Page 2 of A Christmas Miracle at the Ranch
“I thought so too.” I glanced sideways. “Plans changed.”
He didn’t respond.
We drove in silence. The kind that made your ears ring. His dog—a shaggy brown-and-white herding type—watched me like I might bolt at any moment. Honestly, I might.
I reached out a cautious hand, palm up. "Hey, buddy. I'm not that scary."
The dog sniffed, then rested his chin on my knee. Max’s gaze flickered to us, then back to the road, but he said nothing.
We pulled up to the ranch just as the sun dipped behind a line of snow-covered hills. The house looked like it belonged on a postcard: wide porch, weathered wood, a dusting of snow on the roof. Beautiful, yes. But completely falling apart.
The shutters sagged. Paint peeled in long strips. A section of gutter hung loose over the porch, one end clinging by a single nail.
Inside, it smelled like pine cleaner trying to mask faint despair. I dropped my bag by the door.
“Place is livable,” Max said. “Barely. Furnace kicks when it feels like it.”
“Like the foreman?” I muttered.
He paused. “Did you say something?”
“Nope.”
He gave me a sharp look. “This isn’t a bed and breakfast. You’re not here to playcowboy.”
“I’m here because I own it.”
“You inherited it,” he corrected. “And you’ve got a lot to learn.”
I stepped closer, fueled by exhaustion and a threadbare sense of pride. “Then maybe you should teach me instead of growling like a feral cat.”
Max stared, surprised—and maybe a little amused.
“Dinner’s at six,” he said finally. “Don’t expect much.”
He disappeared down the hall, boots thudding against the hardwood.
I looked around the dim living room. Dust motes floated in a beam of setting sunlight. On the mantle was a faded photograph—my mother, age ten, smiling on horseback. Her hand rested on the mane like she’d always belonged there.
Maybe this place held more answers than I thought.
And maybe—just maybe—I hadn’t come all this way to run.
Chapter 2 – Welcome Wagon?
Max
If I’d known she was showing up early, I might’ve made myself scarce. Better yet, I would've sent Duke to the bus stop in my place. He was friendlier. Less likely to scowl. Less likely to scare off the city girl who was apparently my new boss.
But there I was, shifting in my worn leather seat, watching the freezing wind whip around a tiny red coupe that looked like it had no business outside a shopping mall, let alone on the outskirts of Starcrest Ranch.
The heater in my truck hummed a death rattle, but I didn’t turn it off. Didn’t tap the brakes either. I just sat there, jaw clenched, the name Ella Henderson ricocheting inside my skull.
Ella Henderson. The new owner.
In all the years I’d worked for her grandfather, I’d never heard him mention her. Never saw a picture, never a story. And now here she was, driving up in the middle of a snow squall with a busted radiator and boots so clean they practically squeaked.
Then she got out. A small thing, bundled in a coat that looked warm but woefully impractical for a Montana winter. Her hair was tied back like she hadn’t cared enough to finish the job. Still, there was something about the way she squared her shoulders that told me this wasn’t a tourist drop-in.
