Page 4 of Mistletoe Cowboy
“Come inside then, Brother,” she says like a knife to the heart, rising and floating past me, imperious as ever, the faint smell of vanilla lingering where she walks.
Her boots crackle through the frost. I follow at a distance, glancing over my shoulder at the swing swaying behind us.
Inside, the ranch looks exactly the same, and yet so much is different. So much Dad would roll over in his grave to see: stacks of unpaid bills, like violence, across the dining-room table that once meant hospitality. The woodstove’s cold, coffee grounds crusted in the pot, hearth cold. No Christmas decorations. No warmth or cheer.
I strip off my gloves, the chill biting. “What’re you trying to turn this place into a refrigerator?” I grumble, striding to the hearth. I eye the meager woodpile. “This all you’ve got?”
She nods.
“Walter?” I ask, forcing the name out.
“Passed out in the old bunkhouse.” Her face is indifferent, her voice brittle with pain.
“Some things never change,” I say. Heat rises in my chest. Her eyes spark. Too much meaning in one sentence.
“Herd moved to winter pasture yet?”
She nods.
“At least, Walter’s still good for something, then.”
“Actually,” she says evenly, “I helped Ralph and the other hands move them.”
“You?” I arch a brow.
“Someone had to,” she says, shields rising. Her tone—and the look in her eyes—wrecks me. She has every reason not to trust anyone, least of all me.
My gaze drops to her hands, clasped so tightly her knuckles are white. Those small hands once fit perfectly inside mine.
I used to think I could protect her from anything—storms, men, the world. Turns out the danger was always me.
“Better deal with Walter,” I say flatly.
“What difference does it make?”
“You called me here to help with the ranch. That starts with getting the foreman sober.”
“He never should’ve been foreman,” she whispers.
I shift my weight. “After how I repaid your dad’s kindness, what else did you expect?”
Memory washes over me in a sickening wave. Eight Christmases ago, when Sage’s father—my adopted dad—caught us kissing under the mistletoe.
I eye the spot where it happened, head echoing the angry tirade of words that followed. The hurt, the betrayal. The night our family, our world ended. At least, for me.
“Your dad, too,” she reminds, and I hang my head.
“Makes it worse,” I manage.
We haven’t spoken of the kiss since that night, the night I left home—severed ties, joined the Marine Corps, vanished. Now, it hangs between us like a curse.
I can’t have this conversation with her. I wheel around and head for the abandoned bunkhouse. The cold air hits harder when I push outside, each breath a punishment I probably deserve. I can feel her following behind me, though I don’t acknowledge it.
Inside, Walter’s passed out, muttering in his sleep like he’s apologizing to ghosts.
I grit my teeth, lean down, and cover him with the blanket he’s thrown off. My brother. Myadoptedbrother. Never a day passed that he didn’t remind me of it.
“He wasn’t always like this,” Sage says softly.
