Page 36 of Christmas with Three Cowboys

I nod in agreement. “I’m no rancher myself but know enough to recognize the value of this place. You’ve got rolling hills and strips of plains in between, you’ve got woodlands and the creek running through… I’ll bet it’s as green as emeralds in the summer.”

“We have a small lake, too,” Colton replies.

“Oh. I didn’t see it. I thought you gave me the full tour.”

“You’ll see it in the spring. It’s far on the north side and surrounded by thick woods. You haven’t seen the whole thing because it’s about 1,500 acres.”

“Whoa, that’s a lot.”

“It is. But you have plenty of time to explore the entire property, that I can promise you.”

And I believe the promise as much as I believe the kindness with which it’s intended. If there’s one thing I’m able to say for sure, it’s that Colton and his brothers really do want me here.

The intimacy of our relationship could either boost the whole thing or jeopardize it, though. I don’t know what to make of it. I want it to work. The way I feel about them demands it. But life has a way of kicking me in the gut when I least expect it.

“He’s leaving,” I mumble, watching the man by the gate return to his truck.

“May he have a blessed day,” Colton chuckles, then gently nudges his horse with his heels to get him moving. “Come on, I’ll teach you how to use Isabella to keep the cattle close to one another.”

Come evening, my thighs hurt.

The muscles are sore, and the inner sides are slightly chafed even though I had on the thickest pair of jeans I own. Then again, we were out riding for hours, and I’m not used to being in the saddle for that long. Isabella loved it almost as much as she loved the bucketful of apples she got as a reward. And speaking of rewards, the guys were spoiled rotten with a veritable feast, as well.

“That was the biggest roast I’ve ever laid eyes on,” Darla says after dinner, her dessert plate almost licked clean.

I join the table with a plate of my own. “Honestly, I outdid myself with the meat,” I say, my fork slicing through the apple pie I made for dessert as though it’s made of butter. “Oh, this is insanely tender. I’m loving that oven more and more.”

“You used Marty’s butter for the dough, didn’t you?” Darla asks, half-smiling.

“How’d you know?”

“His is the best butter in the county. That’s why the pie came out the way it did,” she says. “Beats any store-bought butter by a mile. I asked him to send us a few boxes last week, and I’m glad to see you’re putting it to good use.”

Sammy is already upstairs, probably dozing off in his chair by the window while trying to finish a Cormac McCarthy novel. The boys have also signed out for the evening, so I’m left with Colton, Ethan, Mitch, and Darla for the remainder of this dinner—not that I mind. Sometimes it’s nice to serve fast and then get a moment for myself to enjoy what I cooked.

Colton’s thigh brushes against mine under the table.

I give him a shy smile. “Darla’s right. The butter from Marty is exceptional.”

“It’s why his ranch is going so well. We call it the Butter Ranch,” Colton says.

“The Butter Ranch,” I laugh lightly.

“He supplies the entire county,” Darla chimes in. “The man feeds his cows with some kind of magic. I don’t know what it is, but that butter, dang it. Ours come close, but not like his.”

“Happy cows, I’m guessing,” I say.

Ethan scoffs. “I’m not going to serenade the cattle with my guitar, if that’s what y’all were thinking.”

“You’d make their ears bleed. Relax. Karaoke Keegan,” Mitch chuckles.

“You play the guitar?” I ask Ethan, while the others laugh.

He offers a timid shrug. “A little. I’m no Elvis Presley, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“He’s tone deaf, but we support him,” Mitch is relentless, but Ethan doesn’t mind. This is their usual banter, and it is drenched in brotherly love. There are moments when I think I never would’ve gotten in trouble with Jake if I’d had a sibling to keep me on the straight and narrow. A pang of regret lingers in the pit of my stomach.

“So, Melissa, tell us,” Darla says after a while, pouring herself a glass of scotch. “Cooking’s your thing, right? Your calling?”

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