— Local vendors?
— Lights… tons of lights
— Invite Ethan (Max’s country singer friend?)
— Flyers/posters/social media blitz
— Hashtag campaign #SaveStarcrest
— Talk to Sarah about the bakery’s involvement
The pen trembled a bit in my fingers. I paused, rubbing at my temple. I didn’t know the first thing about livestock auctions or hay prices, but I knew how to pull off an event.
My grad program had been in public relations, after all… before I flamed out, exhausted by the relentless grind and the hollow feeling of selling things I didn't believe in.
I stood up and wandered toward the kitchen sink, where a small window framed a view of the snowy fields. A faded holiday towelhung from the oven door, its candy cane print barely visible after years of washing.
I ran a hand along the edge of the countertop and opened the nearest drawer—half-expecting to find clutter.
Instead, I found a slip of yellowed paper. A grocery list in blocky, slanted handwriting.
Cocoa. Flour. Eggs. String for lights.
It felt like a breadcrumb from a man I’d never met, a quiet message left behind. A piece of a puzzle I was only just beginning to assemble, a connection forming across the years. I folded the list and tucked it into my coat pocket with my notes.
I wasn’t going to let this place die on my watch. Not without a fight.
I stuffed the notepad in my coat pocket, pulled on my gloves, and marched outside. The cold bit into my cheeks, but the wide blue sky and crisp air made the whole ranch seem alive with possibility. Even the weather wanted this place to make it.
I found Max in the barn tossing hay like it had personally insulted him.
“Hey!” I called.
He didn’t stop. “You lose your boots again?”
I glanced down. My boots were, in fact, muddy but intact. “No. I came to tell you my plan.”
Max finally turned, straw clinging to his flannel, that perpetual scowl firmly in place. “Do I want to know?”
“Yes,” I said brightly. “I’m going to host a Christmas festival. Here. On the ranch.”
Max stared. “You’re joking.”
“Nope. We’ll use the big barn for a craft fair, get Sarah to do baked goods, maybe invite that country singer friend of yours—Ethan?”
He dropped the pitchfork with a clatter. “You think a party’s going to save this place?”
“It’s not just a party. It’s a fundraiser. With press, attention, donations. People care more than you think.”
Max crossed his arms, towering and skeptical. “This isn’t a charity case. It’s a working ranch.”
“It’s about to be a failed ranch if we don’t get creative,” I snapped, pulse kicking up. “Unless you’ve got a hidden trust fund?”
He scowled deeper. “No. But I’ve got common sense.”
“That common sense let the barn roof fall in?” I shot back, frustration bubbling. Max’s jaw ticked. His eyes, usually so guarded, flashed.
“Better than running headfirst into a fantasy that’ll get us nowhere but deeper in the red.”
