I’d spent too many years patching broken fences and burying broken hopes to fall for a girl who handed out sugar and optimism like they were anything but fleeting distractions.
Still, when she tossed a cookie toward Duke, who caught it mid-air with a happy yip, and then winked at me, a tiny, almost imperceptible warmth spread through my chest. I
didn’t growl. Didn’t roll my eyes. I just looked away and muttered to no one, “She’s gonna ruin everything.” But the words lacked their usual conviction.
***
Later that afternoon, I drove out past the county line to a private spread nestled between two low ridges—Ethan James’s home away from home.
The place hadn’t changed much since high school. Still had the rusted windmill that creaked in the breeze, and the old oak tree with initials carved into it from a summer long gone.
Ethan was sitting on the porch strumming his guitar, boots crossed at the ankles, hat tipped low. He looked like every country radio cover I tried not to get annoyed by, all worn denim, perfectly rumpled hair, and a smile that seemed to come pre-packaged with a melody.
“Took you long enough,” he said, without looking up. “Was starting to think fame scared you off.”
“You mean the kind that comes with shiny boots and a personal stylist?” I stepped onto the porch and dropped into the other chair. “Not my thing.”
He laughed. “Still allergic to good taste. Glad to see not everything’s changed.”
I let the teasing slide. “You been home long?”
“Couple days. Mama needed help fixing her porch steps. Figured I’d better swing through before L.A. turned me into a total stranger.”
“You ever stop to sleep?”
He shrugged. “Only when there’s pie involved.”
We shared a grin, a comfortable, easy thing, and for a minute it felt like we were back in high school again—before stadium tours and bright lights, before cattle markets plummeted and foreclosure notices started arriving. Just two dumb kids on a porch.
“So how’s the ranch?” Ethan finally asked, tone softer.
I hesitated. Then said, “Struggling.”
He tilted his head. “More than usual?”
“Granddad’s health took a hit before he passed. A lot slipped through the cracks, more than I realized, more than I should have allowed. I didn’t catch it fast enough. Ishouldhave.”
“You always blamed yourself too much.”
“It’s not just me now. The place went to his granddaughter—Ella. She showed up with a tiny car, city boots, and no clue what she’d stepped into.”
Ethan raised an eyebrow. “She the one with the cookies?”
I scowled. “Word travels fast.”
“I ran into Clint in town. Said the new boss makes a mean gingerbread man and tells better jokes than you.”
“Not hard.”
“She helping, or hurting?”
“Depends on the minute,” I said. “She wants to throw a Christmas festival. Thinks it’ll save the ranch.”
He gave a thoughtful hum. “You ever think she might be right?”
I didn’t answer.
“Well,” he said finally, setting his guitar aside, “if it gets bad, real bad, I could pull some strings. Free show. Benefit concert. Folks might drive in for that.”
