Page 13 of Special Delivery Cowboy
"Does she have anything from your ranch? Something familiar?"
He pulled a small blanket from the bottom of the supply bag. "This one's from her whelping box. All the puppies slept on it."
The tenderness in his voice made something in my chest squeeze tight. I busied myself arranging her toys in a small pile, making sure she'd have options when she woke up.
TJ mixed formula in a bottle, testing the temperature against his wrist before offering it to her—moving with the ease of someone who'd done this a hundred times. She latched on immediately, making soft sounds while she ate, her tiny paws kneading against his forearm.
"You're good at that," I said, leaning against the doorframe, watching the way he cradled her like she was made of glass.
"Mom's been breeding dogs my whole life." He glanced up with a smile. "Never understood why she loved it so much until now. It's different when you're the one taking care of them."
When she finished, she curled into a ball and was out immediately.
"She's worn out," TJ said quietly. "It's been a long day."
Downstairs, I grabbed towels. "You should dry off."
"Thanks. I appreciate this."
"What else was I going to do? Let you freeze?"
"Some people might've." He hung his hat by the door, ran the towel through his damp hair. "Stranger showing up on Christmas Eve."
"Stranger with a puppy. That's different. The puppy's like your passport."
He smiled—a slow, genuine smile that created a dimple in his left cheek—and I forgot about the storm outside.
"So you said your family has a ranch?"
"About twenty minutes outside Livingston. Cattle operation. Been in my family for three generations." He draped the towel over a chair. "Taking over in the new year. Parents are retiring."
"That's a lot of responsibility."
"Yeah." He looked toward the windows. "But it's what I want. The land, the work... it's home."
He said it like stating a fundamental truth.
"I'm from Kalispell originally," I offered. "Moved to Bozeman for work. I'm a dental assistant. Was. I quit yesterday."
"That why you're spending Christmas alone?"
"No. Bad breakup. Caught my boyfriend—also my former employer—cheating yesterday." I turned to the windows. "Came here alone instead of canceling."
Silence. Then, quietly: "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. He's an ass."
"Still. That's rough."
"Hence the solo holiday vacay with enough groceries to feed an army. Stress baking is my therapy."
"Stress baking?"
"Cookies, mostly. Though I might branch out into pies." I managed a smile. "My ex wasn't big on sweets—for him or me—so I haven't baked in forever. Figured I'd make up for lost time."
"Sounds like a good plan." His voice was warm. "Nothing wrong with cookies at Christmas."
"Exactly what I thought."
