An Angel for the Cowboy (A Cowboy For Christmas #13)

Chapter 1

Anita

Blossom Ford is nothing like the city I left behind.

The taxi winds through the town, and I press my face closer to the window, drinking in every detail.

It’s the beginning of the second week of December, yet signs of Christmas are everywhere.

A massive lit-up tree dominates what must be the town square, twinkling with hundreds of white lights even in the late afternoon sun.

People walk the sidewalks bundled in coats, carrying shopping bags, waving to each other like they've known one another their whole lives.

My chest tightens with something that feels like hope.

In Garnet City, I was anonymous. One face among millions, rushing from my apartment to my office job, the hours bleeding together in a blur of fluorescent lights and uncomfortable heels.

The pay was good—great, even—but somewhere along the way, the walls of my cubicle started feeling less like a workspace and more like a cage.

“It’s a pretty town, isn’t it?” The taxi driver asks, catching my eye in the rearview mirror.

“It is.” I touch the angel figurine in my coat pocket for luck, the porcelain smooth and cool against my fingers.

The mountains rise in the distance, their peaks dusted with snow.

They look welcoming somehow, protective.

Like they're standing guard over this little town and everyone in it.

A fresh start. That's what I came here for.

A chance to breathe again, to work with horses like I did those summers before I had to choose money over passion.

I worked part-time as a ranch hand for two summers before I left high school.

It was the best job I ever had. Being outside, working with the horses, feeling the sun on my skin and the honest ache of physical labor in my muscles was perfect.

But then Grumps, my beautiful, stubborn horse, needed me.

He'd been my companion since Dad gave him to me when I turned fifteen.

His vet bills, stable fees, his special feed as he got older all added up.

Mom and Dad were struggling with paying his bills. Giving him up wasn’t an option. So, as soon as I finished high school, I found a high-paying job as a secretary. For eight happy years, I took care of Grumps, spending evenings and weekends with him at the stable where I kept him

It’s a year now since I said goodbye to him, and the grief still catches me off guard sometimes. But lately, I’ve been wondering if losing him was what I needed to find my way back to the life I was meant to live.

The taxi turns onto a dirt road, leaving the town behind. Open land stretches out on either side, brown earth and scrubby brush giving way to fenced pastures. My heart starts to pound.

I quit my job. Packed up my apartment. Said goodbye to my parents via video call—they're doing missionary work in Guatemala and couldn't get back for this. My best friend Corrie, whom I’ve known since kindergarten, thought I was crazy when I told her I was marrying a man I'd only chatted with online a handful of times.

“He’s thirty-eight! And he has a thirteen-year-old daughter!” She’d said.

“That’s only twelve years older than us. It shows he’s done playing the field and wants to settle down. And I’ll send you Mel’s picture; she’s a sweetheart.”

She’d sighed.

“Have you told your mom and dad? You’re supposed to spend Christmas with their friends.”

“I told them my plans changed and I’m spending Christmas with a new friend. I’ll tell them everything later.”

"Anita, this is insane," she'd said, and I could picture her pacing her New York apartment while I packed. "You don't really know him."

"I know enough. And the agency has an outstanding track record. You're the one who told me about it."

"I was joking! I didn't think you'd actually do it! You’re not the type to do something crazy like this."

But here I am, taking the biggest chance of my life because something in Chance McCord's profile spoke to me.

The photos of Mel, the ranch, the few carefully worded sentences about wanting someone who loved the land and horses and was willing to commit to forever.

The way his eyes looked in that one photo—guarded but hungry, like he was searching for something he'd lost.

Even though the agency's recommendation helped, this is still terrifying.

The taxi slows, and my stomach flips. A wooden sign arches over the driveway: McCord Ranch. The letters are weathered but carefully maintained. Beyond it, I see a barn, a house, fences stretching toward the mountains. Horses grazing in a pasture.

It's perfect. Everything I dreamed about.

"This is the McCord Ranch. Are you sure this is the place you want?" the driver asks.

"Yes." My voice comes out breathier than I intended. "This is it."

He pulls up near the house and helps me get my suitcase from the trunk.

It's heavier than it should be—most of my clothes, yes, but also my most precious decorations: the nativity scene my mother gave me; the angel my father added to the top; and a few ornaments that survived from my childhood.

I couldn't leave them behind. Christmas has always been my favorite time of year, and if I'm going to start a new life, I want to bring that warmth and tradition with me.

I pay the driver and watch him pull away, dust rising behind his tires. Then it's just me, standing in front of a ranch house with my suitcase at my feet and my heart in my throat.

The December air is crisp and clean, carrying the scent of hay and horses and something earthy I can't quite name. It's so quiet compared to the city. No traffic, no sirens, no constant hum of humanity pressing in from all sides. Just the whisper of wind and the distant sound of a horse nickering.

I'm home.

The thought comes unbidden, and I push it away. We signed a one-year cohabitation agreement, living as husband and wife. I don’t know if after the year ends Chance and his daughter will want me permanently in their lives.

A door opens—the barn, not the house—and my breath catches.

Chance McCord walks out leading a massive black horse, and I forget how to breathe.

He's tall, well over six feet, with broad shoulders and a muscled frame that speaks of years of hard labor.

His short brown hair is dusty, and there's dirt on his jeans and the flannel shirt stretched across his chest. He looks exactly like his photo and nothing like it at the same time.

Because the photo didn't capture the way he moves confidently, unhurried, like he's part of the land itself. It didn't show the sharp line of his jaw or the way his gray eyes go wide when he spots me.

He freezes. Completely still except for the horse shifting beside him.

And the way he's looking at me.

Heat floods my body. His gaze travels over my face, body, lingering on my hips in a way that makes my skin prickle with awareness. I'm curvier than my photo showed. The jeans I'm wearing hug every inch of me, and I can see the exact moment he notices.

His jaw clenches. Something flashes in his eyes; surprise, yes, but also raw, hungry attraction.

My body responds instantly. With a flush of warmth low in my belly, my pulse kicked up. I have never felt this kind of immediate, visceral pull to anyone.

This is the man I'm supposed to marry. This stranger who's looking at me like I'm water and he's been lost in the desert.

He blinks and seems to shake himself. "Can I help you?"

His voice is deep and rough, and it does things to me it shouldn't. I force myself to move, to close the distance between us with as much confidence as I can muster.

"I'm Anita. Anita Sanchez." I stick out my hand, aware of how formal it seems. "From the matchmaking agency?"

His brow furrows. "Matchmaking agency?"

Oh no.

"Blossom Ford Matchmaking Agency?" I try again. "We've been matched. I'm here for the cohabitation relationship."

He stares at me as if I've grown a second head. "I never signed up with a dating agency."

My stomach drops. "But you did. You signed the contract. Three days ago." I fumble in my coat pocket, pulling out the folded papers. "Look, this is your signature, isn't it? We agreed I would come this week."

He takes the papers, and I watch his face as he reads. Confusion, then recognition, then something that looks almost like dread.

"This is my signature," he says slowly. "But I don't remember signing this."

"You don’t remember?" My voice cracks. I traveled all this way. Left my entire life behind. "How do you not remember signing a cohabitation agreement? It’s almost the same as a common-law marriage."

"I don't know." He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing up. It makes him look younger, vulnerable. "I've been signing a lot of papers lately. The ranch, my daughter’s school forms."

A school bus rumbles up the driveway, and we both turn to watch it.

The door opens, and a teenage girl bounds off, her dark hair in a ponytail.

I recognize her from the photos on Chance’s profile.

It’s his daughter Mel. She's all long legs and bright energy until she sees me standing there with Chance.

She stops. Her eyes widen, and guilt washes over her face so clearly, I can read it from here.

"Mel," Chance says, his voice tight. "Do you know anything about this?"

Mel lifts her chin, and I see the determination beneath the guilt. "Dad, this is Ms. Anita. I told you about her. She’s a secretary. And I signed you up with the Blossom Ford Matchmaking Agency online service. I got you to sign the contract."

"You what?"

"Remember those school trip forms I had you sign?

I put one paper under another, and when you moved the top one, you signed on the signature line on the bottom paper.

That was the cohabitation agreement." She trails off, looking at me pleadingly.

"I'm sorry. But you kept staring at Ms. Anita’s picture.

For three whole days, every time we had breakfast or dinner, your eyes would go to her photo on the fridge. I knew you liked her."

Chance's face pales, then goes red. I can see him struggling with anger and heartbreak and a dozen other emotions.

"Mel, you told me the young women in the pictures were professionals the careers advisor told your class about.

You said having the photos at home helped you think about what you want to be in the future. "

"I wanted you to be happy." There are tears in Mel’s eyes. "You work all the time. You never smile anymore. And Granny Tallulah said there was someone perfect for you, someone who could make you happy again, and when I saw Ms. Anita's profile, I knew she would love our ranch."

"You tricked me into signing a marriage contract." His voice is low and dangerous.

"A cohabitation agreement," Mel corrects. "For one year. Then you can decide if you want to get legally married or go your separate ways. Mom left because of me. I have to help you be happy again."

“Ah, sweetheart, your mom leaving isn’t your fault. We’ve talked about this,” Chance tells Mel, but I can tell she isn’t convinced.

My heart is pounding so hard I feel dizzy. This is a disaster. I'm standing in the middle of a family crisis, and I have nowhere to go. The agreement I believed existed between me and Chance is fake.

"Please don't leave," Mel says, and I realize she's talking to me now. Her brown eyes are desperate. "Dad needs you. I know this is messed up, but please talk to Dad."

"That's enough, Mel," Chance says.

But I'm seeing the pain beneath the girl’s bravado. The loneliness. The desperate desire to fix something that's been broken. And I'm thinking about my loneliness this past year. About Grumps and the dreams I gave up and the cage I was living in back in the city.

I came here for a fresh start, horses, open land and the kind of life I've been craving. Looking at this ranch, breathing this air, feeling the way my body responded to Chance's eyes on me—maybe this is still a chance. Maybe it doesn't matter how unconventional the beginning is.

"I can be a ranch hand," I hear myself say.

Both of them stare at me.

"I grew up around horses. My dad worked as a horse caretaker at a country club.

“I’ve worked part time on a ranch." I square my shoulders.

"As a secretary and a certified bookkeeper, I can help with invoices and other paperwork.

I can also help with house chores, cooking, anything you'd need from a wife without the relationship part.

Let me stay for the year, like the agreement says.

If it doesn't work out, we end it and go our separate ways. "

Chance studies me, and I force myself not to fidget under that intense gray gaze. There’s exhaustion in the set of his shoulders. His eyes drift to the ranch like he’s weighing options.

"I need help," he admits finally. "Been stretched thin since my brother left."

"Then let me help."

Silence stretches between us. I'm aware of Mel holding her breath, of the black horse nuzzling Chance's shoulder, of my heart hammering against my ribs.

"One year," Chance says. "We'll see how it goes."

Relief floods through me so intensely my knees almost buckle. "Thank you."

Mel launches herself at me, wrapping her arms around my waist. I stiffen in surprise and then slowly relax into the hug. She smells of sunshine, youth and hope. It’s hard to be mad at her.

When I look up, Chance is watching us. His throat works as he swallows.

"I'll show you to your room," he says gruffly and carries my suitcase like it weighs nothing.

Mel releases me and grabs my small bag.

"You're going to love it here," she chatters as we head toward the house. "Duke, remember that’s Dad’s horse, is so smart. And my horse Dottie is a sweetheart.

I let her words wash over me, following her up the porch steps. At the door, I glance back. Chance is still standing there, watching me with an expression I can't quite read.

What have I gotten myself into?

And why does it feel like I've come home?