Page 69 of Christmas with Three Cowboys

“Every bit helps,” I tell the sheriff.

He gives me a curious look. “How’s the girl holding up?”

“Scared out of her mind,” I say. “But we were there. Let’s just leave it at that.”

“And are you always going to be there? All day? All night?”

I know where he’s going with this, and while I don’t want to call in any favors too soon, the situation demands it. I place a hand on his shoulder. “We’re grateful for your men, Sheriff. Havingthem on patrol duty will surely help. I need more, though.”

“Listen, as soon as you fellas called, I reached out to the DEA. They’re sending somebody over tomorrow to assist us. We’re opening an investigation into today’s events,” he says. “I’m not sure how else we can help.”

Frankly, I’m not too sure either.

It’s a small town and a small county. A whole lot of land, but only a few souls scattered across. My guess is they drew their courage precisely from this line of reasoning. Small town, small town folk... they could get away with a lot in these parts if they keep moving and stay out of sight.

“Colt,” Ethan says, looking somewhere to the east.

I follow his gaze and hear the rumbling of snowmobiles. Three of them, to be specific, approaching the ranch gate at high speed. They slow down as they get closer until they reach the gate and stop altogether.

As soon as they get off and start walking toward us, I recognize them.

“Marty?” I call out.

“And my two strapping young lads,” he replies with a broad grin as he removes his woolen scarf, lips instantly red upon contact with the cold air.

“Marty, what the hell are you fellas doing here?” I laugh lightly and shake his hand, then do the same with his sons, Joe and Marty Jr. “It is good to see you both. And damn, y’all are going to be taller than your daddy by the looks of it.”

The twenty-something-year-olds give me a pair of crooked smiles.

“We heard you need help,” Marty says.

“We were going to celebrate New Year’s Eve at the pub, but Joe thinks riding those bad boy snowmobiles and chugging champagne would be more fun,” Junior adds.

“What are you talking about?” Mitch asks, understandably confused.

Marty gives the sheriff a slight nod, then looks at me. “Colt, I’ve known you boys since you were in diapers. This is our land, too, in a way. If anybody comes for you or your loved ones, they’re coming for us as well. As soon as the sheriff told me what happened, I had to do something.”

“I’m not following,” I say.

“I told you I’m bringing Staties in, but even they’re limited,” Kavanaugh replies. “Marty had an idea, and I figured you’d be alright with it.”

More engines roaring. Trucks aplenty drive up the road and pull over just beyond our gate. I recognize all of them. The patriarchs—and in two cases, the surviving matriarchs and widows of ranchers revered across the county. Our neighbors, spanning as far as half a county over. People we only see once a year maybe at cattle auctions and seasonal fairs. Good people.

“I can’t believe this,” I mumble, humbled by the people who are willing to stick their necks out to help us.

“Well, I can’t guarantee we’re going to be able to protect the whole ranch twenty-four-seven,” Marty says, “but we’re going to do our best. We’ll take turns patrolling; you’ll have deputies andStaties at the gates. That way, you fellas can do your thing and get those cartel schmucks out before they hurt somebody.”

“Marty, you’re serious,” Mitch exclaims. “Y’all did this for us?”

“You would do the same for us,” Joe, Marty’s eldest, says with a stern brow. “You served this country, fellas. Loud and proud. We thank you for your service. Consider this our way of expressing our gratitude.”

My eyes sting. I could probably cry a little if there weren’t so many people around.

“Colt, Mrs. Ramsay wants to know if she and her ranch hands can handle the western hills patrol,” Kyle cuts in.

I look over to Mrs. Ramsay, in her late fifties but still rocking jeans and plaid shirts and a cocked rifle on her arm, beige coat making her seem bigger than she actually is. “Mrs. Ramsay, you’re too kind,” I tell her. “Of course, you can take the western hills. I just don’t want to impose.”

“Nonsense, you’re not imposing,” she says, smiling with deep crow’s feet extending from her pale blue eyes. “It’ll be easier for me and the boys to bolt back to the ranch if something comes up, since your western hills are closer to home.”

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