Frosty Cowboy (A Cowboy for Christmas #12)

Chapter 1

Colt

“You want me to do what?”

I scrub a line of dried sweat off my neck with the heel of my palm, the kind that only shows up after a long day. The feed delivery was late, one of the mares is colicky, and now my sister has that look, which means she’s about to ruin my night.

Sadly, I’ve only half-listened to what Brooke’s been yammering about.

We’re in the breakfast room of our childhood home, my late grandfather’s place, sitting at the handcrafted table.

Windows over the large sink overlook our Texas ranch, the early evening sun streaking pinks and oranges through the sky.

His old radio sits on the counter next to the toaster, the latest country hit by Nash Rivers playing in the background.

Gramps’s favorite Stetson hangs on the hat rack near the kitchen door, right by mine, a stack of holiday boxes underneath waiting for attention.

Brooke types something on her laptop screen, a Cheshire cat grin spreading quickly across her face. The keys click so sharply that I swear each drills straight into the center of my skull.

Dammit to hell. Nothing good ever follows that look. A few Halloweens ago, she voluntold me to dress up as the Grinch for the kindergarten class when I was in town. I still have nightmares about the trail of children following me everywhere after reading to them.

“This is perfect!” She practically squeals in delight. “Your participation in the bachelor auction will bring in a lot of money for Riverside Senior Outreach.”

My hand freezes halfway through flipping the page of the ranch breeding schedule, my fingers stiffening around the paper like it just bit me. Next season’s horse pairings won’t plan themselves. “Absolutely not. No. I’m not a raffle prize.” I don’t bother looking up.

“Not everyone can afford elder care, Colt.” Brooke’s words are pointed, the way only a little sister can pull off. “This year’s auction is for such a great cause!”

Every year, our hometown of Stone Ridge, Texas, hosts a bachelor auction on the first Saturday of December to raise money for a local charity.

It’s a long-standing tradition hosted by the Magnolia League and raises tons of money.

Participants range from eighteen to eighty, with Old Clarence Williams one of the most sought-after bids this town has seen.

He was even participating back when we were kids.

A slow pressure tightens behind my ribs, the way it does right before a horse decides to buck. “Three dates with a complete stranger? Hell no. The last thing I need is some starry-eyed woman wasting my time when I’ve got a ranch to run and a breeding season that won’t manage itself.”

“Grandpa did it last year.”

This one hits low and mean. My gaze snags on his old Stetson by the door, tilted just the way he left it.

The rest of the room blurs around the edges, the way it used to when I’d take a hoof to the side and had to stay standing, anyway.

I close my eyes, a gust from the screen door swirling a whiff of hay around us.

“That’s fighting dirty, Brooke.” I can’t believe she just went there. He hasn’t even been gone for a year.

“It’s not fighting dirty if it’s true.” She blinks innocently, chewing absently on her pen cap, the old fridge droning in the corner. “Gentry McCallum said yes.”

“That’s because he’s half in love with you and hopes you’ll bid on him.

” Gentry’s my best bud and has been in love with her since they were kids.

There are very few people I trust in this world, and he is at the top of the list. For whatever reason, she won’t give him a shot, which is too bad. He’s perfect for her.

My pain-in-the-ass little sister doesn’t respond, her way of acknowledging I’m right without having to say it.

Taking the win, I pour some water from the fridge, drinking it down in five gulps. I fill it up again before returning to the handmade table as familiar to me as anything. For just a second, pangs of grief edge in. I push them aside, reminding myself that Gramps had a good life.

He raised me and Brooke in this house without much help while running one of the top champion horse breeding businesses in Texas.

The whole reason I’m back in Stone Ridge is because our grandfather left Sawyer Farms to us after he passed away.

An elite roper on the rodeo circuit, that last concussion finally convinced me to hang it up.

Gramps bred some of the best heading horses in Texas, and I was lucky enough to ride them.

He and I shared a love of riding, so much so that we were both professional rodeo cowboys. I never did beat his record, but I hold second place. Not too bad for a once-scrawny kid. Ever the math nerd, Brooke graduated college with a master’s in finance and has run the books for Gramps ever since.

With a voice that’s made me want to pound my head against the wall more times than I can count, Brooke won’t let up. “Please, Bartholomew Colt Sawyer? Puleeeeze?” The way she draws out Bartholomew makes me want to throw myself out the kitchen window.

I stare at her, unmoved. I’ve outlasted a stubborn thousand-pound quarter horse, so I can outlast my baby sister.

Especially when she pulls out my first name.

I’m the fourth Bartholomew Sawyer on my father’s side of the family, not that the name did much good.

After my dad left, and my mom died, none of the other Bartholomews stepped up to help.

Brooke and I are total opposites. She’s a good foot shorter than my 6’1” frame. Her dark wavy hair always hangs loose, while my blond hair is cropped short, the way it’s been since my rodeo days except for the top, which I’m growing out some.

“Do I have to call Gentry and get him on my side?”

I lunge for her phone too late. She’s already got the damn thing unlocked, thumb hovering like a sniper ready to fire. With a sigh, I drop back into the wooden chair, jaw tight, knowing the hell Gentry will give me if she pulls him in. “What do I get in return?”

Both brows raise. “Besides the satisfaction of helping out your fellow townspeople?”

“Yep. And it’s got to be good, Brookie. None of this ‘I’ll wash your car for a month’ crap like when we were kids.”

She shoves her laptop aside, nearly tipping over her sweet tea, chewing her bottom lip while calculating her next move. Whatever she’s about to give up must hurt. “I’ll stop pushing the rebrand. You win. We keep Grandpa’s logo exactly as it is.”

I scoff. “You would’ve given in anyway. What else?” I take a sip of water, needing more from her if I’m going to parade around a stage for the highest bidder.

“I’ll go on a lunch date with Gentry.” The old fridge rattles again, a low mechanical groan that used to drive Gramps nuts.

I choke on my drink. “Not a good idea. Damn, Brooke. You shouldn’t lead the guy on.”

She shrugs, her face feigning bored curiosity. “Maybe I need to see what all the fuss is about.”

“What fuss?” Gentry didn’t tell me he’s been dating anyone. I was counting on his bachelorhood to help me settle in. Can’t enjoy Friday nights at the Rusty Spur alone. I don’t need girls hitting on me right now. Got enough of that on the circuit.

Brooke taps her pen on the wooden table. “Ever since he signed up, the auction’s social media page has increased views. The ladies love him.”

I nod. “That hits.”

Gentry McCallum and I were like kings back in the day.

Girls would show up at our houses all the time asking if we could hang out.

My grandpa finally put a sign on the door that said Colt doesn’t live here anymore.

I didn’t find that very funny back then, but I plan on using that one with my own kids someday.

A quick knock sounds at the kitchen door before it swings open. “Brooke, guess what squirrel Bob did—oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Hi, Colt.”

My boot catches on the leg of the chair when I stand, the kind of clumsy move I haven’t made since my first year in the chute. Perfect fucking timing. I’m staring. I blink and look at Brooke instead, but the damage is done.

“Hi.” It comes out rougher than I mean it to. I clear my throat, running a hand through my hair.

Her blue eyes are steady, the kind of look that doesn’t ask for permission or apology. “You don’t remember me, do you?” She tucks a strand of her long strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear and waits me out.

“Of course I do.” It’s only half a lie. I’ve seen her around town over the years, but this close, she looks different. Softer somehow. Surer of herself. My gaze catches on her curves before I can reel it back, hitting low in my stomach and pulling me off balance.

Her pretty smile tugs a little wider. “We went to Stone Ridge High. I was a sophomore when you were a senior. We took Spanish 2 together. I sat behind you.”

Right. I remember a voice behind me asking to borrow a pen.

That’s it. That’s all I’ve got. Back then, I was too tangled up in the wrong girl to notice anyone else.

Liz Beck wore her shirts tight and kissed like rebellion, nothing like the steady, safe life Gramps was trying to build for me.

She and I broke up and got back together so many times I lost count.

Last I heard, she owned a tearoom in town and was engaged to a state trooper for a while.

But that’s long in the past. I take in our guest’s knockout curves, her heart-shaped face, and my memory suddenly flickers.

Strawberry hair catching the afternoon sun through the classroom window, the faint scent of vanilla when she’d lean forward to pass papers, the way her breath would hitch when we made eye contact. “Haley, right?”

“Hallie. Hallie Emory.”

“Yeah. It’s good to see you.” Funny. In high school, she blended in.

Now, she stands out without even trying.

“You were in drama, right? You did A Christmas Carol?” Maybe it’s the light, or maybe I just never paid close enough attention before.

Her curves are about to knock me over, hands down.

I’m suddenly regretting every time I didn’t look twice.

“Good memory. I was the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

My sister finally speaks up. “Hallie lives on the other side of my duplex.”

“Ah. The bestie.”

Hallie grins and shrugs. “That’s me.”

“I’ll leave you ladies to it. Nice to see you again, Hallie.”

“You too.”

As I walk toward the study, it takes Brooke less than a second to spill my business. “I’m trying to convince Colt to be in the bachelor auction...”

I drag a hand down my face, smothering the urge to growl something at my sister that I’ll regret tomorrow.

Closing the door, I sit at my grandfather’s desk, my palms flattening against the worn wood.

His old ledger sits open on the corner, a list of every donation he made to town causes scribbled in his looping handwriting.

The ink’s faded, but the message isn’t. Gramps did his part without ever running his mouth about it.

Now Brooke expects me to do the same—and damn it, I can already feel him staring over my shoulder.

I pick up my phone and send my sister a text.

I’m in.

Something inside me settles, heavy, steady, familiar, as I attempt to focus.

Numbers, genetics, training schedules. That’s my world now, not bachelor auctions, and definitely not blue-eyed neighbors who look at me like I’m still the same guy from high school.

I’m not. And the sooner everyone in Stone Ridge figures that out, the better.

Why, then, do I keep picturing Hallie Emory holding the paddle, wearing that same soft smile she had in Spanish class, back when I was too stupid to notice her at all?