Page 8 of Mistletoe Cowboy
“Look who’s come crawling back.” His voice scrapes like gravel. “Daddy’s favorite son. Saint Silas Hawthorne.”
My stomach knots. “Walter, not now.”
He ignores me, eyes glassy, teeth bared in something close to a smile. “You think you can waltz in here and save the day? Maybe claim what’s left—the ranch, the glory …her?”
He jerks his chin toward me. The words hit like a slap.
Silas stiffens. “Watch your mouth.” His tone is quiet, which somehow makes it worse.
Walter laughs, a brittle sound swallowed by the wind. “Always the protector, huh? Funny, coming from the one Dad should’ve protectedherfrom.”
“Stop!” My shout cracks through the air. The ranch hands have all gone home. It’s only us and the ghosts.
Silas takes a single step forward. The bottle lands with a hollow thud at his boots, amber liquid splattering the powder and leather. The smell of whiskey burns my throat.
“Walk away, Walter,” Silas warns.
“Or what? You’ll knock me flat like you did before you ran off?” Walter’s lip curls. “Go ahead, hero. Prove you’re still the same self-righteous bastard.”
“Enough!” I push between them, palms against Silas’s chest. The muscle under my hands is stone-tight, trembling with fury he’s barely holding back.
Walter sneers but stumbles when the wind catches him. He lurches toward the abandoned bunkhouse, muttering curses that trail off into the storm. The door slams behind him, the sound final.
For a moment, only the moan of the wind fills the yard. My pulse drums in my ears.
Silas drags a hand down his face, breathing hard. “Guess some things never change.”
“He’s sick, Silas.” My voice breaks on the word.
“He’s spoiled,” he murmurs, looking toward the bunkhouse, jaw working. “Dad only had one son—no matter how much he sometimes blurred the lines. No matter how he used our ties against us.”
The words land like snowflakes—soft, but heavy enough to crush.
I turn away before he can read my eyes. The sky’s gone pewter gray, the storm closing in for real this time. Flakes swirl between us, erasing the footprints that brought us here.
Somewhere deep inside, I feel something give way. Not forgiveness exactly, but the first crack in the wall I’ve built to keep him out.
By dusk, the wind has spent itself. The storm leaves behind a world muffled in white and silence. Every sound feels softer now—bootsteps in the snow, the slow creak of wire as Silas and I work side by side along the north fence.
Our breath curls between us, ghosts rising and fading. The only light comes from the dying sun, painting the drifts gold and rose.
“You don’t have to keep working,” he says finally, voice low, rough from the cold and from everything we haven’t said but need to.
I twist a length of wire around the post, gloves stiff with frost. “You don’t either.”
He gives a small huff of air that might almost be a laugh. “Guess we both have terrible instincts.”
“Or unfinished business.” I risk a glance at him. His hair’s dusted white, lashes rimmed with snow, jaw set in that familiar stubborn line. The sight of him hurts and soothes all at once.
We work in rhythm—cut, twist, hammer. The simple tasks settle the adrenaline still thundering through my veins. After a while he speaks again, quieter.
“Dad used to say winter shows a person’s measure. Anybody can run cattle in the summer. Only the strong make it through December.”
I smile before I can stop myself. “He used to say that to me, too. Right before giving me twice the chores.”
“Sounds about right.” His grin flickers, then fades. “He’d be proud of you, you know. Keeping this place alive.”
The praise lands harder than I expect. “I’m not sure I’m keeping it alive. Mostly feels like I’m keeping it from dying.”
