Her Cowboy Santa (Naughty List Ranch #3)

Chapter 1

Nate

“Give it a try now,” I tell Ledger Kringle, heir to the Kringle Christmas Tree Ranch here in Courage County, North Carolina. It’s the kind of place that crowds come during November and December to get a homegrown Christmas tree. The whole Kringle family goes all out for the holiday season.

He cranks the tractor, but nothing happens. It’s this little tractor decorated to look like a train engine that transports guests around the ranch. The kids love the Christmas train tour, their eyes growing big and excited when they see it.

I study underneath the hood again. I’m usually good at fixing things, especially things that break down. But I’ve never had any experience working with this particular model, so it’s taking me longer than usual to figure out what the problem is.

The wind blows, howling and cold, promising snow later this evening. If we can’t get this fixed soon, Ledger and his brothers won’t be able to do their usual tours.

Before I can move onto the next possible solution, Peyton bustles into the cold barn. She’s Ledger’s wife and one heck of a businesswoman. She’s taken Liquid Courage, our local bar, and turned it into one of the best restaurants in the state.

“I made cookies,” Peyton calls, all buttoned up in her coat that’s brown with white trim, almost as if she’s baked so many gingerbread people that she’s in danger of becoming one herself.

Ledger clambers down from the tractor in less time than it takes a heart to beat. He accepts one of the cookies from his wife and bites into it, giving her a delighted smile.

“Still warm from the oven.” She passes him a thermos of coffee.

I duck my head and look back at the tractor, unable to take the sweetness and the innocence of the moment. I almost had that once. Three years ago, I could have sworn that by this point I’d be married with a couple of rugrats of my own running around underneath my feet.

But that never happened. I push back the familiar pain and despair, the reminder that I am alone in the world.

My phone rings, and I quickly check the screen. It’s Mary from the Naughty List Ranch in Montana. I stayed at that ranch years ago when I was a young boy on the wrong path.

Mary and Christopher Maas saved my life, and I don’t know if they know it. I silence the call, figuring I’ll return hers later. Right now, I have a tractor to fix, so I can get away and lick my wounds in peace.

“Give it another try,” I tell Ledger, who is happily kissing his wife. He pulls away from her reluctantly. The tractor rumbles to life. This old workhorse has returned.

Peyton gives me a soft smile. “You saved Christmas.”

“No big deal,” I tell her, wiping my grease-covered hands on a rag.

“You should stay for dinner,” she says enthusiastically. I shake my head before Ledger can second the invitation.

“Well, at least take some gingerbread men with you,” she says, pushing a plate of the warm cookies toward me.

Rudolph, my giant chocolate Labrador Retriever, tries to sniff the plate. I hold it out of his reach, calling his name in a soft warning. He makes a whimper but takes a seat, licking his lips as he does.

I say my thanks to Peyton, wave away Ledger’s gratitude, and start on the two-mile walk back to my farm. Rudy keeps pace beside me, quiet and unassuming.

Flurries have just started swirling in the late afternoon air as my phone dings with the reminder of a missed call.

I call Mary back even though I already know what she’s going to say.

She’s calling to invite me to the annual Christmas Eve bonfire on the Naughty List Ranch in Silver Bell Hollow.

I used to love it. I went every other year because I loved reconnecting with my brothers.

But since that Christmas three years ago, I haven’t been able to return.

Mary answers on the first ring. Hearing her voice floods me with memories of Christmases past. She greets me with her usual chipper tone. “How are you doing?”

I tell her I’m doing fine, ignoring the rough edge to my voice.

The little click she makes with her tongue against her teeth lets me know that she heard the rough edge too. She knows how tough things have been.

“Everything’s almost in order for the bonfire,” she tells me. Of course, she has everything organized and running like a top. If the media ever reported that Mary and Christopher Maas were secretly the couple in red with the magical workshop, I’d be the first to believe it.

“That’s good.” I brace myself for the question that’s coming next. She doesn’t mean for it to hurt. She doesn’t even fully understand what happened that year. Still, I’m sure enough of it got back to her.

Right on cue, Mary asks, “Should I set out a plate for you?”

I sigh. “No, I won’t be there.”

“Not even for a quick stop-in?” Her voice has that little note to it. The one that lets me know she’s disappointed but trying to hide it. I hate that it’s hurting her, but I hate smiling through the festivities even more.

“Not even for a quick stop-in,” I confirm.

Christmas is only a few days away, and my big plan is to hide out on my farm and pretend the day doesn’t exist. It’s surprisingly easy to do for a cowboy.

After all, the chores don’t take a day off just because it’s a holiday.

The animals still need to be fed and watered, the fences mended, and the barn secured.

There’s a lot for a cowboy to handle. Far too much to take time off.

She sighs softly. “Some of your brothers are coming.”

“I’m going to send you a really nice Christmas gift,” I answer, hoping my words will be a distraction to get her off this topic.

“I don’t want a gift, nice or otherwise,” she tells me. “I have everything I need right here.”

“You’re really going to like it.” In truth, I have no idea what I’m getting her. I’ll have to look up one of those lists on my phone, the kind that talk about what gifts women are wanting for Christmas this year.

My phone beeps in my ear, signaling I have a new text message. It’s a welcome relief to be able to say, “I’ve got to go. This could be important.”

I tell her I love her and end the call. But it’s only a message from Ledger, thanking me for my help.

I tap out a quick response and continue my solitary walk, which is over too fast when I spot my ranch hands coming out of the bunkhouse.

They look like they’ve had some spiked eggnog.

“Hey there, boss man,” Michael, one of my new ranch hands, calls out. He plucks off the red Stetson with fur from his head and puts it on mine. Then he breaks into a braying laugh, as do the other ranch hands who are with him.

Yep, someone definitely spiked the eggnog tonight.

“He’s cowboy Santa,” Michael declares, laughing again. He points with his thumb behind him. “We’re headed to Liquid Courage for a little bit of holiday cheer. Why don’t you come with us?”

“I’m good,” I tell him. He says something about cowboy Santa being grumpy, until I glare at him. Suddenly, the ranch hands are all too eager to disperse.

I watch them go and shake my head. Rudy watches them too, letting out a whine like he’s disappointed to be stuck with a grump like me for the holidays. “Come on, I have a good Christmas gift for you. Might even give it to you early.”

The sight of my two-story farmhouse with its green roof soon to be covered in snow and the cozy porch with the wicker furniture almost brings a smile to my face. I bought it a few years ago. It’s what I’ve worked hard for my whole life. But it’s only half the dream.

The other half involved the place being lit up with lights and little ones toddling about and a wife with a sweet smile. Someone who would look forward to cozying up with me on these cold winter nights.

Seeing the dark farmhouse makes my heart hurt the same way your hand does when you’ve bumped into something. You don’t remember quite how the bruise got there, only that it aches when pressed on.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” I mutter at the same moment that Rudy lets out a menacing growl and lays his ears back.

“What’s wrong?” I ask as I take the porch steps two at a time. I only have to swing my door open to spot the problem. There is an intruder in my living room, or rather, what I’m sure Rudy would classify as an intruder.

Hunter, my brother, so rarely drops by that Rudy doesn’t know him or his scent very well.

“Help yourself to some of my jam,” I tell him because he’s stretched out in one of my plush leather recliners with a jar of jam and some table crackers. I’ve been making that jam and working on it for two years now. I’ve perfected it. I know I have.

“You’ve got jars of it,” Hunter says, spewing crackers everywhere. But he at least has the decency to put down the footrest of the recliner and click off the sports game he was watching. “Nice hat. Are you supposed to be western Santa?”

“What are you doing here?” I think I can count on one hand the number of times he’s come down the mountain.

“Well, I was in the neighborhood,” he answers as if my farm is one of those suburbs with two thousand houses all built within a square mile. I’d break out in hives if I had more neighbors than trees. Huh, maybe that’s why city folks are always complaining about their allergies.

I make a noise of disbelief and head into the kitchen, pulling three steaks from the fridge where I’ve had them marinating. I didn’t plan for company, but as long as Hunter doesn’t annoy me, I reckon I could throw him a bite of food. “Yeah, I know what a social butterfly you are.”

He has the decency to look sheepish. He rarely leaves his cabin on the mountain. In fact, there’s only one person who could have put him up to this.

“Emma May,” I say under my breath.

He nods, confirming my guess. Emma May is our adoptive foster mother. She was already fostering Hunter and Ford, my biological brothers. Somehow, she and Mary Maas connected online after realizing they both had part of a set of triplets.

At first, when Mary told me about my teenage brothers in North Carolina, I didn’t believe her. But after talking with Hunter and Ford, I quickly realized we shared a connection.

I flew down to spend a weekend with them and two days turned into a summer then the rest of our lives. I don’t have much in the way of biological family other than my two brothers, but these two guys are alright.

“Have you heard from Ford?” I ask as we head out onto the back deck, so I can fire up the grill. There’s a light dusting of snow already on the grill cover.

Hunter blows a breath then shakes his head. Ford rarely talks to us anymore. Not since his time in the military. He’s been hiding in a cabin since his discharge. He’s even more of a recluse than Hunter, and that’s already a pretty high bar.

He shoves his hands in his pockets. Minutes pass with neither of us speaking. “You should do something with your jams.”

“I already tried to find a baker,” I tell him.

I want to sell my jams, but they’re best paired with fresh rolls and biscuits.

If I can get a good baker, then I can take advantage of all that traffic that comes through the Kringle Christmas Tree Ranch.

I’d be able to launch my line of jams and be profitable from day one.

“I could do it,” Hunter volunteers. He’s as much of a disaster in the kitchen as I am. Neither of us can cook to save our lives. Now, the grill is a different story. I can grill with the best of them.

I crack a smile, the first one I’ve had all day. Feels foreign on my face. “I’m not that desperate yet.”

Dinner with Hunter passes easily enough. We barely talk. We don’t have to, and I appreciate the silence he lets hang between us. It’s late by the time he finally leaves, but at least, he can call Emma May and say he checked in on me.

The next morning, I’ve already been up and working on my farm for close to two hours when I get a call from Mary.

I frown at my screen. It’s unusual for Mary to call me twice in as many days. She might want me there, but she’s never been a nag. I answer on the second ring, wanting to know what’s going on.

“I have a problem,” she announces before I can even greet her.

My ears instantly prick up. In all of her years, Mary has never once announced a problem to me. “What can I do to help?”

“I hired a baker from Asheville to come work here.”

She mentioned in a previous conversation that she was looking for a baker. Maybe I need to put her in charge of my search. I might have more luck that way. “Is she any good?”

“She’s still in Asheville, and her car broke down. She’s a single mom with a baby, and she’s stranded out there alone. I really need her in time for the holiday rush. I know it’s a lot to ask, but—”

“Don’t worry,” I tell her, already heading inside.

I open my laptop and manage to snag two airplane tickets to Montana.

It’s over thirty hours by car ride. If Mary says she needs the baker now, then I’ll do whatever it takes to get her there.

“Send me a pin of where she is. I’ll get her and have her safely delivered to the Naughty List Ranch. ”

Mary breathes out an audible sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

“Send me that pin,” I say, before telling her I love her and ending the call. I glance at Rudy, who’s staring at me with his head cocked. “Looks like we’re going home for the holidays after all.”