Chapter 6 – Snowy Morning and Frosty Hearts
Max
Sleep hadn’t come easy. It rarely did these days. Dreams had come in pieces—my dad’s calloused hand on my shoulder, my mother humming a lullaby in the kitchen. And then silence. That awful kind of silence that lingered after people leave, a cold echo in an empty house.
I got up before the sun, the floorboards groaning under my weight, and tugged on thermals, layered flannel over denim, pushing down the ache in my chest the same way I always did—by working.
The wind howled like it had a grudge against the world, a bitter, biting thing that rattled the old barn siding and stung any skin foolish enough to peek outside. My breath plumed white in the frigid air.
I pulled my coat tighter around my shoulders and adjusted my scarf. Duke bounded ahead, fur dusted with snow, his tail wagging like he was thrilled about the Arctic conditions.
The fence line on the north pasture had been half-buried in snow when I checked it at dawn, and one section had snapped under the weight of a fallen branch.
I’d patched worse in worse, but this morning felt personal—like the ranch, the very land I was fighting for, was testing me, pushing me to my breaking point.
I trudged through the drifts, boots crunching, wire cutters in hand. The snow kept falling, thick and quiet, covering everything in a sheet of deceptive calm.
And then, like the universe had decided I wasn’t irritated enough, I heard footsteps behind me.
I turned. Ella.
Wearing mismatched gloves, a bright red knit hat pulled low over her ears, and one of my old flannels cinched awkwardly over her coat like armor against the cold, she looked like a walking contradiction—city-girl-turned-farmhand with enough stubborn determination to make me groan.
“What in the world are you doing out here?” I barked.
She puffed a cloud of breath and adjusted her scarf. “Helping. Obviously.”
“You’ll freeze.”
“Already halfway there.” She shivered and smiled like she found it funny. “But someone has to make sure you don’t throw out your back.”
I stared at her for a second too long, a flicker of something akin to reluctant admiration stirring in my chest. Then, with a grunt, I handed her the hammer.
“Hold the wire steady. If you let it snap back, you’re buying the coffee.”
“Deal.”
We worked side by side for a while, the only sounds our tools and the wind. She grunted with effort when she tugged the wire tight, her knuckles white around the tool. I didn’t say a word—but I noticed.
She didn’t complain once, didn’t ask to stop. Just dug in, snow soaking her boots, cheeks flushed from the cold, a faint tremor in her hands. She was tired, but she kept going.
She slipped at one point, nearly losing her footing on a patch of ice. I caught her elbow on instinct. “Careful,” I muttered.
“I’m good,” she said, though her face turned bright pink—whether from the cold or something else, I wasn’t sure.
When the last nail was driven in, I stood back and nodded. “Not bad.”
She grinned, brushing snow from her sleeve. “You mean I passed the cowboy test?”
I snorted. “You’re still wearing your gloves inside out.”
We started back toward the barn, snow creaking beneath our boots. Duke ran circles ahead, barking at shadows.
For a brief second, with the storm swirling around us and her laughing beside me, I forgot just how heavy things had been lately.
By the time we made it to the kitchen, we were soaked and windburned. I poured two mugs of coffee and handed one to her. She wrapped her hands around it like it was gold.
“This is the best coffee I’ve ever had,” she said, then winced. “Okay, maybe the second best. Once had this oat milk vanilla latte in—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.”
She laughed, a clear, bright sound that felt like sunlight breaking through the clouds, and something tight in my chest loosened.
We sat at the small table in silence for a moment, the kitchen dim and quiet around us. Outside, the storm howled on.
She picked a piece of hay from her coat and flicked it onto the floor. “You ever think about what you’d be doing if you hadn’t stayed?”
“Maybe,” I said, and then paused. “But not really. The ranch was always the plan. Even when it wasn’t.”
She sipped her coffee and glanced sideways at me. “Did you ever leave Starcrest? Even once?”
“Couple times. Rodeo when I was a kid. Once to Austin for a feed expo. Didn’t take.”
“Why’d you stay?”
I turned my mug in my hands. “My folks died when I was fifteen. Car accident. Sheriff Harris brought me here the next day.
Your grandfather said I could work for room and board. Then gave me a bunk. Then made me foreman. He didn’t say much, but he… showed up. Every day. A warm meal on the table, a quiet nod that said 'you're doing good.'"
Ella was quiet, her eyes soft.
“I always figured I’d pay him back by keeping this place running. Thought I had time.”
“You couldn’t have known he was sick.”
“I should’ve. That man built this place with his bare hands. He’d ride out in a thunderstorm just to make sure a gate was shut. Then one day, he stopped checking. I thought he was just… getting older.”
I looked up. She was watching me like she understood. Like she wasn’t just listening—she saw it. And her words resonated deeply within me.
“My mom used to say,” she said slowly, “that grief isn’t a moment. It’s a road. You don’t walk it once. You walk it a hundred times.”
I nodded, unsure what to say, but her words settled heavy and true in my own grieving heart.
She leaned back, cradling her mug. “Maybe fixing fences in a snowstorm isn’t so bad.”
“You’re still buying the coffee next time.”
She laughed again, then pointed at Duke, who was snoring under the table. “He has the right idea.”
I stood to refill her cup. As I reached for her mug, my fingers brushed hers.
It was barely a second. But it stopped me cold, a jolt of unexpected warmth spreading through my hand. Her eyes, wide and suddenly vulnerable, met mine. She didn’t move. Neither did I. My fingers lingered a breath too long, tracing an invisible line on her skin.
Then she cleared her throat, a small, shaky sound, and looked away. I poured the coffee, my heart thudding like hooves on frost, a rhythm that had nothing to do with chores and everything to do with her.
Outside, the storm began to soften.