Page 2 of Her Grumpy Cowboy
“Yes.To the Maas Ranch.Mary asked me to?—”
“—add sparkle,” he finishes dryly.
My eyes widen.“You know her?”
His mouth curves again, almost reaching a full smile this time.“Used to.”
Something flickers in his expression—nostalgia, pain, maybe both—but before I can ask, he shifts the wreath to his other arm.“I’ll carry these.”
“You really don’t have to?—”
“I want to.”
Three simple words that sit in the air like something he doesn’t say often.My stomach does a funny little swoop.
I fall into step beside him, crunching through snow as we head toward the road leading out of town.The hand-painted red and green sign at the corner readsNaughty List Ranch, 2 miles north.Beyond it, the mountains shoulder the sky, dusted in white.
“I’m Angel Tilsen,” I offer, because silence feels weird around him.“I runMistletoe Mug—coffee, pastries, and emotional support lattes.You?”
He glances over, expression unreadable.“Grady Cross.”
“Welcome to Silver Bell Hollow, Mr.Cross.Visiting family?”
His jaw works once.“Old friends.”
His reply isn’t evasive, just tired.Like the answer costs him.
We turn onto the lane that leads out past the last clapboard storefronts, where the road narrows and the fields open.Snow skims the ditches and dusts the fences.The air smells fresh and sharp.
“Have we met?”I ask because strangers are rare in Silver Bell Hollow.
He shakes his head.“No.I’ve been gone.”
“Military?”The word slips out before I can stop it.He has a straight-backed, steady posture that comes from years of being told how to stand and why it mattered.
“Navy.”He doesn’t elaborate.
We reach the ranch drive, where Mary and Christopher’s big cedar gate looms, already half-wrapped in garland.The place looks like Christmas threw itself a party and never left—snow-covered barns, rows of spruce trees, a ribbon of smoke curling from the chimney of the main house.
Mary is waiting out front, hands on her hips, cheeks pink from the cold.She’s short and round, her silver-streaked curls tucked into a knitted hat, eyes bright with that mix of warmth and quiet authority that makes everyone in town do what she says before they realize it.
“Angel, my sweet girl!”she calls.
I grin.“Hi, Mary.”
Mary freezes as we draw closer, eyes narrowing as if she’s not sure her heart believes what she’s seeing.Then her breath catches.“Oh, Grady boy.”Her voice softens, trembles.“You came home.”
Grady sets down the wreath and star.“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t you ‘ma’am’ me.”She cups his cheek, a laugh breaking through her tears.“You always did take your time.”
He swallows hard.“Guess I did.”
“I’m glad you’re here.”She pats his jaw once, firm and fond.
“Where do you want these?”I ask, pointing at the wreath and the star.
She waves a mitten toward the barn.“By the main tree.Christopher’s pretending he can reach the top without help.”
