The snow began to fall heavier, swallowing the night in white. And for the first time in a long while, standing in the heart of the ranch I’d fought to save alone for so long, I didn’t feel alone at all.
Chapter 21 - Starcrest Under Snow
Ella
The snow arrived like a whispered secret, soft at first, then relentless. By dawn, the entire ranch was buried in white, the fence posts barely peeking out from the drifts.
The world was hushed, the familiar sounds of the ranch—the distant lowing of cattle, the creak of the old windmill—swallowed by a profound, muffled silence. It looked beautiful, magical even—until reality set in.
The Christmas Eve Festival was just days away, and everything we needed to prepare was buried beneath a foot of powdery trouble.
I stood on the porch wrapped in my thickest sweater, watching fat flakes swirl through the air like falling stars. The lights Max and I had strung along the roofline still glowed faintly in the early morning haze, a small, defiant burst of warmth against the overwhelming cold.
The air, crisp and sharp with the scent of frozen earth and pine, made my lungs ache with every breath.
Behind me, the ranch house buzzed with a quiet, focused urgency. Max was in the barn checking on the livestock, Clint and Jerry were scraping at the walkways with rhythmic shovels, their shoulders hunched against the cold.
Sarah had already delivered a thermos of coffee and a basket of warm scones, bless her heart. I watched a neighbor arrive on a sputtering snowmobile, its engine a welcome roar against the muffled quiet, offering to help plow the main road.
Even the ranch hands' kids had joined in, their high-pitched laughter cutting through the silence as they used makeshift sleds to haul firewood to the porch. My heart swelled with a quiet pride.
I had been an outsider, a city girl stumbling through muck in borrowed boots, but now, watching everyone rally, I felt like a part of a much bigger, stronger family.
"We need to rally everyone," I told myself, a surge of adrenaline pushing back the anxiety. "If we don't pull together now, the festival doesn't stand a chance."
I grabbed my phone, fingers numb from the cold, and began making calls—to vendors, volunteers, anyone who’d agreed to participate.
Some couldn’t get through the snowdrifts. Others offered to walk if they had to. That kind of spirit was contagious.
Within an hour, a handful of folks had arrived with shovels, snow boots, and a fierce determination etched into their faces. A local baker dropped off dozens of loaves of bread, telling me, "A town needs to eat, whether there's a festival or not." The generosity was humbling.
Out by the barn, Max emerged from the stables, brushing snow from his jacket. His hair was dusted white, his cheeks pink from the cold, and yet, his eyes were serious, carrying the weight of a thousand silent worries.
"The herd's fine," he said, his breath fogging in the air. "Water lines didn’t freeze, thank God. But the supply truck won’t make it through this. We’re going to have to make do with what we’ve got."
I nodded, trying to match his steady calm even as anxiety swirled inside me like the snowstorm around us. "We’ll figure it out. We always do."
We spent the rest of the morning coordinating efforts. The tree lot donated extra firewood. The school bus driver offered to shuttle people in from town.
Clint’s wife organized a cocoa-and-cookie table for the volunteers, her hands moving with a practiced grace that spoke of a thousand community events.
Later, just before sunset, I found Max leaning against the paddock fence, watching the horizon as golden light turned the snow into glitter.
His shoulders were hunched, a familiar tension in his posture that spoke of a man used to carrying the weight of the world alone.
"You okay?" I asked, stepping beside him.
He didn’t look at me. Just nodded once. "Just thinking. Everyone’s putting in so much... I don’t want to let them down."
He exhaled slowly, a long plume of white in the cold air. "I'm not used to this, you know? To having so many people counting on me. Before, it was just the ranch and me. I could only fail myself. This..." He gestured vaguely to the bustling, snow-covered landscape. "This is different."
I touched his arm, feeling the cold fabric of his jacket beneath my hand, and the tense muscle beneath it. "You won’t." My voice was a firm, quiet anchor.
"The people here aren't just counting on you, Max. They're counting on the ranch, and they're counting on all of us. And you've already given them hope. That's half the battle."
He finally turned, and our eyes met. There was something heavy in his gaze—the burden of responsibility, of everything he’d taken on. And underneath that…something softer. Something just for me. A look of deep trust that made my heart ache.
"I’m glad you’re here, Ella," he said. Quietly. Sincerely.
