Page 17 of Mistletoe Cowboy
I cross the room, tilt her chin up until our eyes meet. “Let them talk, Sassy. Storm’s gone. Time to see what’s left standing.”
Instead of fighting, she nods, new resolve sparking in her gaze.
Outside, the world glitters clean and new. The broken limb that nearly killed me lies half-buried in the snow, the sunlight catching on its frozen bark.
Some storms destroy. Some reveal what’s strong enough to survive.
And looking at her now, I know which kind we are.
By the time we saddle the horses, the air’s gone razor-clear.
The snow under our boots squeaks, crusted from the night’s freeze, and every breath comes out white and sharp. The sky is so blue it hurts to look at. It’s the kind of morning that makes a man think anything broken can be rebuilt.
Sage stands beside Buffalo, tightening the cinch strap with steady hands, face half-hidden by her turned-up collar. She moves quietly, efficiently, but I can read the storm still turning behind her eyes. The same one that’s in me.
Twilight noses my shoulder, impatient to move. I pat her neck. “Easy, girl. We’re going home.”
Sage glances over. “You ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
We start down the ridge, hooves crunching over snow crust and frozen mud. The valley spreads below, glass-bright in the morning light, fences traced in silver wire. The world looks softer after the storm—like even the land’s tired of fighting.
Along the way, we stop for a small spruce I hack at with an axe. Nothing impressive. Not without a chainsaw to cut through thicker trunks. But her face beams like it’s the National Christmas Tree. I tie it behind Twilight, dragging it along. Still a beginning—a humble one.
Neither of us talks for a while. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s reverent, heavy with everything we said last night and everything we still have to face.
When we reach the winter pasture, the herd’s huddled together, steam rising off their hides. Ralph and two ranch hands are already out there, bundled up like scarecrows, working the gate. He spots us and waves an arm.
“’Bout time you two crawled outta that shack!” His voice carries over the snow. “Figured you froze to the wall!”
Sage blushes beneath her collar. I give her a quick, crooked grin meant to calm her nerves, but my heart kicks hard. Ralph’s no fool.
“We’re fine,” I shout back. “Fence held?”
“Mostly. Walter’s the one who didn’t hold. Took off before first light. Left the tractor running till it flooded.” Ralph spits into the snow. “That boy’s a damn disaster.”
Sage stiffens in her saddle. “He could be hurt.”
“Or drunk.” Ralph shrugs. “Either way, he’s gone.”
Her eyes meet mine over the horses’ ears, guilt and worry flickering together. I ride closer, reach across the space to brush her gloved hand.
“We’ll find him,” I say. “But first things first. We get the herd safe, then we deal with Walter.”
“Before that,” she says, eyes meeting mine. “We put upourChristmas tree. I’m tired of putting off our lives for him, Silas.”
I nod, bittersweet mixing with joy.
Ralph’s watching us now, squinting against the sun, suspicion or curiosity—or maybe just plain knowing—etched in every line of his weathered face.
“Looks like the storm did some good after all,” he says, jerking his chin toward the repaired stretch of fence. “Held better than it has all season.”
“Guess we got lucky,” I reply, forcing my voice steady.
He snorts. “Luck’s one word for it.”
When he turns away, Sage exhales softly, shoulders sagging. “He knows.”
