Special Delivery Cowboy (A Cowboy for Christmas)

Chapter One

Tinsley

The SkinnyMe Supreme Shake was trying to murder me from the inside out.

Which, considering I was about to walk in on my boyfriend screwing my neighbor, was really saying something.

I'd chugged the chalky strawberry substitute for dinner last night—because apparently, actual food was too many calories for the "engagement photos" I was convinced were coming this Christmas. By morning, my stomach was staging a full revolt.

But I had the Dental Hygienist certification course at the Bozeman Convention Center. Already paid for. Credits I needed for my boards. So I forced down some dry toast, grabbed my materials, and dragged myself out the door by seven-thirty on this December 23rd morning.

Grayson was still asleep when I left. I kissed his forehead like an idiot and whispered that I'd see him tonight before we left for our romantic Christmas getaway tomorrow.

The getaway where he'd definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent propose.

Right.

By eleven, I was sweating through my blouse in a bathroom stall, seriously reconsidering every life choice that had led to this moment. Two hundred dental professionals and one industrial-strength air freshener later, I admitted defeat. I texted the coordinator that I was sick and needed to leave.

The twenty-five-minute drive home was torture. Windows down in December cold, willing myself not to throw up in my car, thinking about how Grayson would take care of me when he got home from work at his busy dental practice. Get me ginger ale and crackers. Let me rest.

I should've known better than to expect basic human decency from a man who'd spent the past six months calling me "fluffy."

His car was in the parking lot when I pulled in.

Weird.

His schedule had been packed solid when I'd checked it two days ago—back-to-back crowns and a difficult extraction. Maybe he'd come home for lunch?

I dragged myself upstairs, fumbled with my keys, and pushed open the door to my apartment.

Music was playing. Jazz. I definitely hadn't left that on.

Then I heard them.

Rhythmic. Unmistakable. Definitely not a workout app.

For one blessed, naive second, I thought maybe I was hallucinating from food poisoning.

Then I heard Flossie's fake-ass porn-star moan.

Flossie Meadow. The neighbor from two doors down. The one with the platinum extensions and acrylic nails that could double as weapons. The one who did Botox injections for wealthy ski tourists and acted like she was God's gift to Montana.

I dropped my bag on the kitchen counter and walked to my bedroom on autopilot.

The door was half open.

I pushed it wider.

Grayson was in my bed. Our bed. My bed, technically, since my name was on the lease. And he was enthusiastically entertaining Flossie, whose extensions were spread across my pillows like a bad blonde wig explosion.

They didn't notice me at first.

I made a noise—something between a laugh and a gag—and Grayson's head whipped around so fast I almost hoped he'd pull something.

"Tinsley!" His eyes went cartoon-character wide. "This isn't—I can explain—"

"Get out."

"Now wait—"

"Get. The hell. Out of my apartment."

He scrambled off Flossie so fast you'd think the bed was on fire. Started grabbing for his pants. Flossie sat up slowly, pulling the sheet around herself, looking annoyed that I was interrupting her afternoon delight.

The absolute audacity.

"I can explain," Grayson said again, hopping on one leg trying to get his pants on.

"Oh, I'd love to hear this." I crossed my arms and leaned against the doorframe. The nausea had faded somewhere between fury and disbelief. "Please explain how you're supposed to be doing a difficult extraction right now."

"I... rescheduled."

"For this?"

"Tinsley, listen—" He reached for me.

"Touch me and lose the hand." I stepped back. "How long?"

"It's not what you think—"

"How. Long."

He had the decency to look at the floor. "A couple months."

A couple months. While I was starving myself on shakes and sadness. While I was planning what I'd say when he proposed. While I was stupid enough to think we were happy.

"I was going to tell you," he said. "Tomorrow, at the cabin. I thought it would be better to do it somewhere private—"

"You were going to break up with me on our Christmas vacation?" My voice cracked on the last word, which pissed me off. I would not cry in front of these people. "The cabin you paid for so you could propose?"

His face did something complicated. "Propose? Tinsley, I never said I was proposing to you—"

"You said this Christmas would be special! You said you had plans!"

"I do have plans." He glanced at Flossie, who was checking her manicure like this was boring her. "I'm going to propose to Flossie. On New Year's Eve. I wanted to let you down easy first. I thought I was being considerate."

The room tilted. My vision went spotty at the edges.

Considerate.

He thought ambushing me with a breakup on Christmas was considerate.

I stared at him—looked at him—and wondered how I'd ever found this man attractive. His perfectly gelled hair. His spray tan in December. His teeth probably bleached weekly to maintain that blinding white shine.

"You said you had back-to-back crowns today," I heard myself say. "A difficult extraction."

"I needed time to... we needed to talk about things."

"By having sex in my bed?"

"You're a great girl, Tins—" He used that condescending tone, like he was a disappointed dad and not a cheating asshole. "But Flossie and I fit better. She understands my lifestyle. She takes care of herself—"

Oh.

Oh.

There it was.

My voice came out flat. Dead. "Get out."

"Tinsley—"

"You have until I get back from that cabin to get your shit out of here. All of it. Toothbrush, protein powder, hair gel, everything. And Grayson?" I looked him dead in his stupid blue eyes. "I quit. Effective immediately. Find yourself a new assistant who fits your lifestyle better."

His expression morphed into anger. "You can't quit. We have a full roster of patients—"

"Watch me." I walked to the door and held it open.

Flossie slid off the bed first, wrapping herself in my sheet—my sheet—and sauntering past like she'd won a prize. Grayson grabbed his shirt, put it on inside out, and opened his mouth like he wanted to say more.

"Out. Now. Before I help you leave."

He left.

I slammed the door, turned the deadbolt, and stood there for exactly thirty seconds.

Then I burst into tears.

The crying lasted maybe five minutes. Big, ugly sobs that I immediately hated myself for. Then the tears stopped. Turned off like a faucet.

And the fury came.

I ripped the sheets off the bed—all of them—and stuffed them into garbage bags. Threw Grayson's pillow in after them. Found his face wash in the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet. His protein powder? Trash. His overpriced hair gel? Trash. The framed photo of us on my nightstand? Trash.

My phone rang while I was hauling the second garbage bag to the door.

Melody, my best friend since the third grade.

I answered on speaker, dropping the bag with a satisfying thud. "He was fucking Flossie."

"I'm sorry, WHAT?"

"In my bed. I came home sick and walked in on them." I was already moving, grabbing the vacuum from the hall closet. "And get this—he was planning to break up with me tomorrow at the cabin. Said he's proposing to her on New Year's Eve instead."

"I'm going to kill him. I'm going to murder him."

"Get in line." I started vacuuming with aggressive strokes. "I'm going to that cabin anyway. He paid for it, which makes it even better."

"Hell yes you are." Melody's voice was fierce. "You're going to eat all the cookies, drink all the wine, and have the Christmas you deserve."

"Damn right I am." I moved to the kitchen, phone still on speaker. "I quit my job too. Told him he could shove his dental practice where the sun doesn't shine."

"THAT'S MY GIRL."

"I'm going to the twenty-four-hour grocery store. Right now. I'm buying everything I haven't eaten in half a year." I was pacing now, furious energy crackling through me. "All the cookies. All the pasta. All the cheese. Everything."

"Do it. Buy the whole damn store."

I grabbed my purse and keys, still talking to Melody while I locked up and headed downstairs. "I can't believe I've been so blind. This whole time he's been banging my neighbor."

"You're better off without him, sweetie."

"I know." And I did know. Already, underneath the anger and hurt, I knew. "I'm going to spend Christmas alone and figure out what comes next. New job. New life. New everything."

"That's the spirit. Call me when you get there tomorrow?"

"Will do." I threw my purse in the passenger seat. "Love you."

"Love you too. And Tins? Don't forget to buy wine. Lots of wine."

The digital clock on my dashboard read 2:47 PM. Three and a half hours since I'd left the convention center. Three and a half hours since my entire life had imploded.

By eight PM, I'd rage-cleaned the apartment twice, called Melody back for another vent session, and finalized my plan.

I headed to the grocery store at midnight, riding a wave of righteous fury.

By two AM, my cart looked like I was preparing for the apocalypse.

Cookie ingredients—three kinds of chocolate chips, fancy vanilla, real butter, and colorful candy sprinkles.

Brownie mix. All the pasta. Every interesting cheese.

Fresh bread from the bakery. Wine—six bottles.

My favorite candy bars in bulk. Three flavors of ice cream.

The ingredients for my mom's beef stew that Grayson always said was "too heavy. " I hadn't made it in over a year.

The checkout clerk raised her eyebrows at my haul. "Bad breakup or good celebration?"

"Both." I grinned, and it felt almost real. "Holiday plans changed last-minute."

"Looks like they changed for the better." She scanned another bottle of wine. "Have a merry Christmas."

"Oh, I will."

By three AM, everything was loaded in my car. I couldn't bring myself to sleep in the bedroom, so I grabbed blankets and crashed on the couch for a few hours of restless sleep.

I woke up around ten—showered, threw on comfortable clothes, and started loading the car. Granny panties with snowflakes? Packed. Fuzzy socks? Packed. My rattiest Montana State sweatshirt that Grayson hated? Definitely packed.

No sexy lingerie. No uncomfortable heels. No makeup that took an hour to apply.

Me. Comfortable, real, unapologetic me.

I was on the road by noon, Christmas music playing, watching mountains rise up around me. The forecast showed snow arriving later—I'd beat it easy. I stopped for terrible gas station coffee and a chemical-tasting muffin that somehow tasted like freedom.

My phone buzzed at a red light. Melody.

Mel: Proud of you. Go do you, boo.

Me: Planning on it.

Mel: Also... I may have sent you a little something to help celebrate your independence. A special delivery. Should arrive this evening. Don't ask what it is—it's a surprise. ????

Me: Mel. Please tell me you didn't hire a stripper.

Mel: ...

Mel: Just trust me. You're going to love it. Merry early Christmas! ??

I stared at the text, equal parts curious and terrified. Knowing Melody, it could be anything from a care package to something completely ridiculous.

Me: If a stripper shows up at my door, I'm going to kill you.

Mel: ??????

Great.

The drive took about two and a half hours through increasingly stunning country.

Rolling hills gave way to mountains. Bozeman's trendy sprawl faded into authentic Montana wilderness.

By the time I reached Paradise Valley, snow was starting to fall—light, pretty flakes that made everything look like a postcard.

The resort appeared through the trees like something from a magazine. Individual log cabins dotted the property, each one secluded and beautiful. String lights glowed even in the afternoon light. Everything was decorated for Christmas—wreaths, garlands, that particular Christmas magic.

I followed signs to Cabin #7 and pulled up to a structure that was somehow even better than the pictures. Two stories of gorgeous log construction. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A wraparound deck. String lights everywhere. It was beyond perfect.

Inside was even better.

Heat poured over me the moment I opened the door.

Vaulted ceilings with exposed beams stretched overhead.

A huge stone fireplace dominated one wall, wood already stacked and ready.

Leather furniture that looked expensive and comfortable faced massive windows with mountain views that made me stop and stare.

And in the corner—a fully decorated Christmas tree, at least nine feet tall, lights twinkling.

But the kitchen.

Oh, the kitchen.

I stood in the doorway and laughed. Granite countertops. Professional-grade appliances. A six-burner gas range. A farmhouse sink deep enough for my biggest mixing bowls. Counter space for days. A kitchen where I could cook without apologizing, bake without guilt, enjoy myself.

I spent the next hour unpacking groceries, arranging everything in the enormous refrigerator and spacious pantry.

I loaded wine into the fridge—the cabin even had a separate wine fridge, which seemed like a sign.

Brought my bags upstairs to the master bedroom—king bed, another fireplace, bathroom with a jacuzzi tub and two-person rain shower.

The second bedroom I left alone. More space than I needed, but nice to have.

By late afternoon, I was curled on the couch with hot chocolate, laptop open to a terrible Christmas movie, watching snow fall outside those enormous windows.

The light was fading, painting everything in twilight blue.

The forecast showed the storm intensifying overnight—I’d be snowed in for Christmas.

Perfect.

I pulled out my phone and texted Melody.

Me: Made it. This place is incredible.

Mel: You deserve it. Eat ALL the cookies.

I smiled. Yeah. I would.

I raised my hot chocolate to my reflection in the window.

"Merry Christmas to me," I said out loud. "Screw you, Grayson."

Outside, the snow fell harder, and I had nowhere to be, nothing to prove, and three days to figure out who I wanted to be next.