Page 30 of A Christmas Miracle at the Ranch
On his screen was the concert’s online ticketing page. The numbers kept climbing.
“Over 800 tickets sold,” he said breathlessly. “And climbing. Someone shared it to a Montana events group. It’s gone semi-viral.”
My mouth dropped open. A dizzying disbelief turned into a rush of pure elation. “Eight hundred?”
“We might have a shot,” he said, his voice laced with triumph.
And for the first time since I’d arrived at Starcrest Ranch, I truly believed it. Not just in the festival, or the ranch, but in what we were building here—together. My gaze found his, a silent acknowledgment of our shared hope.
I looked out over the snow-dusted lawn, now twinkling with string lights and laughter, and whispered to myself, “Maybe we can do this.” A surge of quiet, determined resolve filled me.
Maybe we really could.
Chapter 18 - Thawing Hearts
Max
The living room smelled like pine, cinnamon, and old wood. It felt like Christmas—not just the season, but something softer, quieter, like memory.
I stood back, eyeing the ancient Starcrest Ranch Christmas tree we’d wrestled into the corner beside the fireplace, where a low fire crackled and spit. It was more crooked than straight, and the branches sagged in places, but it was ours.
Ella stood on a chair, hanging a worn felt reindeer near the top. Her brow furrowed in concentration, tongue caught between her teeth in that way she didn’t know she did. The sound of old glass ornaments clinking softly filled the silence.
“That one’s seen better Decembers,” I said, nodding at the reindeer.
She grinned. “So has this tree.”
We’d unearthed boxes of old decorations from the attic earlier, each one coated in dust and memories. Most of them had seen at least twenty Christmases, maybe more.
Tinsel that had long since lost its sparkle. Handmade ornaments with names scrawled in childlike handwriting. It should’ve looked ridiculous. But somehow, it was perfect.
As we dug deeper into the boxes, Ella lifted a small ceramic star, edges chipped, painted in soft blues and greens. She turned it over and paused. “It has initials on the back,” she said softly. “‘C.H.’”
I stepped closer. “Caroline Henderson?”
She nodded, her voice catching. Ella gently cradled the star, as if she were holding a piece of a story she’d never been told. “She made this. And he kept it.”
I didn’t have to answer.
She climbed down and flopped onto the couch with a sigh, brushing glitter from her jeans. “This feels good,” she said. “Like... family.”
The word hit me square in the chest.
I crossed to the coffee table where a dusty photo album sat open. I flipped to a page showing a group of ranch hands standing in front of the barn, all squinting against the sun.
“That’s my dad,” I said, pointing. “And that’s Clint when he still had hair.”
Ella leaned over, her shoulder brushing mine, warm and casual. “You look just like him,” she said softly.
“I hope not in every way.” I tried to joke, but it came out too flat, a knot of old worries tightening in my gut. I hoped I hadn’t inherited his pride, his burdens, his lonely kind of strength.
She looked up at me, eyes thoughtful. “You’ve carried a lot of weight for a long time, haven’t you?”
I didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. The question felt like an open wound, and for the first time, someone had actually seen it. I stiffened, looking away.
We flipped through more pages—Christmases past, horses decked out in red ribbons, my mom bundled in scarves, holding pies too big for the dish. Ella laughed at a picture of Clint in an elf hat, then clapped a hand over her mouth. “He’d kill me if he knew I saw that.”
“Pretty sure Jerry’s got a copy framed in the tack room.”
