And maybe, just maybe, so did we. My future, with her, suddenly felt within reach.
Chapter 17 - A Town United
Ella
By the time the morning sun crept over the hills, Starcrest Ranch was already buzzing. Trucks rolled in from every direction—carrying bales of hay, crates of decorations, and even a popcorn machine that looked like it had survived three county fairs.
The air vibrated with cheerful shouts, the clang of metal as stalls went up, and the distant whinny of horses.
Word had spread fast about Ethan James’s benefit concert, and the town had responded with a roar of support.
The transformation was almost magical. Tables lined with checkered cloths popped up along the front lawn. Volunteers,bundled in coats and knit hats, strung up twinkle lights with more enthusiasm than precision.
A pair of teenage boys wrestled with a stubborn inflatable Santa near the barn entrance, laughing the entire time. Even Clint and Jerry were grinning more than grumbling today.
I stood back for a moment, watching it all unfold, stunned by how quickly strangers had become allies. A warmth spread through my chest, a profound sense of belonging I hadn't known I was missing.
Just a few weeks ago, I’d felt like an outsider. A city girl stumbling through muck in borrowed boots.
Now? People waved when they saw me. Asked what needed doing. Brought casseroles, blankets, and stories about my grandfather that made me laugh and ache at the same time. I felt truly seen, truly accepted.
“Ms. Ella!”
I turned at the tug on my coat. A little girl with tangled curls and bright pink mittens stared up at me with wide, teary eyes. “My puppy ran away. Her name’s Pickle. She’s really little and she’s scared of cows.” A protective instinct surged through me.
“Oh no,” I said, crouching beside her. “When did she go missing?”
“Just now. She ran out of the truck when Daddy opened the door.”
“Let’s go find her.”
We searched the front yard, then moved toward the barn. I called out for Pickle in between reassurances to the little girl—Emma, she told me. Her voice trembled every time she called her puppy’s name. The anxious energy of the search tightened my stomach.
Just when I was starting to worry, a yip echoed from under the hay trailer. I crouched low and peeked beneath. Sure enough, a scruffy white puppy with a green collar trembled behind the wheel.
“There she is.” I held out a gloved hand. “Come on, Pickle.”
Emma knelt beside me and whispered, “Come here, baby girl.”
At the sound of her voice, the puppy darted into her arms. Emma clutched her tightly, tears now happy and hot on her cheeks. A wave of profound relief washed over me.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “She gets scared real easy.”
“You did great,” I told her, brushing a leaf from Pickle’s fur.
Her father came running, breathless, and scooped them both up in a grateful hug. “We owe you big time.”
I smiled. “Just happy to help.”
As they walked off toward the food tent, a deep warmth settled over me—not from the winter sun or my heavy coat, but from belonging. Real, honest-to-goodness belonging. It was a feeling of rightness, of finally being where I was meant to be.
Later that afternoon, I passed Sarah at the bakery booth. She handed me a cinnamon roll the size of a dinner plate and grinned, her eyes crinkling with warmth. “You’re doing good work, Ella. This whole town sees it.”
I couldn’t find the words, a lump forming in my throat. All I could do was wrap my arms around her in a grateful hug.
Just before sundown, Max jogged over to me, phone in hand, his face lit up like he’d struck oil. His shoulders were relaxed, a genuine, unguarded grin stretching across his face.
“You’ll want to see this,” he said, holding out the phone.
