Holiday Horseman (Christmas Card Cowboys #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Three hours ago, the sequined Christmas top sounded like such a good idea. Now it felt like a costume for a play she didn’t understand because apparently nothing in her hometown of Evergreen Springs was what it seemed.

Not even reality itself.

Fiona Walker sat in her ancient Honda in the Rusty Spur’s parking lot, engine running, heater blasting, struggling to process what had just happened.

The dashboard clock glowed 10:47 PM, but time had lost all meaning over the last thirty minutes after her best friends informed her that the fantastical was real and cowboys from 1878 kept appearing in their town.

Time. Traveling. Cowboys.

She pressed her forehead against the steering wheel and let out a hysterical laugh.

Eliza’s new love interest, Wyatt McCready, was from 1878. Wyatt, who had helped Jamie with a school project about Montana history.

Except he was from another century.

And Cade, poor Tessa’s Cade, vanished back to 1878 because the Christmas card took Tessa at her word when she said she didn’t need him.

“Magic Christmas cards yanking cowboys through time,” Fiona said aloud, tasting the absurdity. “Sure. Why not? And I suppose next you’ll tell me Santa is real and the Tooth Fairy runs a YouTube page.”

She lifted her head and caught her reflection in the rearview mirror. Hard to tell. She looked like what she was—a twenty-eight-year-old single mom desperate for a night out, who thought her biggest problem was making rent and keeping her son in occupational therapy.

But no. She was living in some kind of Hallmark movie meets The Twilight Zone.

“How did I miss this?” she asked. “How did I not track that cowboys from the eighteen hundreds kept cropping up?”

Though, thinking about it now, there were signs. The way Wyatt had stared at the automatic doors at the grocery store like they might attack. His complete bafflement the first time Jamie’s tablet made noise. The time he asked if electric lights ever caught fire like oil lamps.

She thought he was quirky. Perhaps raised by those off-grid survivalist types who lived up in the mountains. Who knew he came from 1878?

A knock on her window. She jumped so hard she honked the horn with her elbow.

The Rusty Spur bartender, Ned Sinclair, stood outside, huddled against the cold and looking concerned.

She rolled down the window, cold air rushing in and sending a shiver down her spine.

“You okay, Fi? Been sitting here a while.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Just processing the evening.”

“Tessa looked pretty rough tonight.” Ned leaned against her car. “Is that cowboy of hers coming back? My brother’s still looking for someone to work with his cutting horses.”

“I don’t think so,” Fiona said. “He went back home.” To another century.

Ned clucked his tongue. “That’s a shame. Don’t see horsemanship like that much anymore.”

True that. “I should go.”

Ned stepped back and tipped his hat. “Drive safe. Roads might be icy.”

She rolled up the window and pulled out of the lot, navigating the familiar streets while her mind reeled. Christmas lights blurred past, wreaths on lampposts, inflatable Santas in yards, trees twinkling in windows. The whole town dressed up for the holiday.

The radio played I’ll Be Home for Christmas, and she had to turn it off because the irony was too much. Cade wouldn’t be home for Christmas. He was more than a hundred years away from the Christmas he planned with Tessa.

And that mysterious card.

Tessa pulled the antique Christmas card out of her pocket like a live grenade that might explode at any second and send people careening through time.

Fiona turned onto Maple Street and then had to pull over because her hands shook too hard. She gripped the steering wheel and tried to breathe through the paradigm shift.

Magic was real. Time travel was real. Her best friends had been keeping massive secrets. The world was not what she thought it was when she put on this stupid sequined top.

Her phone buzzed. A text from her mother:

Jamie’s asleep. Dad and I need to talk to you when you arrive. It’s important.

Terrific. Because this night needed more drama.

She pulled back onto the road, driving the last few blocks to her apartment on autopilot. The thing was, and this was the part that really got her, if magic Christmas cards were real, if time-traveling cowboys were real, then what else was real?

What other impossible things were happening right under her nose while she worried about grocery lists and therapy schedules?

The small complex came into view, modest and familiar, its windows dark except for the glow from her living room. Normal problems. Parents who thought the biggest mystery in life was why Jamie insisted on arranging his toy dinosaurs by geological period.

How was she supposed to walk in there and pretend everything was normal when nothing would ever be normal again?

She parked in her usual spot and sat for a moment, trying to reassemble herself. Her parents were waiting. Whatever they needed to tell her, it couldn’t be any stranger than what she just learned.

Time-traveling cowboys. Magic Christmas cards. Her best friends keeping impossible secrets.

Fiona grabbed her purse and headed inside. The sequins on her top scratched at her arms as she moved. The door opened before she could get her key in the lock, and there were her parents, standing close together, both looking too solemn.

Her mom’s hands were clasped, her dad’s mouth pressed into the stern line he wore when he told her Grandma had passed away.

“Let’s sit down.” Dad waved toward the living area.

Taking a deep breath, she followed them.

A cinnamon candle glowed on the coffee table. The folded afghan rested on the arm of the couch. In the corner, the space where the Christmas tree usually stood was empty. No lights. No ornaments. Her parents always helped her put it up and made sure Jamie got to hang the first ornament.

But this year, she was busy and had not found the time.

Her parents settled onto the couch, and she took the chair opposite them. “What’s wrong? Is Jamie okay? Did something happen?”

“Jamie’s fine, sweetheart.” Mom’s voice held the careful quality that meant bad news was coming. “He went down easy tonight. Out by the middle of the second book.”

Her dad didn’t speak right away. He rubbed at the back of his neck, shifted his stance, and stared at the floor like words were heavy stones he couldn’t quite lift. He cleared his throat. Coughed.

Mom smoothed her palm over the afghan’s fringe. “We’ve been trying for three days to figure out how to tell you this.”

Fiona’s pulse quickened. “What is it? Money trouble? Did something happen? You’re both okay?”

Dad exhaled. “I had my appointment with Dr. Teague on Friday.” His voice carried its old command, but underneath, resignation bled through. “The tests showed these old lungs simply can’t take another Montana winter. The cold. The altitude. It’s just too much.”

Fiona blinked, numb. Huh? Her dad, the firefighter who carried kids out of burning buildings, the man who seemed indestructible her whole life, saying can’t.

“Friday? You went to the doctor Friday and you’re just telling me now? It’s Monday night.”

Mom’s eyes brimmed. “We didn’t want to ruin your weekend, honey, or your girls’ night out. We thought we could wait until after the holidays to tell you, let you and Jamie have a good Christmas before—”

“But Doc was adamant.” Dad’s jaw clamped tight, and he fisted his hand in his lap.

“If I don’t get to a warmer climate right away, I’m looking at another hospitalization.

Maybe worse. Your Uncle Paul’s got the casita ready.

He told us to come whenever we needed it.

” He paused. “We’ll spend the winter there. Just until spring.”

“It’s not forever,” Mom said. “Just for the winter. We’ll be back as soon as it warms up.”

But Fiona heard only the absence. Weeks. Months. Winter. The entire stretch of the year that held Christmas, New Year’s, and Jamie’s birthday. All the pieces she couldn’t imagine surviving without them.

“Tomorrow?” Her voice strangled high, threatening to carry to Jamie’s room.

She lowered it. “You can’t leave tomorrow.

Christmas is in ten days. Jamie’s been practicing Jingle Bells on his keyboard for you.

He made ornaments. He asked if Pap would read ’Twas the Night Before Christmas because, his exact words, ‘Pap does the voices best.’”

Mom reached for her, tears spilling down her cheeks. “We’ll FaceTime every day. We’ll read stories over the phone. We’ll—”

“It’s not the same.” Fiona hugged herself. “You’re the ones who pick him up when I work late. You’re the ones who know how to calm him when routine changes without warning. You’re the ones who—”

Who keep me sane and believing I can do this.

“We know, Fi.” Her father’s expression was pained. “You think I want to leave? Miss his Christmas morning? But if I stay…” His hand pressed against his chest. “If I stay, there may not be another Christmas.”

She could lose her father. Dread washed over her as the fight bled out. She caught it then, the gray undertone to his skin, the way his stance sagged, the shallow breaths, ragged coughs.

When had her father, her fire-eater, become this fragile?

Mom reached over to take Dad’s hand. “We tried everything else first. Called about oxygen systems, looked into treatments, even considered Billings for the lower elevation. But Dr. Teague was firm. Montana’s altitude is just too high. Too cold.”

Dad nodded as if it hurt to move his head. “Phoenix is closer to sea level and warm. That difference gives me a chance at good years. Years I can still toss a ball with Jamie. Years your mom doesn’t sleep with one ear tuned to my breathing.”

Fiona’s eyes burned. She wanted to cry, but how could she break down when they needed her to be strong?

She glanced at her mom and spied the fatigue etched deep and the way her gaze never left Dad’s face.

They hated it too. They spent their weekend searching for ways to stay and had run out of options.

“Okay, you’re right. You have to go.”

Mom broke then, pulling her into a fierce hug scented with White Shoulders perfume and cinnamon candle. Dad’s arms came around them both, and for a long moment, they stood locked together, grief braided with love.

When they let go at last, Fiona swiped at her face with the back of her hand. “I need to check on Jamie.”

She slipped down the hall, heavy-hearted. The dinosaur nightlight cast green shadows across the wall. Jamie lay sprawled under his snowflake quilt, a stuffed giraffe clutched to his chest.

Fiona sank to her knees beside the bed and brushed hair from his forehead. Love filled her. He had her father’s chin, her mother’s lashes, and her own wild hair that never laid flat without intervention. Seven years old and unaware that tomorrow would knock his world askew.

Tomorrow she would fix his breakfast alone. Get him to school. Figure out pickups around her jobs. Navigate his routines without his grandparents’ magic touch.

“Your Gammie and Pap love you very much. They’ll miss you every day. But love doesn’t care about distance. It just keeps going on and on and on like the night sky.”

Jamie stirred, burrowed deeper into his quilt, untroubled.

Fiona stayed until her knees ached, savoring his peace, knowing how fragile it was. She thought of meltdowns soothed only by Pap’s humming, nights when Gammie’s calm carried them all through. Who would step in now when life overwhelmed her?

She pushed to her feet and returned to the living room, finding her parents in the kitchen: Dad jotting notes on the fridge pad, Mom unloading the dishwasher, keeping busy to make it hurt less.

“Your Uncle Paul’s waiting,” Dad said without looking up. “Casita’s furnished. Pulmonologist nearby. We’ll drive in stages and take our time.”

“Forecast looks clear through Utah.” Mom held up the weather report on her phone. “I left lasagna in the fridge. Made Jamie’s lunch too: peanut butter and honey sandwich, grapes halved, cheese crackers.”

“Mom, I can handle his lunch.”

“I know.” Her smile wavered. “I just wanted to do it one last time.”

At the door, goodbye stretched too long and, at the same time, not long enough. Dad hugged her tight, Old Spice and eucalyptus clinging. “You’re stronger than you think, Fiona Grace. Always have been.”

Mom kissed her cheek. “We’ll text before we leave tomorrow. And we’ll call when we stop for the night. And tomorrow. And every day after.”

Then the door clicked shut behind them.

Fiona stood staring at it. Outside, a car alarm blared, silenced, then blared again. Ordinary sounds. Except nothing was ordinary about this night.

Her heels pinched her ankles. She kicked them off and padded barefoot to the fridge. The notepad bore her dad’s block letters: Uncle Paul’s contact info, Doctor Teague’s number, a hand-drawn map of their route to Phoenix, and a reminder to get the oil changed in her car when it hit 125,000 miles.

Beneath it, in her mom’s handwriting:

You’ve got this, sweetheart. One day at a time.

One day at a time.

Fiona pressed her forehead to the door and let the tears fall. She had survived hard seasons before: divorce, lawyers, the nights when Jamie screamed until dawn, and she held him until her arms went numb.

But through all of it, her parents had been her safety net.

Now, with Christmas only ten days away, that net was gone. Even if it was “just for the winter,” it felt like forever.

And she had no idea how to keep Jamie’s world safe without them.