grace, beauty, patience, love. I can see it when she whisks a stray hair back toward her slightly flawed up-do, or when she absentmindedly strokes her stomach. Her bellybutton has popped out at this point in her pregnancy. It's one of those cute things that draws the eye and makes me crazy knowing I have to wait my turn.

I'm usually last but never least. As busy and overwhelmed as we are, I don't have much to complain about. Yes, I still grumble to myself from time to time. When it comes to her, I'm selfish and overprotective. I have my reasons, and they're valid ones, and though they're not as pressing as they once were, they're instinctual at this point.

"Will we see you on New Year's?" Knox pats me on the back while he shakes my hand.

He has a Rose Bowl party every year that we rarely miss. Compared to the girls Knox used to date, Lori is an absolute delight. She and Taryn are closer than he and I will ever be, and no one ever brings up the entanglement from years past. I doubt Lori even knows about it, and I suppose it's for the best.

"I think so." My eyes flick to the strum of a guitar. That must be Quinn in the far corner of the porch. "Baby willing, of course. Is there anything you'd like us to bring?"

"Oh, that buffalo dip of Taryn's is just divine," Lori babbles on, which is her way. In the same breath, she yells for her two boys, and wobbles a bit doing so, but she catches herself on Knox's shoulder.

I was hoping for beer or a vegetable platter, but that's fine. We'll make it happen. "Sounds good. Thanks for coming." I give her a hug and wave as they get into their truck.

I stroll along the porch, heading toward Quinn, and damn, it's chilly tonight. I'm blowing warm air into my hands when I hear the "mijo" from behind. The Rodriguezes, "Alvi" and "Viv," are heading out as well.

Alvi, of course, gives me a big bearhug, tears and everything. We're not normally like this. We're not partners anymore. We're not technically even cops. I resigned once the ranch was up and running, and Alvi retired for real. When we were in Patrol, we were just coworkers and weren't particularly chummy. We moved to Narcotics together, though, and for eleven tumultuous years, it was about busting balls and occasionally locking horns in a way that rolled right off me in five minutes.

Anyway, 'tis the season to reflect on the time we've spent together and everything we've done for each other. We've saved each other's lives in more ways than we could ever count, but for me, it's so much more than that. I owe him not just my life, but that of Taryn and Mitchell, our eldest, as well.

In those early days of Taryn and I living together, I was working too much and spread too thin, every which way, worried all the damn time. Taryn couldn't stay cooped up in that tiny apartment forever. She wanted to find a job and reconnect with old friends, and I wanted that for her, too. She'd always been independent, coming and going as she pleased, for as long as I'd known her. I didn't want to be the one to take that away from her. Her stepfather's henchmen were all still out there, though. The sixteen-hundred-mile barrier was not comforting. They'd been in Texas before and did their stalking and intimidating with alarming ease.

There were no early signs that danger was imminent, but if she left the apartment, we both agreed that I should be with her and armed to the teeth, at least for a while. But after a week or so, she was going a little stir-crazy. In what little time I had off during the day, we were doing a lengthy list of chores and little else. Except each other, and that was incredible, but she needed more than that. Her body was too active. Her mind, too sharp. I was exhausted, being her only company, and doing everything with her and for her, and something had to give.

When Taryn got an accounting job, which wasn't hard for her, the finances were better, but my mental state was a whole lot worse. I couldn't always protect her. When I tried to look out for her anyway, it took its toll on my job performance. I wanted the Narcotics promotion, and I was just a little red tape away from it, but I needed her to stay safe, and it started to seem like I couldn't have both.

That's when Alvi stepped in. He was technically my "competition," or so we assumed at the time. And one day, he took one look at me and joked that I was taking all the fun out of kicking my ass. I was making it too easy, doing most of the job for him. When I didn't give him any crap back, I got the surprisingly genuine "que paso?"

I didn't know him that well on a personal level, but I just unloaded everything on him, more than I ever did for Knox, who was there for part of it. I would have been fine with a little compassion in return, but, because Alvi is who he is, he took it to a whole other level. He had school-age daughters at the time and a grudge for the cartel that wasn't just business as usual, so he understood the fear, the dread, the pulling the gun at every shadow, more than anyone else could. And he offered to be an extra pair of eyes around Taryn whenever he was off and out and about. He also helped spread the word to other departments and public servants, and local business owners. For a while, there was probably no girl in Texas who was as well protected.

Taryn wasn't crazy about the idea at first, and didn't like all the fuss, but within weeks, Taryn and Alvi were running their errands together, giving advice, and gossiping like schoolgirls. She was babysitting his girls, picking them up from school, and taking them to their dance lessons. She'd eat at their house when I was working late, and we'd take them all out a couple times a month, if and when we were all off. We even went on vacation together a few times, south of the border. Mexico, Costa Rica, Peru. We took turns watching the kids, and my shitty Spanish was never an issue. 

Alvi and I ended up being promoted together, which was a pleasant surprise, and we became partners. Viv is a nurse, so it was never without its challenges, but we got through it, and it was time well invested. They were truly the family we didn't have. And when it came time for that family to step up and do what needed doing, Alvi did so, without hesitation.

We expected trouble from Idaho to come on hard and fast. They seemed pretty attached to the idea of Taryn and Quinn living there, and it must have been infuriating for them when they realized they'd been duped by two young women. But no one that we knew of ever made an appearance. We did get a new apartment as soon as my lease was up, and changed vehicles, but I wouldn't say we were "hiding" or anything.

Months turned into years. And then we assumed, once we were working closely with the FBI, that they might find a way to retaliate. But that never came to be, either.

We did lower our guard by then. We had to. Even with help, that level of vigilance was not something we could maintain indefinitely. Yes, there were cracks in Taryn's coverage, but we never dropped it entirely. And once she was pregnant with Mitchell, we got all kinds of crazy again. Life had to go on, but, of course, Keith Hill's criminal trial was happening at the same time.

Taryn was a week away from testifying, and would have to do so, seven months pregnant. That alone was quite the burden to carry. It was bad enough to see Keith and her mother again, and to share all those personal details with the world, literally. Because of the size and scope of "Camp Merit," and the corruption and perversion therein, the trial was getting national coverage.

It was one of those warm, sunny, seemingly carefree spring mornings where nothing bad was supposed to happen. I kissed her goodbye, about to get some sleep after the nightshift. She and Alvi were both due for a trip to the grocery store, something they made a habit of every Monday morning.

About an hour later, my phone was lighting up like a Christmas tree, which was strange. I was off and everyone I cared about knew not to bother me.

By the third buzz and second call, I picked it up. It wasn't Taryn, and that terrified me.

Details came pouring in as I was throwing on clothes and driving like a maniac. Taryn was okay but may have broken a wrist to protect the baby. She was on her way to the hospital. Alvi was okay too, but there were shots fired and a man was down, but it wasn't one of ours.

By the time I got to the hospital, I had the whole story. She was unpacking her cart, alone at the time, when "Bart," one of Keith's sons, approached her, claiming he wanted to "talk."  Alvi was still checking out. She tried stalling for time, but Bart didn't want to have a conversation in the parking lot and was forcing her toward a car at gunpoint. He heard the "freeze" and swung around. To pick a gunfight with Alvi, well . . . it wasn't a particularly long exchange. The idiot never pulled the trigger and wasn't left with much time to suffer. It was one clean shot right through the heart.

We were all incredibly lucky. Taryn took the stand, seven months pregnant with a broken wrist. It reemphasized how dangerous these people were, and justice was ultimately served. Mitchell was fine, born healthy three days overdue. Alvi was lauded as a hero, and got through the inquiry without a hitch, which is rare in these types of circumstances.

Still, there were no "winners." Someone had to die. Bart may have been nuts, but he'd had plenty of help getting there. He wasn't even thirty years old at the time. This wasn't something Taryn should ever have seen, either, or something Alvi should have had to do. We pulled our guns all the time in Narcotics, but this was his first and only kill.

I still lose sleep over it all because it could have been so much worse. It was ultimately my responsibility to pull the trigger, but I had to lay that burden on the only "hermano" I've ever cared about. And, it could happen again. Keith might be gone for good, but he has another living son who is up for parole soon. Annette only got three years. Gunther a.k.a. Clown-face only has three to five more. There are dozens of other Camp Merit members who never served time and probably should have. And between Keith and his two sons, they probably have about forty genetic relatives.

And Alvi, to this day, still takes Taryn grocery shopping. He's the only other male on this earth who I trust to do so.

"I love you, man." Alvi is still clinging to my chest. He isn't tall but he is strong, and I can barely breathe. The love is pure, but I think their famous margaritas are playing a role here as well.

We finally break apart and I help him to the car. "You get him home safe, all right?" Viv hugs me and kisses my temple, and then they're gone, too.

And I think that's everyone. Quinn is still here, but she's staying for a while.

I haven't had a chance to sit down since dinner and we still have some catching up to do, and I guess there's no time like the present.

"Aren't you cold?" I ask as I take the seat beside her, wishing I had the good sense to grab a jacket.

She shakes her head and keeps strumming. "The guitar is keeping me warm."

I'd like to know how long she's staying and should figure out a polite way to ask. "Working on something new?"

"Yep." She plays it for me, and I just sit back and listen.

The song is about a journey that's cyclical. Try as one may, one never really gets ahead. A destination is not hers to have.

It makes sense, because she's a bit of a drifter. She has no home, really. Marriage isn't really her thing, either. She's tried and failed three times and claims to have no intention of trying again, but I heard the same thing the last time she stopped by, a few years ago. That was after her second husband. Kids are a touchy subject with her as well, one I know to avoid at all cost unless she brings it up. She doesn't have her own kids, and has claimed that's by choice, but I see the way she looks at her nephews. With love first. She's a great aunt when she decides to have a presence in their lives, but there's obviously some longing and regret in there as well.

Keith and Quinn's first husband really did a number on her. She didn't come out of that experience the same. Taryn bounced back all right, but she was only in that compound for eight hours. Quinn was there for thirteen weeks. We couldn't track her down in time to testify, and we doubt she would have anyway. But, knowing what we now know about Keith's MO, his hostility towards her wasn't just about her work ethic or ungodliness. She was attractive but unreceptive "to everything life has to offer."

That was a direct quote from Taryn's testimony. 

I've had my issues with Quinn, but no one deserves that. There is, at least, a silver lining for her. Her songs really capture the struggle in a way that's universally relatable, and to a point, she's living the dream. She's no headliner, but she's been the opening number for groups like the Dixie Chicks and Martina McBride. It's not something she'll ever get rich from, but the money was just a means to an end for her. I see that now, and can accept it. . .

I believe she did love me, as much as she was capable, while she was stuck here. But her father died, and we both had too grow up to fast. And in the next phase of our youth, I would have just gotten in the way. Letting me go was selfish first, but it was arguably a kindness to me as well. The pain would've only gotten worse the longer she strung me along. I was just too stubborn and heartbroken to see that . . . until Taryn reopened my eyes.

And with those open eyes, I see Mitchell, my firstborn, named after his grandfather, trying to sneak by me.

"Did you muck out those stalls already?" I call out to him.

His jolt makes it obvious that he didn't see me sitting here. Had he known, he probably would have gone a different direction.

Quinn stops strumming to listen to us bicker, not fascinated but maybe curious, perhaps wondering what kind of man, father, and rancher I turned out to be. I wonder if she's surprised or not, but wonder is as far as I let myself go. I'd like her approval, from a sister-in-law's perspective, but I certainly don't need it.

Mitch is a terrible liar, and I can tell he's considering it anyway, but he decides on the truth, and the sigh lets me know he's not happy about it. "I did half," he admits. "Can't I do the rest in the morning? For God's sake, it's Christmas."

"You think the horses care? And watch your mouth. It is Christmas, and you were not one to suffer!"

I lean back in my chair, and Mitch plods back toward the barn, as told.

"You run a tight ship, Grady Bishop," Quinn comments. "I like the new sign by the way."

"Do you think it's too much?"

Quinn bursts out laughing. "No, it's good. It suits you."

I chuckle, too. It's huge and would probably be tacky as hell if you weren't a Bishop or an Abernathy who loves horses.

Taryn and I talked about this sign, but it became a "disagreement," and we dropped the idea. We couldn't decide if it should be The Abernathy-Bishop or the Bishop-Abernathy Horse Ranch. Then it showed up on Christmas morning, already hung, twice as big as we'd planned, and without me having to lift a finger. Our business is officially the Bishop-Abernathy Horse Ranch. It may seem like a small concession, but it means everything to me. Besides her love, and the healthy children she takes such good care of, it's probably the best gift I've ever received.

Quinn reaches down, and from the side of her chair that I can't really see, she pulls up a bottle of liquor. This shouldn't come as a surprise. It's something we've done together probably a hundred times, but when I see the label, I do a double take anyway. It's the Nosotros Madera that Alvi and Viv gave me for Christmas.

"That's a hundred-fifty-dollar bottle of tequila, and it is mine, you know."

She gives me the brush off with the flick of her hand. "You don't even drink anymore."

"It's not that I don't like to drink. I just don't very much. And give me that." I grab the bottle from her and take a slug of my own. "It's been a long day, and in a few weeks, I'm going to be the dad of a newborn again."

"Congratu-fucking-lations." She grabs the bottle back from me and nearly chokes on the big sip she takes.

"Thanks, I think. . ."

She rolls her eyes, looking both contrite and annoyed. "Five, Grady. Really? Was four not enough?"

She hands the bottle back to me and at that moment, Taryn pops out the front door with two-year-old Nolan in her arms. He's our youngest, but not for much longer.

"Just look at her," I whisper as Taryn is strolling closer. As always, she has this hypnotic sway to her hips. "Can you blame me?"

Taryn zooms in on the bottle in my hand, and I get another Abernathy eyeroll. That's two in less than a minute. I could be wrong, but I think it's a new record. "Can you get him tired, please?" She hands me Nolan. He's in his PJs with his hat and jacket on, and a blanket around him. He doesn't look tired at all. She's right about that. At least he's pretty chill about it. I can't say that about two of his older brothers. I can hear them either yelling or crying from here. "Benji has a 'tummyache,'" she informs me. "And Ollie is still bouncing off the walls. Have you seen Mitch?"

I hand the bottle of Madera back to Quinn and don't intend to take it back. "He was sent back to the barn. He's been cutting corners again."

"He's eleven," she says, maybe for Quinn's sake. I doubt she remembers how old he is. She's a good aunt but not that good. "If he crosses your path, can you tell him it's his turn for a shower?"

"Sure thing." I grab Taryn's hand when she turns to go, and I give her a brief but direct stare that she won't misinterpret. There are enough sure things to go around. "I'll be in in a minute."

When Taryn goes back in the house, Quinn scoffs in the way that sisters sometimes do. They lead such different lives. It's what they've chosen, and worked so hard for, and for the most part, they're content. The "grass is always greener" phenomenon can come into play, though. It's something we all probably experience during moments of weakness or adversity. And Christmas seems to shine extra light on the notion. Taryn is so busy and spread so thin, and Quinn is lazily strumming her guitar, and will probably do so until she can't move her fingers anymore.

Quinn sets the bottle down, and between strums, she picks up the train of our previous conversation. "She is annoyingly perfect. And has barely aged a day, despite the five massive Grady juniors you've cycled through her system. Please tell me this next one is a girl."

I lean back in my chair and bring Nolan and the blanket with me, and he doesn't fight it. It's actually pretty cozy. We'll keep each other warm. And he should be out in no time. "It is."

"Wow." Her strumming comes to a full stop. "Your cock finally threw her a bone she might appreciate." 

It's not often I'm reminded of times past, but that one strikes a chord. It's how we used to talk to each other, and part of what I missed about her. We were friends first, and it had crude, boyish tendencies sometimes. This is just a fraction of what it once was, and I'm fine with that, truly, but it's nice. I consider it a gift, something I can gladly accept as her brother-in-law, and I don't mind giving it right back to her. "She appreciates all my bones, thank you very much."

As soon as the words come out, we both chuckle at the irony. Quinn's is an "I told you so" and mine is one of defeat. A giant crash is still echoing into the cold night air. 

I tuck the blanket around Nolan and carefully stand. He's already half-asleep. "I better go."

No more than three steps later, Quinn gives me a reason to stop. "Uh, Grady?"

Oh, dear God. It's her tone. I wish I was still sitting down for this. She has bad news or is about to ask for some ridiculous favor.

"She might show up." She lets that hang there for a moment. "I'm just warning you."

"Who might show up?"

I know, but I don't. The she I think she's referring to is just too incomprehensible right now.

"Your mother-in-law, dummy. It is Christmas. She is sorry and wants to meet her grandchildren. She's divorced, by the way. . ."

"Shocking. . ."

"And I think she's sick," Quinn keeps going. It's apparently a long list. "Goes without saying that she's flat broke as well."

If Quinn knows this, does it mean that she's forgiven her? If we're comparing trauma, you'd figure Quinn would be the least likely to do so. Then again, she's made some grave errors in judgment herself and would be less likely to hold a grudge against someone else's.

Taryn, however, was on the high road as far I'm concerned. She only fell from it because she was pushed, and was only vulnerable, because she has a heart. The experience has hardened that heart, though. She has plenty of love to give, but you have to earn it and make an effort to maintain it. Even Quinn has been at risk of losing it, but she's doing better these days. She's here and engaged. And that matters, especially to Taryn.

"I wish her luck with all that." If I sound dismissive, it's because I am. It's a lot to unpack, and I have my own feelings on the matter, but I don't see the sense. "She'll need it, to get past Taryn." To be honest, I don't think she will, even if I'm open to the idea.

She's our kids' only living grandparent. That at least gives me pause. We didn't let my mother into our lives, either, but she died before the kids were born, so it's not the best example to live by.

"No kiddin'! I haven't even found the nerve to tell her yet." Quinn looks up at me, all sad and pleading.

It irritates me that I can read her so well. "And let me guess." I sway and rub Nolan's back. He's just a couple of minutes away from a good night's sleep. As young as he is, he's surprisingly the best sleeper we've got. "You want me to tell her."

"You took the words right out of my mouth! Thanks, Grady. You're the best!"

She smirks, knowing she won. I grunt and shake my head, knowing I didn't.

I head inside, put Nolan down in his crib, and he knows the drill. He lays down and it's the last we hear from him. Then I help Taryn rein in the rest of the chaos. We ignore the mess downstairs, like the days-worth of dishes, and close the bedroom door about an hour later. We just stand there, facing each other, holding our breaths. After about ten seconds, when nothing patters, bonks, breaks, or cries, we exhale and lock the door.

Right after it clicks, she turns around and wordlessly asks me to unzip her dress. It's something I've been fantasizing about all night. I get a whiff of her perfume, and the diamond bracelet I got her sparkles in the lamplight when she unclips her hair. She moans when I unlatch her bra. She lets everything loose drop to the floor and drags the lacy red underwear down with it. Did I mention how much I love Christmas?

Always the efficient one, she's on me a beat later, fully naked, her lips and hands hard at work. She's unbuttoning my shirt, unfastening my belt, and as much as I'd like to let what Quinn told me go until morning, I can't get it out of my head. I don't want any surprises or fights about secrets that I've been keeping.

As soon as my lips are free, I just get it out there: "Your mother might make an appearance."

When Taryn kisses me again, undeterred, she's smiling slightly. 

"What?" I ask her when she pauses, deeper in thought. I rub my hands over her hips and along the side of her baby bump. Her skin is so soft there.

"I wouldn't get too worked up about it," she tells me, although her gaze is now uneasy. "She won't get past the front door unless she apologizes . . . to you . . . unprompted. And if, by the grace of God that happens, she won't be allowed to stay if there's so much as an unkind word or slanty eye pointed in your direction."

"All right." That's a pretty high bar, and I'm not sure Annette is capable of coming close, even if she is sorry. "And what about you?"

"I will deal. Those are my only terms." She gets my pants loose, and they drop to the floor. She lifts an eyebrow, and then she's guiding me into the bed with her fingers lightly curled inside of mine.

While I'm pulling off my undershirt, she scoots backwards on the mattress, and lays down with her knees raised and slightly apart. She's more agile and graceful eight months pregnant than I am, ever.

She flashes those playthings and goodies at me, and, you know, kid at Christmas here. She's so engorged, full of hormones, love, and desire for me. We've evolved. We've had our difficult times, but her eagerness and devotion has never faltered. And I can't help myself. My tongue is drawn to that sweet spot and I'm so gluttonously hungry for it. She finally relaxes, and then tenses back up again. Her body is fully flushed. She's rubbing out any discomfort in her lower abdomen with slow, steady strokes. Her soft moans are becoming more demanding.

And that's when we get a knock on the door.

My head lifts and I wince, like I'm waiting for a blow.

Words don't immediately follow.

The kids don't bother knocking. If they tried to get in and failed, and they were being ignored, they'd just fiddle with the damn lock until it gave way, or their hands were bleeding. Whichever came first...

It must be Quinn. "I know you're probably busy. . ." Yep, I was right. And this is concerning, because it's late, she's a guest here, and she would certainly know better. "Grady, you know what we were just talking about? Well . . . the time is apparently now."

Taryn has lifted to her elbows. Her eyes meet mine over her belly. There's the "deer in headlights" thing that is probably mutual. The look shifts to one of understanding. Commiseration, too. And by the end of that look, we're both laughing with resignation.

The nerve and timing of this lady. Could it be any worse?

We put some sweatpants and t-shirts on. Taryn skips the underwear. Then we're facing each other, my hand on the doorknob. She musses up her hair, and then musses up mine, and I'm pretty sure it didn't need any extra help looking terrible.

I cock my head at her. What was that for?

She answers the unspoken question with a shrug. Then she gives it to me straight, and my love for her pushes through every natural boundary and finds a way to grow a little more. "I want her to see love, and passion, and full solidarity."

Taryn takes a moment to correct the position of her bracelet on her wrist. The gift is a double-edged sword, I realize. I may be selfish, but I'm certainly not as lazy or vile as Annette made me out to be. On the other side of things, I don't need her coming here thinking that she can borrow money. The bracelet is like waving a cash-flag in her face. She'll think we have plenty to spare.

Well, if Taryn's proud, I'm proud. How's that for solidarity? 

"And we need messy hair for that?" I tease her.

"Absolutely. I want her to know what she was interrupting. It's bound to get a reaction that I won't like."

I wink and turn the lock. "You are such a rebel."

"Yeah, well. . ." She accepts the title with a kiss on my neck and a hand sneaking down the front of my pants. "Stay hungry, please. This isn't going to take very long."

"When have I ever not been hungry for you?" The word not comes out with a punch. Her grip is firm.

"I guess we're about to find out." She sensually disentangles herself and makes a point to put her hands where I can see them. "If this doesn't kill the mood, nothing ever will."

I give myself a moment to readjust, and then, at my nod of readiness, Taryn opens the door.

We stumble out of the bedroom smiling, my hand on Taryn's shoulder. We don't buckle beneath the weight of Quinn's wry and watchful gaze or the chore ahead of us.  

The end will be happy. There's nothing the M.I.L. from hell could say or do at this point to change that.

Jordan Davis – Next Thing You Know

https://youtu.be/3c909oqLfao