Page 7 of Mistletoe Cowboy
He clips the spare length and twists the ends together with fencing pliers, forearms flexing. Then he gives a final tug, nods, jaw firm as the wire lies taut.
We work quickly, efficiently, our shoulders brushing, fingers touching when he hands me more U-staples. My breath hitches, body thrums alive. Even the air, threaded with metal and ozone, sizzles with unmet needs.
“Noticed some grumbling among the ranch hands,” he murmurs as he works. “Behind on wages, too, Sage?”
“Too many bills at once. That’s all.”
He shakes his head, face stern. “I’ll cover their salaries. At least, until you and Walter are back on your feet.”
A bitter laugh escapes my lips before I can stop it. “There’s a rich idea … Walter back on his feet. And here I thought you were a glass-half-empty kind of guy.”
“Usually am. Can you blame me?”
“What do you mean?”
“Everything I’ve ever wanted gets taken from me.” The self-indulgent confession stuns, vulnerability about his life—maybe about our past—simmering just beneath the surface.
Silas’s parents were killed in an auto accident when he was four years old. His father was one of my dad’s ranch-hand friends, which made adopting Silas seamless.
His eyes sear into me, and I know his parents aren’t what he’s talking about. Questions linger he can’t—or won’t—voice, and I refuse to answer.
“Guess I’m about to join the club with how things are looking around here.”
“Don’t talk like you’re defeated.”
I shake my head. “Then, how do you want me to talk? Like some sunshiny optimist.”
“Like someone who’s built to fight. Who’s going to dig in her heels and turn things around … no matter what it takes.”
“And who are you to lecture me on not giving up?”
His mouth twitches as my words find their mark. “I’ll cover the ranch hand salaries,” he repeats, voice decisive.
I should rejoice at his words. Instead, I bristle. “I asked for your help, not a bailout.”
The wire hums under tension, like my words, a low metallic note that vibrates through the post and up my arm. I lean close to steady it, hammer poised, bridging the narrow space between us.
Each strike rings across the hills—a few clean hits, and the staple bites deep. Silas smells like cedar smoke and cold air, his chestnut hair catching the last shards of daylight.
I tell myself to ignore him, bury this moment deep, but the truth is I like the sound of us working together—sure, deliberate—the fence holding firm because neither of us lets go.
The last echo fades into the quiet, leaving only the creak of wire and the wind sighing through the pines. I lower the hammer, gloves dusted white with frost, and exhale hard. For a second, we just stand there, side by side, the world reduced to breath and heartbeat.
“You shouldn’t have to do all this alone,” he says, jaw tightening.
His eyes soften just enough to make my chest ache. “You think I’m helpless?”
“I think you’re exhausted,” he says, meeting my gaze. “And too damn proud to admit it.”
“Never will,” I counter, though it’s childish.
He chuckles low. “Don’t I know it, Sassy.”
The old nickname hits deep. I have to look away, pretend I don’t feel it. It makes everything about this life even more of a lie.
The wind sharpens by late afternoon, driving needles of snow across the yard. I tug my hat lower and squint toward the bunkhouse. A door slams hard enough to rattle the hinges.
Walter staggers out, coat half-buttoned, a bottle clutched by the neck. His breath fogs the air in sour bursts.
