Page 12 of Special Delivery Cowboy
"No, ma'am. Rancher who made a bad call on the weather."
Oh god.
"I'm Tinsley," I blurted, sticking out my hand. "And I'm so sorry."
"Turner Johnson." He offered his hand—warm, callused, work-roughened. "Friends call me TJ."
I held on maybe a smidge too long, reluctant to break the contact. His grip was firm, confident. The kind of handshake that came from physical labor, not a gym membership.
When I finally released his hand, I immediately wanted to take it back.
"My mom breeds golden retrievers," he continued, seemingly unbothered by my awkwardness. "Show dogs. This little girl's supposed to go to a woman named RoyAnn somewhere on PineRidge Road. But I feel like I've been driving in circles since my Nav system kicked the bucket."
"I have no idea where that is. This is an Airbnb rental—I'm staying for Christmas."
The ball of golden fluff had discovered my fuzzy sock and was attempting to murder it with her baby teeth.
"She probably needs food and water, right?"
"Yeah. Let me grab the dog supplies from my pickup." He moved toward the door.
The storm was roaring—wind screamed through the trees. Snow came down in blinding sheets. White wall upon white wall.
"Jesus," I breathed.
TJ disappeared into that chaos. I scooped up the little golden retriever and held her close. Through the windows, I could barely make out his shape moving toward a dark truck.
He was back in less than two minutes, arms loaded with a carrier, bags of food, blankets, and toys. Snow covered him head to boots, melting into dark patches on his jacket and dripping onto the hardwood. Cold radiated off him in waves.
"It's getting worse." He set everything down, shaking snow from his hat. "Real bad out there. Can barely see ten feet."
I pulled out my phone. No signal. "I had service earlier."
He checked his, shook his head. "Nothing."
"The internet's still working." I grabbed my laptop from the coffee table and pulled up the weather. We both leaned in to look at the screen.
Red warnings covered the entire regional map.
"Blizzard warning through tomorrow morning," I read aloud, scrolling through the alerts. "Highway 89 closed between Livingston and Gardiner. Multiple accidents reported. Travelers advised to shelter in place." I glanced at him. "That's the route you took to get here, right?"
He nodded, jaw tight. "Only way back to the ranch."
"Which will still be there when the roads are clear." I closed the laptop. "There's a second bedroom upstairs. Stay until it's safe to drive."
He studied me for a long moment, clearly torn between responsibility and reality. Finally, he exhaled. "Until the roads clear. I appreciate it."
"The puppy needs somewhere warm to sleep anyway, right?"
"Yeah." He glanced toward the stairs. "She'll need to be watched tonight. First night away from her littermates."
"Then it's settled. You'll take the second bedroom. Let's get her settled in."
We carried everything upstairs to the second bedroom—blankets, carrier, toys, food.
"Here, put the carrier by the vent," I suggested, pointing to the corner. "That's the warmest spot."
"Good thinking." He spread one of his blankets inside, testing the softness with his hand. "She likes to burrow. My mom always says they need something that smells like home."
