Her Grumpy Cowboy (Havenstone #1)

Chapter 1

Angel

Silver Bell Hollow looks like a snow globe someone shook too hard.

Frost halos the streetlamps, garlands swag across Main Street like fluffy green smiles, and the sign over my coffee shop, Mistletoe Mug, wears a crown of red velvet ribbon that keeps slipping because I tied it while half-asleep at four a.m. It’s the last Saturday before Christmas, which means I’ve already burned my tongue twice, the peppermint bark is down to dangerous crumbs, and the line at the counter is a cheerful, soon-to-be-caffeinated snake.

“Angel, tell me you have the strawberry shortcake latte with extra whip,” Mrs. Crowley begs, eyes round as ornaments.

“For you? I have two.” I slide the cup over and wink when she drops her knitted mitten over my hand and squeezes. Silver Bell Hollow is a town of squeezers—hands, shoulders, cheeks—like touch is a language and everyone is fluent.

Behind the espresso machine, Jamie, my barista-in-training, handles the milk wand like it’s a high-stakes science experiment. She’s a pretty, shy seventeen-year-old, but getting steadier every day.

“Deep breath,” I remind her as she steams milk for Mrs. Crowley’s shortcake latte. “The foam doesn’t bite.”

Jamie grins, all braces and concentration. “If it explodes again, I’m blaming physics.”

“Fair. Just not on my Yelp page.”

We make it through the rush with minimal caffeine casualties.

I wipe down the counter, glance at the clock, and wince.

Ten a.m. sharp. I promised Mary Maas I’d swing the refurbished star topper out to Naughty List Ranch, as it’s known locally, and freshen the big gate wreath she asked me to “work my Angel magic on.” Callie—the ranch baker and my good friend—has treats covered, so I’m on décor duty and a quick logistics chat with Christopher about maybe setting up a coffee cart for the Christmas Eve bonfire.

It’s been a year since I inherited Mistletoe Mug from an aunt I’d never met—twelve months of early mornings, burnt tongues, and coffee grounds in every shoe I own. A year of cinnamon in the air, cranky equipment, and locals who treat the shop like their living room.

Mrs. Crowley, our retired librarian, corrects my chalkboard spelling. Carl, who runs the hardware store, insists whipped cream is a fundamental human right. Tourists take photos of the year-round Christmas-themed front window, and I pretend not to love it.

I told myself I was only here for a season.

Long enough to get the coffee shop stable after it was left empty for months, then sell and move on.

But somewhere between fixing the roaster, training Jamie to steam milk without burning it, and memorizing the sound of that bell over the door, I stopped planning to leave.

Most days, I catch my reflection in the pastry case—flour on my cheek, hair frizzy from steam—and think, Is this really home now? It’s the longest I’ve ever stayed in one place.

I shrug into my coat and loop a scarf twice around my neck. “You good here for a couple of hours, Jamie?”

Jamie gives me a mock salute. “Yes, boss. Mrs. Crowley already tipped me in gingerbread men for life.”

“Keep her sugared, and nobody dies.”

“I’ll even restock the cocoa bombs,” she says proudly.

“That’s my girl.”

I carry the rewired vintage star (rescued from the attic) in one hand and the giant wreath in the other, breathing in pine until my eyes water. I shoulder the coffee shop door with my hip and step onto the sidewalk—

—and slam the wreath directly into a solid wall of man.

The star wobbles. The wreath tilts. The man doesn’t budge.

But I do. I bounce backward, but not before my entire front presses against a wall of warm, flannel-covered muscle.

A zing of heat shoots through me, low and sharp, like my body recognizes him before my brain catches up.

My boot heel skids on a slick patch of snow, and before I can recover, my butt hits the sidewalk with a soft thud.

The wreath and star fly from my hands, and I get my first proper look at what I ran into.

My breath frosts in my throat.

Tall. Broad shoulders under a worn flannel. Dark hair that hasn’t seen a stylist in years. Silver-gray eyes that look both exhausted and sharp, like they’ve seen too much. A scar near his temple, a jaw that could cut glass, and a don’t-mess-with-me silence humming off his skin.

“Oh, my god,” I groan, already blushing. “Sorry. I didn’t see you behind my wreath.”

He doesn’t laugh. He crouches beside me and offers me his hand. “It’s a big wreath,” he says, that quiet rasp of a voice sliding over me like heat in the cold.

I slide my hand into his palm, and wow. His hand is warm, huge, and calloused. When he pulls me up, it’s like being hauled upright by a man who could toss me over his shoulder if he wanted to. My entire body jolts against his chest for one brief, devastating second.

“And you’re a big man,” I blurt before my mouth catches up with my brain. “I mean, tall. You’re just—very—tall. Sorry. I’m saying words now.”

His eyebrows lift, but there’s something amused flickering in his storm-colored eyes. “Seems like it.”

He plucks the wreath and the star from the snow-covered ground in one hand as if they weigh nothing. “You delivering these?”

“Yes. To the Maas Ranch. Mary asked me to—”

“—add sparkle,” he finishes dryly.

My eyes widen. “You know her?”

His mouth curves again, almost reaching a full smile this time. “Used to.”

Something flickers in his expression—nostalgia, pain, maybe both—but before I can ask, he shifts the wreath to his other arm. “I’ll carry these.”

“You really don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

Three simple words that sit in the air like something he doesn’t say often. My stomach does a funny little swoop.

I fall into step beside him, crunching through snow as we head toward the road leading out of town. The hand-painted red and green sign at the corner reads Naughty List Ranch, 2 miles north. Beyond it, the mountains shoulder the sky, dusted in white.

“I’m Angel Tilsen,” I offer, because silence feels weird around him. “I run Mistletoe Mug—coffee, pastries, and emotional support lattes. You?”

He glances over, expression unreadable. “Grady Cross.”

“Welcome to Silver Bell Hollow, Mr. Cross. Visiting family?”

His jaw works once. “Old friends.”

His reply isn’t evasive, just tired. Like the answer costs him.

We turn onto the lane that leads out past the last clapboard storefronts, where the road narrows and the fields open. Snow skims the ditches and dusts the fences. The air smells fresh and sharp.

“Have we met?” I ask because strangers are rare in Silver Bell Hollow.

He shakes his head. “No. I’ve been gone.”

“Military?” The word slips out before I can stop it. He has a straight-backed, steady posture that comes from years of being told how to stand and why it mattered.

“Navy.” He doesn’t elaborate.

We reach the ranch drive, where Mary and Christopher’s big cedar gate looms, already half-wrapped in garland. The place looks like Christmas threw itself a party and never left—snow-covered barns, rows of spruce trees, a ribbon of smoke curling from the chimney of the main house.

Mary is waiting out front, hands on her hips, cheeks pink from the cold. She’s short and round, her silver-streaked curls tucked into a knitted hat, eyes bright with that mix of warmth and quiet authority that makes everyone in town do what she says before they realize it.

“Angel, my sweet girl!” she calls.

I grin. “Hi, Mary.”

Mary freezes as we draw closer, eyes narrowing as if she’s not sure her heart believes what she’s seeing. Then her breath catches. “Oh, Grady boy.” Her voice softens, trembles. “You came home.”

Grady sets down the wreath and star. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t you ‘ma’am’ me.” She cups his cheek, a laugh breaking through her tears. “You always did take your time.”

He swallows hard. “Guess I did.”

“I’m glad you’re here.” She pats his jaw once, firm and fond.

“Where do you want these?” I ask, pointing at the wreath and the star.

She waves a mitten toward the barn. “By the main tree. Christopher’s pretending he can reach the top without help.”

“Still stubborn, huh?” Grady rumbles.

“More so,” Mary replies with a long-suffering sigh. “Now go help before he breaks his fool neck.”

“Too late for that,” Christopher calls from the other side of the yard, balanced halfway up a ladder and reaching for a strand of lights.

He climbs down with the same unhurried steadiness that always makes people listen before he even speaks.

Tall and solid, with a white beard that catches the light, his blue eyes land on Grady and soften with something like pride.

“Well,” he says gruffly. “Took you long enough, son.”

Grady’s mouth pulls into something that’s getting closer to a smile. “Yes, sir.”

Christopher claps him on the shoulder once, the way men like him say welcome home without needing to use the words.

Mary wipes her eyes, muttering something about men who make her cry, and turns to me. “All right, let’s get that star hung before this weather turns.”

Christopher nods toward the massive spruce near the porch. “Right where the light line meets the top. Ladder’s sturdy—mostly.”

“That’s comforting,” I mutter, grabbing the ladder and ignoring the flutter in my chest at the touching reunion I just witnessed. “But I can handle it.”

Grady frowns. “You can, but you shouldn’t. Let me.”

“No, I’m good,” I assure him. “I’m not afraid of heights.”

“I don’t want you falling.”

His protective tone does something strange to my pulse. I climb anyway, muttering about male hubris with a twenty-pound star wobbling in my gloved hands.

“This is fine,” I tell no one, which is usually a sign that things are not fine. The spruce is taller than it looked. The ladder sinks a little with each step.

“Stop,” Grady orders. He’s at the foot of the ladder, one hand braced on the side, the other held up like he can catch me from here. Maybe he can. “Come down. We’ll do it another way.”