Ella sank onto an overturned feed bucket, breathless, pulling the mug to her face. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair damp with melted snow, clinging to her forehead.
I sat beside her, the comfortable silence between us filled with the low sounds of animals settling down, their heavy breathing a comforting counterpoint to the storm outside.
“You okay?” I asked, my voice hoarse.
She looked at me and gave a tired smile, a genuine warmth in her eyes. “Yeah. I think I am.”
For a few minutes, we just sat there, the lanterns flickering across the barn walls, painting shadows that stretched and swayed.
I leaned back against the post, the rough wood a solid comfort, and simply watched her. Her profile was illuminated by the soft light, and I saw a strength there, a fierce determination that was new, and utterly captivating.
“You didn’t have to come out there,” I said, the words a quiet acknowledgment of her bravery.
“I know,” she said softly, turning her gaze to me. “But I wanted to. This place… it matters to me too.”
Her voice wavered at the end, just a little, revealing a fragile vulnerability. And before I could stop myself, before my usual guard could rise, I reached over, brushing a stray curl from her cheek. My fingers lingered, tracing the soft curve of her jaw, feeling the slight chill of her skin from the cold outside.
She didn’t pull away. Her breath hitched.
“Ella,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, raw with an emotion I rarely allowed myself to feel. “I don’t think I can lose you. Not after everything.”
She looked down, her long lashes trembling, casting shadows on her cheeks. “I’m afraid to hope for more,” she confessed, her voice barely audible. The fear of another heartbreak, another disappointment, was palpable between us.
I reached for her hand, my rough fingers, calloused from years of ranch work, curling gently around hers, which were soft but strong. “Then hope a little at a time. With me.”
We sat like that, hand in hand, surrounded by the quiet shuffle of cattle and the scent of hay and smoke. The warmth that settled between us had nothing to do with the steaming cocoa or the barn lanterns. It was a warmth born of shared struggle and unspoken understanding.
“I used to think asking for help made me weak,” I said finally, the confession a heavy weight lifting from my chest.
“Like it meant I wasn’t enough. I watched my dad try to carry everything himself—the ranch, the family—and I figured that’s what being a man looked like. Shouldering it all, never flinching. Always strong, always alone.”
Ella listened, her eyes never leaving mine, her thumb stroking the back of my hand gently.
“But it wore him down. And I guess I figured if I just kept working, kept holding it all together, I’d outrun that same kind of loneliness. That crushing isolation.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Truth is, I don’t want to do this alone anymore. Not the ranch. Not life.”
She squeezed my hand, her voice soft but steady, filled with an empathy that reached deep into my soul. “You don’t have to. Not if you don’t want to.”
Silence stretched again, but it was warmer now, filled with all the things we were finally beginning to say. It wasn't empty—just full of promises neither of us quite knew how to articulate yet.
Just then, my phone, which had been silent for hours, buzzed with a low vibration. I pulled it out, squinting at the dim screen. It was Ethan.
"Max, did you guys get hit bad?" he asked, his voice crackling with concern.
"Power's out, and we just pulled the herd from freezing to death," I said, a dry chuckle escaping me. "So, yeah, it's a party."
Ethan let out a relieved sigh. "Okay, good. Listen, about the festival. I heard about the snow. We need to accommodate that crowd no matter what. I just rented a massive tent, a couple of heavy-duty generators, and a dozen industrial heaters. Got it all at cost—it should be on a truck by first light, there tomorrow morning."
My jaw dropped. A tent? Generators? For the whole crowd? "Tomorrow? We have two days to set that up before Christmas Eve."
"You've got a town full of people who want to help, Max," Ethan said, a knowing grin in his voice. "And a whole lot of hope riding on this. You'll make it work."
He hung up, leaving me staring at the dark phone screen, a new, massive challenge looming, but also a solution I couldn't have dreamed of.
Then, from outside, we heard a shout. The barn door creaked open.
Jerry poked his head in, his face lit up, his eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and elation. “Max! Ella! You need to see this. Folks are showing up! They heard about the snow, heard about the power, and they’re here to help get the festival ready!”
