Page 22 of Bringing Home A Cowboy
When the plates are cleared, Olivia takes my hand. “Come, I want to show you my old bedroom.”
Her old room looks like a magazine spread with pale gold walls, shelves lined with trophies and framed school photos, a canopy bed dressed in linen instead of quilts. Everything’s neat, untouched, preserved like time stopped the moment she left. She stands near the window, fingertips tracing the edge of a childhood photo—her on horseback, ten years old and smiling like she had no idea what heartbreak was.
“So this is where you grew up,” I say softly.
She nods. “This is it.”
I move closer, glancing around at the crystal lamps, the glossy floors. “You sure you’ll be happy trading this for wood smoke and wind?”
She turns, eyes catching mine. “James … this was never home. It was just a place I slept. The ranch feels like breathing again. And you …” her voice softens “… you feel like the reason I want to.”
I let out a slow breath. “I just needed to hear it.”
“Then hear it,” she says, stepping into my space until her palm rests flat against my chest. “You are my home. The rest is just scenery.”
I wrap my arms around her while the city sparkles outside her old bedroom windows — a thousand lights stretching farther than the eye can see.
“Guess you just told the whole world you’re mine,” I whisper.
She smiles up at me, eyes soft and certain. “I told them the truth.”
For a long moment, we just stand there. Outside, snow begins to fall again, soft against the glass, the city lights turning it to silver dust. And for a cowboy who’s never belonged in a city, I’ve never felt more at home than right here, beside her.
Epilogue
Olivia
One Year Later
Snow now falls, almost in slow motion, outside the windo. It’s just the way it came down the day I almost lost everything. Fortunately, I found something better. The ranch glows with Christmas lights now, each one reflecting off the freshly painted porch rails James finished last spring. Inside, the scent of a big turkey roasting and pine from the fresh tree fills every corner.
We’ve invited company. Millie is humming and helping in the kitchen, Sheriff Collins and his wife sip cider by the fire. Even my sister, Caroline, has decided to venture into the wilds of Colorado for a different kind of Christmas.
It feels like home — our home.
I move to the window and glance out at the pasture. The fences are sturdy again, the barn roof gleams in the winter light, and two foals chase each other through the snow. A year ago, I couldn’t even imagine this. Now, I can’t imagine life without it.
Footsteps sound behind me. “You thinking about running away again?”
I turn to find James leaning against the doorframe, that teasing smile still the same. “Only if you come with me.”
“Good answer.” He wraps his arms around me, chin resting on my shoulder. “You know, you’re a natural at this ranch thing.”
“I’ve had a decent teacher,” I murmur.
“Decent?” he repeats, mock offended.
I laugh, turning in his arms to kiss him. “Fine. Exceptional.”
He grins. “Better.”
We stand like that for a while, the kind of silence that feels full instead of empty. It’s been a year, but every day still feels new.
“Come on,” he says softly. “Let’s see if that turkey is ready to be carved.”
For the first time in years, Christmas doesn’t feel heavy. It feelsright. Like this is how it was always supposed to be.
Caroline’s pouring cider into mugs, her cheeks flushed pink from the fire. Someone’s teasing James about his carving skills while he pretends not to hear. The long table is lined with food — roast, rolls, pies, enough to feed the whole town if they wandered by.
