Page 1 of An Angel for the Cowboy
1
Anita
BlossomFordisnothinglike the city I left behind.
The taxi winds through the town, and I press my face closer to the window, drinking in every detail. It’s the beginning of the second week of December, yet signs of Christmas are everywhere. A massive lit-up tree dominates what must be the town square, twinkling with hundreds of white lights even in the late afternoon sun. People walk the sidewalks bundled in coats, carrying shopping bags, waving to each other like they've known one another their whole lives.
My chest tightens with something that feels like hope. In Garnet City, I was anonymous. One face among millions, rushing from my apartment to my office job, the hours bleeding together in a blur of fluorescent lights and uncomfortable heels. The pay was good—great, even—but somewhere along the way, the walls of my cubicle started feeling less like a workspace and more like a cage.
“It’s a pretty town, isn’t it?” The taxi driver asks, catching my eye in the rearview mirror.
“It is.” I touch the angel figurine in my coat pocket for luck, the porcelain smooth and cool against my fingers.
The mountains rise in the distance, their peaks dusted with snow. They look welcoming somehow, protective. Like they're standing guard over this little town and everyone in it. A fresh start. That's what I came here for. A chance to breathe again, to work with horses like I did those summers before I had to choose money over passion.
I worked part-time as a ranch hand for two summers before I left high school. It was the best job I ever had. Being outside, working with the horses, feeling the sun on my skin and the honest ache of physical labor in my muscles was perfect. But then Grumps, my beautiful, stubborn horse, needed me. He'd been my companion since Dad gave him to me when I turned fifteen. His vet bills, stable fees, his special feed as he got older all added up.
Mom and Dad were struggling with paying his bills. Giving him up wasn’t an option. So, as soon as I finished high school, I found a high-paying job as a secretary. For eight happy years, I took care of Grumps, spending evenings and weekends with him at the stable where I kept him
It’s a year now since I said goodbye to him, and the grief still catches me off guard sometimes. But lately, I’ve been wondering if losing him was what I needed to find my way back to the life I was meant to live.
The taxi turns onto a dirt road, leaving the town behind. Open land stretches out on either side, brown earth and scrubby brush giving way to fenced pastures. My heart starts to pound.
I quit my job. Packed up my apartment. Said goodbye to my parents via video call—they're doing missionary work in Guatemala and couldn't get back for this. My best friend Corrie, whom I’ve known since kindergarten, thought I was crazy whenI told her I was marrying a man I'd only chatted with online a handful of times.
“He’s thirty-eight! And he has a thirteen-year-old daughter!” She’d said.
“That’s only twelve years older than us. It shows he’s done playing the field and wants to settle down. And I’ll send you Mel’s picture; she’s a sweetheart.”
She’d sighed.
“Have you told your mom and dad? You’re supposed to spend Christmas with their friends.”
“I told them my plans changed and I’m spending Christmas with a new friend. I’ll tell them everything later.”
"Anita, this is insane," she'd said, and I could picture her pacing her New York apartment while I packed. "You don't really know him."
"I know enough. And the agency has an outstanding track record. You're the one who told me about it."
"I was joking! I didn't think you'd actually do it! You’re not the type to do something crazy like this."
But here I am, taking the biggest chance of my life because something in Chance McCord's profile spoke to me. The photos of Mel, the ranch, the few carefully worded sentences about wanting someone who loved the land and horses and was willing to commit to forever. The way his eyes looked in that one photo—guarded but hungry, like he was searching for something he'd lost.
Even though the agency's recommendation helped, this is still terrifying.
The taxi slows, and my stomach flips. A wooden sign arches over the driveway: McCord Ranch. The letters are weathered but carefully maintained. Beyond it, I see a barn, a house, fences stretching toward the mountains. Horses grazing in a pasture.
It's perfect. Everything I dreamed about.
"This is the McCord Ranch. Are you sure this is the place you want?" the driver asks.
"Yes." My voice comes out breathier than I intended. "This is it."
He pulls up near the house and helps me get my suitcase from the trunk. It's heavier than it should be—most of my clothes, yes, but also my most precious decorations: the nativity scene my mother gave me; the angel my father added to the top; and a few ornaments that survived from my childhood. I couldn't leave them behind. Christmas has always been my favorite time of year, and if I'm going to start a new life, I want to bring that warmth and tradition with me.
I pay the driver and watch him pull away, dust rising behind his tires. Then it's just me, standing in front of a ranch house with my suitcase at my feet and my heart in my throat.
The December air is crisp and clean, carrying the scent of hay and horses and something earthy I can't quite name. It's so quiet compared to the city. No traffic, no sirens, no constant hum of humanity pressing in from all sides. Just the whisper of wind and the distant sound of a horse nickering.
