Chapter 4
Angel
I wake early the next morning and head down to the kitchen to make a fresh batch of Mistletoe Mug’s ever-popular peppermint bark.
The storm is still threatening snow—not the pretty kind.
Pretty snow dusts the garlands and kisses the windowpanes.
Storm snow leans into the glass and says, open up, I’m coming in.
As I’m placing the peppermint bark in the display cabinet, I hear a tap at the coffee shop window and look up to see my friend, Callie, with her little bundle of joy.
I quickly move to the door to unlock it. The bell above chimes as I open it, admitting a gust of cold air.
Callie is wrapped in a red knit scarf, cheeks pink from the wind, and Danny is tucked against her in one of those baby carriers, his little face snuggled against his mama.
“Hey, you,” I greet Callie with a smile. “You’re up and about early.”
“This little one had me awake at five a.m., wanting to play,” she says, dropping an affectionate kiss on the top of his head.
“Well, come in out of the cold.” I usher them inside and leave the sign on Closed as I shut the door–I don’t open for another hour.
Danny lets out a squeaky little noise that sounds like joy as he takes in the twinkling Christmas lights in the windows and the tinsel sparkling around the picture frames.
I round the counter to grab a blanket from the shelf behind the register and spread it over the big armchair by the radiator. “Sit, snuggle, and I’ll bring you something sweet.”
“Angel by name, angel by nature,” Callie sighs, settling in and shifting Danny into a cozy nest of fleece. He wiggles and chirps, batting at the air like he’s got stories to tell. “Mary told me you had a little... ladder incident?”
I hold up my ankle, now wrapped in a more manageable compression bandage. “Tried to hang a star. The star fought back.”
“I also heard Grady swooped in like a Hallmark hero.”
I roll my eyes, already blushing. “He helped me get home, did some repairs.”
Danny babbles and points at the specials board like he’s got strong opinions about the eggnog latte.
“He’s so chatty today,” I say, joining her with two mugs of gingerbread latte and a plate of the fresh peppermint bark.
Callie beams. “This morning, he figured out how to wave. He’s been greeting everything since — windows, trees, our toaster.”
I lean forward and wave at him. He flaps both arms in return, giggling.
“How’s he doing?” I ask softly.
Danny has Down syndrome, so his milestones come with extra appointments and celebration—therapies, checkups, a little more planning, but also a whole lot more cheering when he nails something new.
Callie’s smile softens. “He’s doing great. He’s stubborn in the best way—won’t let you put him down if he’s decided you’re his person. He’s terrible at napping but laughs like an angel.” She bumps his knee with hers, and he giggles again, the sound bright and clean.
“How are you managing? Working at the ranch?” I ask because, as far as I’m concerned, Callie is Wonder Woman without the lasso.
She shrugs, an easy shrug that says yeah, it’s a lot, but it’s mine and it’s worth it. “Some days are calendar chaos. Some days, I can’t imagine my life without him. Mostly, he’s just... Danny. Loud, sticky, and perfect.”
I reach over and brush my fingers over the back of his hand. He grabs my finger like it’s the best thing he’s ever been offered and holds on, eyes serious for a half-second before breaking into another delighted squeal.
Callie watches us, her expression steady and warm. “He likes you,” she says. “You have the Danny seal of approval.”
“That’s good because I like him too,” I reply, gently squeezing his chubby little cheek.
We sip our drinks in the glow of the fairy lights until Callie gives me a side glance.
“So… are you going to tell me what really happened after Grady ‘helped you get home’?”
I groan and sink lower into my chair. “Fine. He carried me up the stairs.”
Callie’s eyebrows shoot up. “Like bridal-style carried?”
“He offered. I said no. He grunted, ‘I want to.’ And then he just... did it.”
“Well, damn.”
I shake my head, eyes on my mug. “He’s steady. And a bit grumpy, but”—I shrug—“he makes me feel a certain way.”
“You like him.”
“Yeah, I do,” I say quietly.
Callie smiles into her latte. “So... funny thing.”
I glance over. “What?”
“I may have developed feelings for someone, too. Nate.”
I blink. “Who’s Nate?”
“One of Mary and Christopher’s boys,” she says. “From back when they were fostering.”
“Does Mary know?”
“Nothing gets past Mary,” Callie scoffs. “I’m sure she’s placing bets with Christopher as we speak.”
I laugh, then pause as something clicks into place. “Wait. Nate and Grady were both—”
“Naughty List Ranch boys.” Callie smirks.
We both stare at each other for a second, then say at the same time:
“Oh, no.”
Then: “Oh, yes.”
I grin. “What are the odds?”
Callie leans back and sighs. “And to think, we moved to this town to bake and brew and mind our business…”
I raise my mug. “To surprises we didn’t see coming.”
Danny lets out a happy squeal that feels like agreement.
Callie clinks hers to mine. “And to falling for the good ones.”
“I never said I was falling,” I object, although I know I am even as the words leave my mouth.
Callie snorts. “Girl, he fixed your door and checked your windows. He might as well have proposed.”
* * *
By early evening, Silver Bell Hollow has that hush it gets when even tourists know better.
I wave Jamie goodbye, flip the sign on Mistletoe Mug to Closed, and hobble up to my apartment.
After texting Mary a picture of the star topper gleaming on the tree she sent over with Grady (now decorated to within an inch of its life), I settle on the sofa with my foot elevated.
My phone buzzes.
Grady: Lights at the ranch before the wind picks up. Ride along?
My heart does a showy cartwheel. I glance at my ankle, which replies in throbs. I should say no.
Me: Yes. Five minutes.
Outside, the world is blue-gray and glistening. Grady’s truck idles at the curb, heat already on, headlights a warm gold. He hops out the second he sees me and lifts me like it’s something we’ve now agreed to, something that makes my chest go bright and tight.
“Hi,” I say into his collar.
“Hey, Shortcake.” He sets me gently in the passenger seat and tucks the blanket around my legs like I’m precious cargo. “Seatbelt.”
“You’re very commanding.”
He shuts the door with a low laugh, rounds the hood, and slides behind the wheel.
The cab smells like cold air and cedar and him.
He drives as he lives, steady and sure, watching for the things other people miss.
I want to lean closer. Slide my hand under his flannel and map the warmth beneath.
I wonder how many scars he hides under all that calm.
How many parts of him crave gentleness and don’t know how to ask for it.
At the ranch, the spruce avenue throws shadows on clean snow, and the main yard glows with that pre-storm urgency. Men and boys move lines and stakes and planks like a choreographed dance.
I can’t help it—I laugh.
Grady glances over, amused. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say, still grinning. “It just… it reminds me of that barn-raising scene in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. All muscle and sawdust and coordinated chaos.”
He gives me a look that’s half smirk, half disbelief. “You watch old musicals for fun?”
“They’re classics,” I protest. “And you’re just jealous you don’t own matching suspenders.”
He huffs a laugh. “Sweetheart, the day you catch me singing about goin’ a courtin’ is the day you check me for a fever.”
“Never say never,” I tease, and his answering grin makes the cab feel warmer than the heater ever could.
Mary waves us through with a wooden spoon in her mittened hand—why she’s directing traffic with a wooden spoon, I have no idea.
“Stay off that ankle and supervise!” she shouts through the window.
Grady parks and sets me on the tailgate with the blanket and a thermos I don’t remember packing. “Cocoa,” he says when I raise a questioning eyebrow.
My chest gets too full for a second.
“Drink,” he orders softly, lifting a coil of lights.
I watch him climb, test, and clip. He moves with that quiet precision I clocked the first time he touched my ankle; every action checked against some internal standard higher than anyone else’s.
He doesn’t bark or posture. He shows Tyler, one of the teenage boys Mary and Christopher have taken under their wing, how to anchor a line so the wind can’t take it, then steps back and lets the kid do it wrong once and right the second time.
He’s praise-stingy yet generous at the same time—“Good. Again.”—like he wants the work to teach more than his words.
Tyler tries not to preen but fails spectacularly.
Mary sidles next to me and slips a hand warmer into my mitten like I’m six. “That boy was all bone and fury when he came to us,” she says fondly, watching Grady work. “Now look at him.”
Only Mary would call Grady a boy. There’s nothing boyish about him as he braces a post with one shoulder while Tyler hammers. Not with those hands, steady and rough. Not with the efficient, controlled way he moves, like he could carry the whole ranch on his back and not break a sweat.
He’s all containment and control… until he glances over and catches me looking. Then his silver eyes kindle, and his expression warms just for me.
“He’s home,” I murmur.
“He’s family,” Mary corrects gently. “Always was. He just needs to realize he doesn’t have to weather the storm alone.”
My eyes linger on Grady, on his broad shoulders and his jaw dusted with snow. I’m starting to think he is the storm.
By the time the last string is clipped, the wind has turned icy, and the yard glows like a winter wonderland.
Christopher claps Grady’s and Tyler’s shoulders. “Good work, boys.”
Grady nods. “You too.”
“Now,” Mary says briskly at his other elbow, “take Angel home.”