Page 9 of Mistletoe Cowboy
“That counts,” he says simply.
A staple drops from my gloved fingers. When I bend to grab it, his hand is already there, steadying mine. The touch lingers—barely a second—but it sends warmth all the way up my arm.
“You’ve got this twisted,” he murmurs, voice softer than the snow. “Let me.”
He tightens the wire, then looks at me, the space between us charged again. “Every rancher needs an extra hand, even the pretty ones.”
“Prettyandhelpless. Is that what you mean?” I ask, putting my hands on my hips.
“Helpless as a rattler,” he grumbles. “Still exhausted.” His gaze holds mine. “And still too damn proud to admit it.”
I want to argue, but all that comes out is a whisper. “Maybe.” I draw closer, eyes dropping to his too-kissable lips.
Ralph’s truck rumbles past the pasture, then, a perfect excuse to step back. We both look away, pretending the moment never happened. When the sound fades, the quiet feels different, more intimate somehow.
The sky bleeds pink and violet over the mountains, the kind of light that lasts only a heartbeat before dusk. I rest my gloved hands on the fence rail, letting myself breathe for the first time all day.
Silas straightens beside me, surveying the field like he’s memorizing it. “You’ll get through this,” he says. “We both will.”
I don’t answer. I nod, eyes on the horizon. If “getting through this” means him leaving again, then count me out.
Snowflakes drift between us, lazy and weightless. For a fleeting moment, the ranch doesn’t feel broken at all—just quiet, waiting, as if the world itself is ready to forgive us.
Chapter
Four
SILAS
Wind screams through the eaves, ripping me from slumber. Sounds like winter’s punishing the whole world, Northern Idaho mean, unruly.
In Alpha Ridge Creek, shop owners will stay home today. Let the weather sort things out before venturing to work. Not so for cowboys, though. Work never ends. Only grows more desperate and dangerous during storms.
I go through the motions mindlessly—denim, button-down, belt and buckle before sliding into my boots.
Down the hallway, the light glows from beneath the door to Sage’s room. Stubborn as always. Even after calling me home, she refuses to sit still.
Eight years gone, and she doesn’t need me—except she does.
But will it ever be as much as I need her? And will it ever be right to think this way?
Through the window, I watch the old cottonwood whipping, the swing thrashing. May not make it through this storm.
Downstairs, I hear banging on the door. I meet Ralph on the porch.
He nods, hollering above the banshee screams of the icy gusts, “Already fed, watered the herd. Part of the fence gave way in the winter pasture. Cattle loose near the ravine. Got the boys mending, but we could use a hand wrangling the lost cows.”
Behind me, I feel the heat of Sage. She grabs her red peacoat, shrugging into it.
“Oh, no, you?—”
“You’re not going out there alone,” she interrupts.
I growl deep in my throat, knowing by the angle of her chin, the curl of her lips, there’s no talking her out of this. “Stubborn as Dad and a million times sassier,” I grumble under my breath, though I love both of these things about her.
“You expect something else, Cowboy?” she asks, raising her chin.
I shake my head, chuckle.
