Chapter 18
Making Spirits Bright
This morning, he greeted me with plans for another day full of surprises—made even sweeter because it’s Christmas Eve. With every thoughtful gesture, both big and small, he has me convinced “acts of service” is a cowboy’s universal love language. Either way, I’m definitely not complaining.
Even our early start this morning couldn’t dampen my excitement.
Shep wouldn’t say exactly where we were headed first, only hinting that we’d be going into town, so it’s no surprise when we end up on Main Street.
A bell jingles as he pulls open the door to the Cactus Bloom Café, the local diner.
“After you, Sunshine,” he drawls, tipping his hat.
“Why, thank you.”
The place is packed, humming with the din of chatter, clinking silverware, and the soft crackle of Willie Nelson’s version of “Blue Christmas” playing from the jukebox in the back corner.
Locals occupy the red vinyl stools along the counter, bathed in the amber glow of festive lights strung from above.
The booths are upholstered in worn leather, and black-and-white rodeo photos add to the diner’s decor.
The scent of cinnamon, coffee, and melted butter fills the air.
The second we walk in, the conversation dips, and every head in the place turns in our direction. A few jaws even drop at our arrival as if it’s groundbreaking.
“Is there a reason everyone’s staring?” I whisper to Shep with a tight smile.
I might be the only one not in a flannel or a cowboy hat, but surely, tourists frequent the place too.
“If there’s one thing folks around here love more than breakfast, it’s other people’s business,” Shep grumbles.
That doesn’t exactly answer my question, but a quick look around confirms everyone is watching him, not me. Before I can dwell on the reason why, a woman who appears to be in her late sixties walks our way, adjusting the ties on her denim apron.
She comes to a standstill next to the hostess booth, resting a hand on her hip, and lets out a long whistle. “Well, butter my biscuit! Look who the wind blew in.”
Her silver hair is tied in a loose braid down her back, and she’s wearing a red sweater with a light-up reindeer on the front.
“Mornin’, Marge,” Shep says sheepishly.
“Don’t you ‘Mornin Marge me, young man.” She glares, leaning over to swat his arm, then mutters something that sounds like “strolls back in here like it’s any ole’ day.”
I stifle a giggle at her calling Shep a young man, though I suppose in her eyes, he is.
Shep scratches the back of his head. “I’ve been busy.”
“Hogwash. You’ve been holed up on that mountain for years, and you haven’t so much as stepped through those doors since your ma passed.
Now, suddenly you show up on Christmas Eve like you used to with your folks?
” Marge shoots me a curious look, the Santa hat perched on her head tilting precariously.
“Does your sudden return to civilization have anything to do with this pretty young thing?”
Shep used to come here with his parents? Being brought to a place that must hold so many memories makes my heart skip a beat.
“I’m Noelle,” I say, holding out my hand to Marge.
She disregards my outstretched hand and pulls me in for a bear hug instead.
I’m momentarily caught off guard, but quickly reciprocate, figuring it’s the small-town version of saying hello.
Honestly, it’s refreshing compared to the stiff greetings I get in the city—even from people I’m familiar with.
“It’s a pleasure, sugar. Shep treatin’ you right?” Marge asks, stepping back to get a better look at me, her eyes twinkling. “I was his mama’s best friend, so if he gives you any grief, you come find me, and I’ll set him straight.”
“He’s a sweetheart once you get past the tough exterior.
Though he acted like I was trespassing on top-secret government property when I accidentally showed up at his doorstep.
” I nudge Shep’s arm with my elbow, grinning when he cuts me a half-hearted scowl.
“I’d recommend keeping him off any welcoming committees or he might scare off newcomers before they even unpack. ”
Marge lets out a hearty laugh. “Well, aren’t you a firecracker?” She shoots Shep a pointed look. “You hold tight to this one, she’s a keeper.”
“Told him the same thing.” The familiar voice has me looking up to spot Casey weaving through tables, stopping beside Shep, and giving him a mock salute. “Out in the wild twice in one week? Careful, Shep. At this rate, we’re gonna have to revoke your hermit status.”
“We having a town meeting this morning I didn’t know about?” Shep grunts.
As a group of customers leave the diner, calling their thanks to Marge, we move to the space next to the hostess stand where people usually wait to be seated, staying out of the way of foot traffic as we chat.
“Reckon if that’s the case, we gotta wait for Amy to get back from the restroom or she’ll have my hide for missing all the gossip.
” Casey stuffs his hands in his pockets and turns to Shep.
“And don’t act surprised to see me. We’ve been coming here for Christmas Eve breakfast the past fifteen years.
You damn well know that, since we used to come with you and your folks. ”
Shep takes off his hat, running a hand through his hair. “I figured you’d be at home since Amy’s family is in town.”
It dawns on me that, as much as he’s started coming out of his shell, being back at this particular place after so long can’t be easy.
I’m sure he didn’t want to make a big production out of it.
Although whether he’ll admit it or not, I think it’s a good thing Casey’s here to offer emotional support, even if it’s in the form of teasing.
“When I caught Amy’s mama alphabetizing our spices before 7:00 a.m., I told her it was time for just the two of us to escape to the diner for breakfast. With the baby due any day and her folks planning to stick around, this might be our last reprieve for a few months.”
Marge wags a finger at him. “Y’all will be thanking your lucky stars when they’re around to help with midnight feedings and diaper duty.”
“I have no doubt, but a man’s got his limits—like her mama folding my underwear and strolling into our room unannounced asking how to use the TV remote.”
I can’t help but giggle at that.
Marge leans forward and playfully smacks Casey upside the head. “If it bothers you, do your own laundry, and be grateful her mama is pitching in. Men, bless ’em, always complaining about something,” she adds with a sigh.
“Don’t drag me into it,” Shep cuts in. “Just ’cause Casey’s grumbling about getting help doesn’t mean we’d all look a gift horse in the mouth.”
Marge rolls her eyes. “You’re no better. Remember that winter you were sick, and your mama did your laundry? She accidentally tossed your only white collared shirt in with a red towel, and you carried on about it for days like it was the end of the world.”
Shep huffs out an exasperated sigh, but I don’t miss the faint flush creeping up his cheeks. “I had a meeting with the manager of a world-famous country band about having them play at the honky-tonk and didn’t notice the damn thing was pink until it was too late to find something else to wear.”
“It was priceless. He looked like a strawberry milkshake,” Casey snickers.
I bite my lip, trying not to laugh as I picture Shep muttering under his breath and adjusting his pink collar. “I don’t know, Shep. Salmon might be your color.”
He strokes his mustache, doing a poor job of hiding his amusement.
Suddenly someone yells Marge’s name from across the room, and we all turn to see an elderly man waving his empty mug in midair.
“I’ll be there in a minute, George,” she shouts, then turns her attention back to us. “Best get back to it soon or folks will start fussin’. Owner’s duties, I suppose. Shep, you and the pretty lady know what you want? Same as usual for you?”
His eyes light up, a small smile forming on his lips, clearly touched that she remembered. “Yes, ma’am, and a cup of coffee. I reckon Noelle might need a minute with the menu.”
“What’s the usual?” I ask, glancing back and forth between them.
“The rancher’s special—two eggs over easy, four strips of bacon, hashbrowns, and biscuits smothered in gravy, made from Shep’s mama’s secret recipe.
” Marge rattles it off like it’s second nature.
“She helped me get the menu together when I opened this place. Folks loved her additions, but I never could get her to go into business with me.”
That’s when it hits me—Shep must’ve learned his exceptional cooking skills from his mom, which makes it even sweeter that he’s been using them to make me feel at home during my stay.
“That’s because the hours were long, and she liked being home evenings and weekends,” Shep says, his tone warm. “Still, she sure loved coming by to lend a hand when the diner got busy.”
“She was a treasure, and she sure adored you and your pa,” Marge replies with a wistful smile.
I step closer to Shep and slide my hand into his, giving it a squeeze. A silent reminder that I’m here for him and thankful to share this moment.
The same man calls for Marge again, and she hollers back, “Don’t get your britches in a twist. I’m comin’.” She leans in, speaking to me. “These folks have no manners. Want to take a look at the menu, sugar?”
I shake my head. “I’ll have the biscuits and gravy, a side of fruit, and hot chocolate if you have it.”
There’s no chance I’m missing out on trying a recipe created by Shep’s mom.
Marge flips open a small notepad and jots down our order. “Sure thing. I’ll have that out in a jiffy. Take a seat at the bar till a booth opens up.”
“Bring their food to our table when it’s ready,” Casey pipes up. “Can’t let Shep skip out on this year’s Christmas Eve tradition. Besides, Amy will want the inside scoop on him and his woman.”
I rather like the sound of being called Shep’s woman.
“You got it,” Marge says as she slips away to handle her disgruntled customer.