Christmas with the Rancher (Christmas in Hope Peak #19)
Chapter 1
Wyatt
It’s crisp out, the chill making me zip up my jacket as I step off the ranch house porch.
December in Montana doesn't mess around.
Frost coats every surface, and holding the railings is dangerous as the ice is sharp there.
My breath fogs thick enough to hide behind.
Red and green lights from the neighbors' Christmas display twinkle through the bare trees, a reminder that the holidays are bearing down whether I want them or not.
The land spreads out before me, endless and mine.
Grass crunches underfoot, stiff with ice that'll melt by noon if we're lucky.
Cattle cluster near the feed troughs, their breath creating small clouds as they wait for breakfast. This is my world.
Quiet. Predictable. Safe from the complications that other people bring.
I pull my gloves on tighter and head toward the corrals. Tommy's already there, but something about his posture sets my teeth on edge. He's leaning too casually against the gate, hands stuffed in his pockets like he's got nowhere else to be.
"Why's that foal still favoring her leg?" The question comes out sharper than I intend, but it gets Tommy moving.
"Thought she was getting better, boss." He moves toward me, clearly on edge because I called him out.
I push past him and swing into the pen. The filly limps toward me, her right front leg twisted at an angle that makes my stomach clench. Out here, weakness gets you killed. Nature doesn't give second chances.
"Load her up," I say, catching the halter. "We're going to town."
The drive into Hope Peak takes forty minutes on a good day. Today, with Christmas shoppers clogging Main Street and the foal shifting nervously in the trailer behind me, it feels like hours. The truck's heater rattles against the cold, barely keeping the cab warm enough to matter.
I've been avoiding town since Thanksgiving. Too many people want to chat about the weather or invite me to their holiday parties. Too many reminders of what I used to have before everything went to hell. But the foal needs help, and Dr. Morrison retired last spring.
Which means I'm stuck with his replacement.
Emery Sinclair.
I've heard the name whispered around Peterson's Feed Store and the Skyline Bar & Grill. Hope Peak's new guardian angel, they call her. Fresh out of veterinary school, pretty as a picture, and sweet enough to give a man diabetes. Exactly the kind of complication I don't need.
The clinic sits at the end of Maple Street, a converted Victorian house painted cheerful yellow with green shutters. Christmas wreaths hang on every window, and garlands drape the porch railings. It looks like something from a greeting card.
I'm backing the trailer up to the loading area when she appears.
Sweet Jesus.
The first thing I notice is her legs. Long, shapely legs encased in fitted jeans that disappear into tall boots.
My eyes travel up, taking in the curve of her hips, the way her forest-green coat hugs her waist. When I finally make it to her face, those hazel eyes are studying me with an intensity that makes heat crawl up my neck.
"You must be Wyatt Callahan." Her voice carries a slight southern drawl that does things to my insides I haven't felt in years. "I've been looking forward to meeting you."
Looking forward to it? She holds her hand out for me to shake. I just stand there looking at it, really? I clear my throat and tip my hat. "Ma'am."
She moves to the trailer with practiced efficiency, but I catch the subtle sway of her hips, the way her hair catches the winter sunlight. Golden brown with streaks of honey. The kind of hair a man could get his hands tangled in.
"Let's see what we're dealing with," she says, and I realize I've been staring.
Inside the clinic, the scent of pine from a massive Christmas tree mingles with antiseptic and something that smells like cinnamon.
Holiday lights twinkle everywhere, casting warm shadows that make Emery's skin glow.
She kneels beside the foal, and I find myself watching the graceful line of her neck as she bends forward.
"How long has she been limping?" Her hands move over the filly's leg with gentle confidence.
"Three days." I cross my arms to keep from reaching out to touch that soft-looking hair. "Maybe four."
She glances up, and those hazel eyes pin me in place. "You should have brought her sooner."
The mild rebuke stings more than it should. "I know what I'm doing."
"I'm sure you do." She returns her attention to the foal, murmuring something too soft for me to hear. Her touch is careful, soothing. The kind of gentleness I forgot existed.
The filly relaxes under her hands, and I wonder what it would feel like to have those fingers on my skin. The thought comes out of nowhere and hits me like a sucker punch.
"The joint's inflamed," she says, rising gracefully. A piece of straw clings to her knee, and my fingers itch to brush it away. "She'll need splinting and restricted movement for at least two weeks."
"How restricted?"
"Stall rest. Hand walking only." She pulls supplies from a cabinet, and I can't help but notice the way her jeans hug her backside. "If you'd waited much longer, we might be talking surgery."
The criticism in her tone rankles, but she's right.
I should have brought the filly in sooner.
I just hate admitting I need help, especially from someone who looks like she belongs in a Christmas commercial instead of a veterinary clinic.
I already feel guilty enough for believing that the foal would get better on its own.
I watch her closely as she works with quiet efficiency, wrapping the leg with practiced ease. Her fingers brush mine when she hands me the lead rope, and the contact sends electricity straight to my groin. She must feel it too because her cheeks flush pink.
"She'll make a full recovery," Emery says, stepping back. "You did the right thing bringing her in."
I want to say something, anything, but words stick in my throat. She's looking at me with those warm eyes, and I'm remembering what it feels like to want something besides solitude.
"I'll need to see her again in a week," she continues. "To check the splint."
A week. Seven days to forget the way she smells like vanilla and winter air. To stop thinking about what she'd look like without that coat.
"I'll call," I manage.
She smiles, and it transforms her whole face. "I'll be here."
The drive home passes in a blur of snow-dusted fields and the memory of hazel eyes. The foal rides quietly now, no longer in pain, and I should feel satisfied. Mission accomplished. Problem solved.
Instead, all I can think about is the way Emery's voice wrapped around my name like a caress.
That night, I sit in the barn loft with a glass of bourbon.
I brought the whole bottle with me just in case.
I’ve been drinking a little too much while I’ve been trying to see how to stop losing the ranch.
I stare out at the Christmas lights twinkling in the distance.
Christmas is just around the corner, which means I need to pretend to be in the Christmas spirit.
My phone buzzes. Matty, my ranch foreman.
"West barn roof gave out completely," he says without preamble. "We're looking at major repairs before the next storm hits."
I close my eyes. The ranch is bleeding money, winter feed costs are through the roof, and now this. "How major?"
"Ten thousand, minimum. That's if we do most of the work ourselves."
Ten thousand I don't have. Not without selling cattle I can't afford to lose. This day is getting worse by the minute.
I end the call and pour another bourbon. The foal shifts in her stall below, settling into clean bedding with the kind of trust that comes from knowing someone cares enough to fix what's broken.
The irony isn't lost on me. I can save a limping horse, but I can't save my own ranch.
And the only person in Hope Peak who might understand that particular brand of desperation is a golden-haired veterinarian who smells like Christmas morning and makes me remember what it feels like to want something more than survival.
Outside, snow begins to fall, covering the frozen ground in pristine white. Inside, I sit alone with my whiskey and the dangerous thought that maybe, just maybe, I'm tired of being alone.