Page 6 of Her Grumpy Cowboy
Christopher’s smile is quiet and knowing.“Did you forget how determined she is?”
“Never,” I mutter.
Mary tips her head toward the big spruce in the yard.“Your girl put the fear of gravity into me earlier.”
My mouth tightens.“She’s not my?—”
“She will be if you don’t dawdle,” she says, then flaps a hand at her husband.“Go check the perimeter and take Grady with you.”
Christopher shakes his head.“Bossy woman.”
“And you love it,” she parries, eyes twinkling.
“That I do,” he replies, his expression soft as he looks at her.
We walk the perimeter, check the guy lines, and talk about the incoming storm.We add a second stake to the tall spruce that wants to lean into the road.I tell him I’ll lend a hand while I’m here.
He gives me a knowing look.“We’ve had a few local kids stopping by now and then.Good boys, just rough around the edges.Reminds me of another one we took in once.”
I huff out a quiet breath.“That was a long time ago.”
“Doesn’t feel like it,” he says.“They could use a man who’s been where they are.”
I shake my head.“I won’t be here long enough for that.”
Christopher nods like he expected that answer.“All the same,” he says, “you’re here now.”
The words hang there, heavier than they should, and follow me long after I turn toward the cabin.
* * *
The next morning, frost rims the windows, and the sky hangs low and pale.The cabin smells like coffee—Mary stocked the place with beans from Angel’s shop, of course—and the air’s sharp enough to bite.
I’ve barely finished my first cup when there’s a knock at the door.
Mary doesn’t wait for me to answer.She pushes in, wool hat askew, a bundle of energy wrapped in flannel.“Morning, sweetheart.You look decent enough to run an errand.”
I set my mug down.“Morning, Mary.”
She waves off the greeting, scanning the small space like she’s making sure I haven’t dismantled the place overnight.“Angel’s been making do with a little tabletop tree in her apartment.That won’t do.”
I arch a brow.“And you’re telling me this because…?”
“Because,” she says, already halfway to the door again, “you’re delivering her a real one.Something she can fit by the window.Christopher and I picked it out, and it’s sitting by the barn.Go on, load it up before the snow starts again.”
“I don’t think she’s exactly in shape to haul a tree upstairs.”
“Good thing you’ve got two working legs, then.”She gives me that look—the one that’s part command, part affection.“And don’t argue, Grady Cross.You’ve never been any good at saying no to me.”
She’s right.I wasn’t at twelve, and I’m sure as hell not now.
By the time I get outside, the tree’s waiting, already bundled and tied.I hoist it onto the back of the truck, the smell of pine and sap stirring something deep and familiar.
It’s a short drive into town.Silver Bell Hollow is waking up slowly, smoke curling from chimneys, lights flickering in shop windows.When I pull up in front ofMistletoe Mug, the place looks exactly like I left it—warm and golden against the snow.
I kill the engine and sit there a second longer than I should.Then I grab the tree and head for the door.
The bell chimes as I step inside.The air hits warm and sweet—coffee, sugar, and something baked with cinnamon.Mrs.Crowley sits in the corner, hands cupped around her latte, glasses slipping down her nose as she reads the local paper.A couple of regulars trade gossip near the pastry case, laughter muffled by scarves and steam.
