Page 10 of Mistletoe Cowboy
“We almost need a rope,” Ralph grumbles outside as we race to the stables.
Old timers used ropes in snowstorms so they wouldn’t get turned around, or perish, in whiteout conditions. Just a notch above the current chaos.
“Horses’ll know the way,” I say, more hope than conceit.
Bursting from the warmth of the stables, we enter a world of eerie white. Everything narrows to the feel of my mount beneath me—a swift Indian Paint mare named Twilight—the howl of the wind, and the faint slap of ropes on saddles.
“Stay close!” I command Sage as she and Buffalo come in and out of focus through the white din.
She veers toward me, listening for once. The brown Quarter horse slips. I grab Sage’s reins, nearly bringing Twilight and me down with them.
“Careful,” I scream, like there’s anything she could do about it.
“You don’t get to protect me, Silas,” she taunts.
“Then, stop making me want to,” I grumble, more confession than comeback.
“Goes both ways,” she calls, all vim and vinegar, sprinting ahead and pulling me and Twilight along.
In the distance, we make out dark forms, cattle we drive back toward the winter pasture where ranch hands labor through the storm.
“Keep to the ridge line!” she shouts. I barely hear her above the roar of the gusts.
Pain, ice, and desperation coalesce as the full picture emerges—what Sage has tried to do alone, a burden never meant for one woman.
Overhead, a half-dead pine buckles beneath the weight of the storm.
Crack!
I spur forward, grab her coat and yank her aside as an ice-coated limb breaks free, spooking the few remaining cattle near the fence line. The wood clips my temple, dragging me from the saddle. I drop to one knee, dazed. Scarlet blood dribbles onto white snow as Twilight breezes past.
Sage rushes forward, her eyes meeting mine. I jump to my feet, shake my head, wish I hadn’t done either as I founder, nearly fall backward.
Her hand comes to my back, steadying me as her gaze flickers to my temple. She bites off her glove, fingers come up without hesitation, touching the place where wet heat pools. “You’re bleeding.” A tremor fills her voice.
“It’s okay,” I protest, though I have to close an eye to keep the hot gush out of it.
She shakes her head. “No way. We need to get you to the shack.”
I grab a bandana from my inner coat pocket, dab my temple. Pain awakens searing and angry. Twilight wheels back around,comes to me, nudging my shoulder with her nose. Like she needs to see me move to know I’m alright.
“It’s okay, darlin’,” I croon under my breath, wishing I could speak so freely to Sage. But she’s my sister for crying out loud.
We remount, and Sage nudges Buffalo forward. The Paint mare and I follow until a small structure rises from the whitewash of the blizzard.
The storm screams around us, but the quaint, barely furnished line shack keeps out most of the violence. She clicks a lamp. I flick a switch, and the heater ticks to life in the corner, battling the cold, while sleet rattles the tin roof.
Sage cases the small bathroom, shuffling through drawers before re-emerging with a first-aid kit the color of her coat.
“Have a seat,” she orders, nodding toward the bed. My throat tightens, heart drumming against my ribs.
I obey reluctantly, still pressing a bandana to my temple to staunch the blood enough to use both eyes. I pull it away hesitantly.
“You need stitches.”
I shrug, frowning. “I’ve had worse.”
“Hold still,” she scolds. She doesn’t know what she’s asking me to do as she draws closer, fingers combing gently through my hair. A rough sigh escapes me despite myself.
