He turned, inviting Max with a nod. Max stepped onto the stage, slow and sure. I turned, startled, as he reached for the mic. He hadn’t planned to speak.
“Ella’s right,” he said, his voice deep and steady. “I’ve lived here my whole life. I thought I knew what Starcrest was. I thought I had to keep it going on grit and stubbornness alone.”
He looked down for a second, shifting his weight, clearly not used to the stage lights. But then he met the crowd’s gaze with quiet resolve, as if he knew these words needed to be said more than he needed to be comfortable.
“But this woman walked in—with city shoes and a suitcase full of grief—and reminded us that Starcrest isn’t about holding on tight. It’s about opening our hands. Letting others in. Believing that something broken can be made new.”
I swallowed hard, tears pricking my eyes. That wasn’t just a speech. That was a truth I hadn’t known I needed.
A hush fell again as the concert emcee returned to the stage, this time with a laptop in hand. “Y’all,” he said, eyes wide, “we’ve been tallying donations and ticket sales, and the final push just came in.”
He turned the screen toward the projector behind us.
The number blinked onto the canvas in glowing white:
$84,920.00
A breathless silence fell over the tent, a collective holding of breath. Then, a collective gasp. Max’s voice, low beside me, wasthe first sound I could make out. “We’re so close,” he breathed, the words heavy with both hope and dread.
The emcee added, “The goal was eighty-five. We’re just under. But there’s still time tonight—”
Before he could finish, a little girl in the front row stepped forward, dragging her father behind her. She handed something to a volunteer at the edge of the stage—a crumpled envelope with a few bills inside.
“My allowance,” she said shyly. “For the horses.”
My hand flew to my mouth.
The crowd erupted. People surged forward, tossing bills into the donation jar, clapping, cheering, hugging strangers. The number on the screen blinked again, climbing steadily. But I hardly saw it.
Because in that moment, I wasn’t thinking about money or property lines. I was thinking about how Max had looked at me as he gave his speech—his eyes filled with a gratitude and a love so profound it stole the air from my lungs. Like maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t just part of Starcrest’s future. Maybe I was the reason he still had one, too.
Max reached for my hand as the cheers rose again. “You did it,” he said.
I shook my head, my voice barely above a whisper. “We did.”
And as I looked out over the glowing tent filled with hope, I knew—we weren’t just surviving.
We were building something worth saving.
Chapter 26 - The Heart’s Decision
Max
The night air was a sharp, biting knife against my skin, but I barely noticed. Lights twinkled across the ranch like a thousand stars had decided to settle on our land, casting everything in a soft, golden glow.
The tent buzzed with laughter and music behind us, a vibrant sound that felt a world away. Out here—beneath the vast, open sky and the silent, falling snow—it was just us.
Ella stepped outside, her breath curling like smoke in the cold, cheeks pink from the warmth of the crowd inside. She spottedme and offered a tired, genuine smile. “Needed a breather,” she said, her voice a quiet exhale.
“Same,” I murmured. “It’s loud in there.”
We stood in silence for a moment, watching as the light from the tent spilled across the snowy lawn. The entire ranch glowed, not just with electricity, but with something warmer—hope, maybe.
A feeling of home I hadn’t realized was missing until now. It was beautiful, a living monument to a miracle.
She wrapped her arms around herself, not shivering exactly, but curling inward. I shrugged off my heavy coat, the fabric still holding my body heat, and draped it around her shoulders. She started to protest, but I just smiled and said, “Don’t argue. It’s Christmas.”
That got a small, soft laugh from her. “Is it? I lost track of the calendar somewhere between the generator and the cattle.”
