Christmas in Absaroka County: Walt Longmire Christmas Stories Read Online Free PDF

for Christmas.”
    Gillette, Wyoming—one of the largest open-pit coal mines in the world.
    “A week ago, you said we could do some shopping when you picked me up.”
    I did.
    “You promised.”
    I had.
    She stretched out a hand, the Burberry coat sleeve riding up her arm, and flipped on the radio, readjusting the station to “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.” “You always get like this at the holidays.” She fooled with the search button, this time coming up with Andy Williams and “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.” “What’s the best gift Mom ever gave you?”
    “You.”
    Three slaps.
    “Besides me.”
    I thought about it but couldn’t really come up with anything. I added, as an afterthought, “She bought me these Peerless stainless-steel handcuffs that are on my belt.”
    “I’m not buying you handcuffs for Christmas.” She pulled the visor down, sliding open the hidden mirror I always forgot was there, and smoothed her lip gloss with her index finger. “What about your radio?”
    I glanced at my dash and Andy Williams. “What’s wrong with my radio?”
    Cady snapped her reflection shut and flipped the visor up with a wave of her hand. “The one at home, the weather thinga-ma-jiggie.”
    “The NOAA radio?”
    She reinforced the point by throwing the finger with the lip gloss residue at me.
    It was true—the thing had died. Everyone on the high plains has one sitting in their mud rooms—little, dark-gray plastic radios that pick up the frequency of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration so that their owners can find out just how many feet of snow are going to be on the ground in the morning. Dog had knocked the device from where it crouched on the counter, at which point it had stopped receiving the local NOAA alerts. I had finalized its demise with a Phillips screwdriver in an attempt to take it apart on my kitchen table while talking to my daughter long distance. “It died.”
    She nodded in exasperation. “I know; you said you killed it.”
    I glanced back at Dog. “It was natural causes.”
    “So you
need
another one.” She emphasized the word with a smile.
    I really didn’t; I’d gotten in the habit of not listening to it after my friend Henry Standing Bear had alerted me to the fact that I had a tendency to leave it on, giving Henry the impression that, although we were in my kitchen, we were on a ship and he was getting seasick. I still suspected the Cheyenne Nation of moving the radio close to the edge of the counter where Dog could get tangled in the cord. The Bear had his own ways of knowing the weather and, better yet, knowing which way the wind blew.
    “I guess.”
    Excited with the thought that she had found the perfect gift, she nudged forward on the truck seat. “Where do you buy them?”
    “Radio Shack.”
    “Where’s Radio Shack?”
    “The mall.”
    Three slaps.
    * * *
    I successfully avoided the Rimrock Mall by suggesting that we go to one of the big-box stores, so I parked the Bullet beside a light post in the parking lot at Best Buy down by Big Bear Sports Center, near the MasterLube with the pro–Montana State mural that said GO, CATS! Cady slipped out the passenger side as I opened the suicide door and let Dog free onto the snow-dusted grass berm to relieve himself.
    She came around the truck and stood with me, her arm linked with mine. Cady watched Dog lift his leg on the candy-striped lamppost, and I leaned against the fender, drew her closer to me, and studied the lights of the MasterLube. I was a good four hundred miles over and what I really needed was to get the oil changed in my truck.
    “I’m not buying you an oil change for Christmas, either.”
    I brought my eyes down to her as she watched Dog continue to pee. With the glistening in her eyes and the flakes resting gently on her hair like a blessing, she looked so much like her mother that I had to catch my breath in my mouth “You . . .” I bit the vapor escaping from