Page 40 of Special Delivery Cowboy
Outside, I could hear it—the absence of sound. No wind rattling the windows. No howling through the trees. Just silence.
The storm was ending.
Tomorrow, everything would change. But tonight, I had this—Tinsley warm against me, Twinkle's soft snoring, the knowledge that this wasn't ending when the sun came up.
It was just beginning.
SUNLIGHT WOKE ME.
Real, actual sunlight streaming through the windows, bright enough to make me squint. Not the dim gray of storm clouds, but brilliant winter sunshine sparkling off fresh snow.
The storm was over.
Tinsley was still asleep, her hair fanned across my chest, one arm draped over my ribs. At some point during the night, she'd stolen most of the blanket. I didn't mind. Twinkle had migrated to the foot of the bed, sprawled on her back with all four paws in the air, snoring like a chainsaw.
I didn't want to move. Didn't want this moment to end. Didn't want to face what came next.
But my phone was buzzing on the nightstand—had been for a while, actually. The sound finally penetrated my sleep-fogged brain.
I carefully reached for it, trying not to wake Tinsley.
The screen lit up with notifications. Six missed calls from Dad. Three from Mom. Two from Emily. Multiple texts from the ranch foreman. And finally—full bars of cell service.
The outside world had found us again.
I opened the weather app. Storm system moved east overnight. Highway 89 being plowed, expected to reopen by early afternoon. Current temperature: 19 degrees. Clear skies forecast through tomorrow.
My throat went tight.
"What time is it?" Tinsley's sleepy voice made me look down.
"Almost nine."
She sat up, rubbing her eyes, then noticed my phone. Saw my face. "Cell service is back."
"Yeah."
"Oh." The single syllable carried a world of meaning. She reached for her own phone on her nightstand, checked it. "Storm's over."
I showed her the weather app anyway. Watched her read it, watched her expression shift from sleepy contentment to something that looked like grief.
"Roads will be clear by this afternoon," I said quietly.
"You need to get back." It wasn't a question.
"I do. Dad's called six times—they're probably worried sick. And I need to check the herd, make sure the equipment survived, see what damage the storm did." I paused. "But I don't want to leave you."
"I don't want you to leave either." She bit her lip, eyes shining. "But I need to get back to Bozeman too. Start job hunting. Figure out my next steps."
We sat there in the bright sunlight, reality settling over us like the snow outside.
"Hey." I cupped her face, made her look at me. "This doesn't end today."
"Promise?"
"Promise. I'm calling you tonight once I check on everything at home. And this weekend, if the roads are good, I'm driving to Bozeman to see you."
"Really?"
