She laughed, a clear, bright sound that felt like sunlight breaking through the clouds, and something tight in my chest loosened.
We sat at the small table in silence for a moment, the kitchen dim and quiet around us. Outside, the storm howled on.
She picked a piece of hay from her coat and flicked it onto the floor. “You ever think about what you’d be doing if you hadn’t stayed?”
“Maybe,” I said, and then paused. “But not really. The ranch was always the plan. Even when it wasn’t.”
She sipped her coffee and glanced sideways at me. “Did you ever leave Starcrest? Even once?”
“Couple times. Rodeo when I was a kid. Once to Austin for a feed expo. Didn’t take.”
“Why’d you stay?”
I turned my mug in my hands. “My folks died when I was fifteen. Car accident. Sheriff Harris brought me here the next day.
Your grandfather said I could work for room and board. Then gave me a bunk. Then made me foreman. He didn’t say much, but he… showed up. Every day. A warm meal on the table, a quiet nod that said 'you're doing good.'"
Ella was quiet, her eyes soft.
“I always figured I’d pay him back by keeping this place running. Thought I had time.”
“You couldn’t have known he was sick.”
“I should’ve. That man built this place with his bare hands. He’d ride out in a thunderstorm just to make sure a gate was shut. Then one day, he stopped checking. I thought he was just… getting older.”
I looked up. She was watching me like she understood. Like she wasn’t just listening—she saw it. And her words resonated deeply within me.
“My mom used to say,” she said slowly, “that grief isn’t a moment. It’s a road. You don’t walk it once. You walk it a hundred times.”
I nodded, unsure what to say, but her words settled heavy and true in my own grieving heart.
She leaned back, cradling her mug. “Maybe fixing fences in a snowstorm isn’t so bad.”
“You’re still buying the coffee next time.”
She laughed again, then pointed at Duke, who was snoring under the table. “He has the right idea.”
I stood to refill her cup. As I reached for her mug, my fingers brushed hers.
It was barely a second. But it stopped me cold, a jolt of unexpected warmth spreading through my hand. Her eyes, wide and suddenly vulnerable, met mine. She didn’t move. Neither did I. My fingers lingered a breath too long, tracing an invisible line on her skin.
Then she cleared her throat, a small, shaky sound, and looked away. I poured the coffee, my heart thudding like hooves on frost, a rhythm that had nothing to do with chores and everything to do with her.
Outside, the storm began to soften.
Chapter 7 – Rumors in the Wind
Ella
The little town of Starcrest, nestled under a fresh blanket of snow, looked like a real-life snow globe, shaken up by holiday cheer and small-town gossip.
Every storefront was dusted with powdery white, garlands strung along lamp posts, wreaths hung on nearly every door. And yet, for all the festive charm, I felt like a tourist, an outsider walking through someone else’s cherished memory.
That morning, before I drove into town, I’d tried to string lights along the porch railings of the ranch house. My fingers turned numb quickly, and I managed to tangle myself more than the lights.
Max passed me on his way to the stables, barely slowing as he grunted, his gaze sweeping over my tangled mess. “Looks like the lights won.” I forced a smile. “Christmas spirit has a learning curve.”
He just grunted again, a noncommittal sound, and kept walking, Duke trotting loyally beside him, as if this absurdity was an everyday occurrence.
