And that one sentence, that simple admission of needing me, did more to warm me than a dozen cups of cocoa ever could.
The wind picked up then, howling through the mesquite trees, and the sky darkened faster than usual. We both turned toward the house as Duke came barreling through the snow, barking up a storm.
Inside, the power blinked once. The festive lights flickered like a nervous heartbeat, the hum of the refrigerator stuttering. Then again. We both held our breath, watching the living room glow, then fade, then glow again.
And then everything went dark. The hum of the refrigerator, the low glow of the oven clock, the strings of lights we’d worked so hard to hang—all of it swallowed by sudden, absolute silence. The sudden, deep dark felt like a physical blow.
"Max?" I whispered, my voice thick with a mix of fear and reliance.
He was already moving, his voice a steady presence in the dark. "I’ll check the generator. You find the lanterns."
The storm wasn’t done with us yet.
Chapter 22 - Cattle and Candlelight
Max
The power cut out just as the last of the light faded from the sky. One minute, the ranch glowed warm with the faint gleam of lanterns and the distant flicker of bonfire light—the next, it was swallowed whole by the kind of profound darkness that makes you believe in ghosts.
The wind, which had been a whisper, now howled, rattling the windowpanes of the mudroom. I grabbed a heavy-duty flashlight, its beam a weak spear against the encroaching night.
Stepping onto the porch, the cold hit hard, immediately stinging my exposed skin. The wind had picked up, scattering snow in icy gusts that bit at my face.
Ella stood just ahead, bundled in her thick coat, her face half-lit by the trembling beam of her own flashlight. “The generator’s dead,” she said, her breath misting in the frigid air.
“I know,” I muttered, the words feeling inadequate. “I’ll check it.”
But as I turned, Clint came running from the barn, his boots crunching loudly in the deep snow. “Max—we’ve got a bigger problem. Some of the lower pasture gate lines failed. Cattle are stuck in the back lot. If we don’t get them now, they’ll freeze to death in this kind of cold.” His voice was laced with a desperate urgency.
I didn’t hesitate. The ranch always came first. “I’ll grab rope and a few flares.”
“I’ll come,” Ella said, her voice firm, unwavering.
“Ella—” I started, ready to tell her to stay put. This wasn't a job for someone who hadn't spent their life fighting the elements.
She took a decisive step closer, her eyes meeting mine, reflecting the pale light of our flashlights. “You need another set of hands. And I’m not staying behind. Let’s go.” Her determination was a quiet force.
We moved fast. Clint and Jerry gathered the others, pulling on extra layers. Ella and I took the old trail behind the tack shed, fighting through snow that reached our knees in places.
The wind tore at our clothes, whipping icy flakes into our faces, turning the world into a swirling vortex of white and black.
Our flashlights did little in the gusting blizzard, their beams quickly absorbed by the thick whiteout, but Ella kept pace beside me without complaint, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
When we finally found the cattle, huddled together near the fence line, my heart kicked up. Their hides were crusted with frost, thick layers of ice clinging to their fur, and a few of the younger ones were shivering violently. They looked like statues, frozen in place.
“We’ll lead them back in small groups,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm for the herd’s sake. The cold had numbed my fingers, but adrenaline was a potent warmth.
“Got it,” Ella replied, already moving to flank the nearest steer, her voice surprisingly steady as she urged it forward.
We worked in a tense, quiet rhythm. The only sounds were the howling wind, the scrape of our boots on crusty snow, the low, anxious grunts of the cattle, and Ella’s soft, persistent voice calming the herd.
I forgot the cold, forgot the darkness—just focused on the shapes in the snow, on Ella’s unwavering presence beside me, on the immediate, desperate task.
By the time we got the last calf, a shivering, stumbling little thing, into the blessed warmth of the barn, I could barely feelmy hands. My lungs burned, and my muscles ached with an unfamiliar exhaustion.
Inside, the warmth hit like a wall. The others had already lit oil lanterns and spread hay thick across the floor, turning the barn into a glowing, makeshift sanctuary. The soft, flickering light danced across the beams, casting long, wavering shadows. Clint handed us thick, rough towels and steaming mugs of cocoa.
“Good work,” he said with a nod, his own face flushed from the cold.
