We stood there in the scent of nutmeg and history until the moment passed. Sarah handed me a small paper bag with two extra scones.
“For Max,” she said with a wink. “He looks like he needs fattening up.”
I chuckled and thanked her, heart heavier and lighter all at once.
***
Back at the ranch, the house was quieter than usual. I dropped the ribbons and lights onto the kitchen table and called out, “Max?”
No answer.
Curious, I followed the faint sound of murmuring. Down the hall, the door to what must have been my grandfather's study was cracked open. I peered in.
Max stood near the window, hands gripping a crumpled piece of paper. He was talking to himself—low, clipped phrases that sounded oddly rehearsed.
“I understand the numbers are concerning… but the ranch is more than a business… we’re working on a full recovery plan…”
His voice faltered, and he crumpled the paper slightly before smoothing it again. I stepped back, not wanting to intrude, but the floor creaked under me.
He turned, startled. His cheeks flushed. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to know you hate public speaking.”
He groaned and rubbed the back of his neck. “Figured I’d practice for when the bank shows up. They always send someone with a clipboard and a cold stare.”
I stepped inside, holding out one of Sarah’s scones like a peace offering. “Sarah says you need more carbs.”
He took it, still looking sheepish.
“Speech could use fewer numbers and more heart,” I said gently. “Tell them what the ranch means to you.”
Max looked at me, quiet for a beat, his gaze surprisingly soft. “It means everything,” he said, his voice low and raw.
Just as he started to smile, his phone buzzed on the desk.
He glanced at the screen, and I watched his face tighten, moving from curious to wary, then settling into a grim line of frustration. When he finally hung up, he looked at me, his eyes dark with a new kind of worry.
“They’re coming sooner than we thought,” he said, the words flat. “This Friday.”
Chapter 8 - Grumpy Cowboys and Gingerbread
Max
I never thought I’d see the day when ranch hands were bribed with gingerbread.
But there they were—Clint and Jerry, the other two hands besides me—huddled around Ella like toddlers at a bake sale, laughing as she handed out foil-wrapped cookies with a sparkle in her eyes and a streak of flour on her cheek.
Even Clint, who hadn’t cracked a joke since spring branding, was chuckling over something she’d said about cookie diplomacy.
I stood near the paddock gate, arms folded tight across my chest, watching the scene unfold like a grinch in plaid. It was too early for this much cheer.
She wasn’t ranch-bred. She didn’t know the difference between a heifer and a steer her first day here. But Ella Henderson had a strange kind of pull. A quiet persistence that softened even the crustiest of us, whether we liked it or not.
I didn’t like it.
Not the way her laugh, light and free, curled into my chest, unsettling the careful solitude I’d built.
Not the way her presence, bright and unexpected, made the ranch feel... less hollow, less like a monument to what was lost.
