Tis the Season for a Cowboy

Chapter 1

“Mom, stop.” One eye on the road in front of me, I fumble with the radio dial.

The rental car zigzags briefly across the yellow center line, and I curse as Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” fades out.

“I’ll be fine. I swear it.”

“You swear, but you also lie, Bell Bug.” There’s a sigh on the other end of the line. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

No. I’m not sure it’s a good idea. I’ve flown one thousand miles and spent money I don’t have, and for what? To hole myself up in a cabin in the frigid Montana wilderness for ninety-six hours in hopes that I’ll paint something good enough to salvage my career? Yes. That’s exactly what I plan to do.

But I don’t say any of that to my mom.

“It’s your thirtieth birthday and Christmas. You shouldn’t be alone to—to wallow.”

“I’m not wallowing. I’m painting.” My chest squeezes as the words leave me.

The confidence I had when I left San Francisco has already dissipated. The parting words my agent, Luka, left me with linger in my head.

Try to paint something we can sell this time.

“And that cabin will help you, how?” A psychiatrist, my mother loves to poke at open wounds. Even if it’s all in the best interest of her only child.

“I still love it there.” I rub at the ache between my brows. “Despite what happened.”

I’m in a drought. The cabin’s always been a source of inspiration. With any luck, I can reclaim that this Christmas. If not, I can kiss my career goodbye.

“Okay,” my mother decides. I can almost see her mime locking her lips. “Not another word. Next Christmas you’re mine.”

A wave of warm affection rolls through me. “Promise.”

Once I’ve ended the call, I vow not to pick my phone up for the rest of the year. Unless it’s Luka calling with life-changing news. My mom knows exactly what this time of the year does to me, but I’m nowhere near ready to get into that therapy session.

“Hot cocoa. A fireplace. A fresh paint set. And the biggest, butteriest blanket I can find,” I murmur, doing my best to convince myself that this idea is a great big present topped with a beautiful red bow and not a lump of coal stuck in the bottom of my stocking.

Christmas in Montana.

After two hellish plane rides, with turbulence violent enough to give me whiplash, and three hours stuck in a horrible, smelly rental car, I’m ready for it.

I love Christmas.

I love everything that comes with the magical holiday season.

Eggnog and hot toddies. Red stockings and silver twinkling lights.

A freshly cut tree (never fake) and powdered snow.

The roar of the fire. Sugar cookies with buttercream frosting.

Mistletoe and cozy sweaters. Cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning and Irish coffee in the afternoon. Long, lazy days and even lazier nights.

Even after all that’s happened.

Maybe because some dumb, idealistic part of me clings to the belief that miracles can come true, clings to those last few days of the year when all is bright white and hopeful.

I inhale, sit up straighter and turn up the radio. As Elvis Presley’s slow croon of “Blue Christmas” fills the car, a faint flicker of Christmas spirit spreads through me. A hint of a happy sensation I haven’t felt in the last three years.

Elvis continues his serenade as I ease off the highway and enter Silverwood.

The quintessential land of cowboys with its red-bricked buildings, annual rodeos and busy saloons.

I let off the gas and survey Main Street mournfully.

The little downtown that I once truly loved as my own is decorated with wreaths and shiny garland.

I ache to stop, to step into Candy’s Candy Shop for hand-pulled taffy, snag a gingerbread cookie from Baked or a Silverwood Amber Ale from Buck’s Bar.

Instead, speed limit be damned, I accelerate.

The bruise in my heart throbs.

Silverwood isn’t my town. I left.

I don’t deserve it.

As I put the familiar buildings in my rearview, I swallow the knot in my throat. Maybe I should have let Hank have the cabin this year. Maybe I should have stayed in San Francisco and put in overtime at the gallery. Maybe I should have rethought every decision I’ve made in the last three years.

Soon, I follow the twisty road up, up, up. High above the jagged mountain in front of me loom tall, dark clouds. Though the ground is clear of snow for now, those clouds say just wait. Silverwood is known for its infamous Christmas blizzards, so I need to get to my destination fast.

When the road forks to a narrow dirt road, I turn right.

As the rental car bumps along, the familiar signs that guide folks toward the Blue Mountain Ranch and Christmas Tree Farm dot my periphery, looking dingier than usual.

I make a note to send Hank a sternly worded text message, instructing him to clean them up for next season.

Hank.

My stomach twists into a knot of nerves at the thought of my ex-husband. With another deep breath, I remind myself that he’s safely on the other side of the ranch with the animals. There’s no reason to think I’ll run into him. He knows it’s my year.

According to the cabin custody clause we worked out in our divorce contract.

Hank got it the first year.

Then me.

Though we agreed to alternate years, we made a little adjustment when we came to the arrangement. On my thirtieth birthday, I get it.

I may have walked away from the ranch and from the town I loved, but I couldn’t give up my cabin.

Everything else, we divvied up as fairly as we could. He kept the ranch and the tree farm and the dog. I got the car and our small savings.

At the time, arguing and dividing up assets patched the gaping hole in us, but nothing will ever fix what we lost.

After another mile, I finally break through the trees. And there, in the middle of a shimmering emerald pine forest, is a bright red barn.

Blue Mountain Christmas Tree Farm. A choose-and-cut farm that’s been a staple in Silverwood for more than fifty years.

I break into a true smile for the first time in what feels like forever, though I quickly tamp down on the excitement stirring inside me. This isn’t home. Not anymore. And I have to remember that.

The scene is straight from a Hallmark card.

Two massive Clydesdales—Bonnie and Clyde—haul a tree on a sled, their bells jingling, while customers stand nearby, watching with bright smiles.

The lights and the plastic candy canes that line a path to the Christmas tree farm are testaments to the Blue way.

Year after year, they make Christmas magical for every customer.

The air goes out of me when I see Silas “Papa” Blue, Hank’s father, stepping out of the barn, hand on the brim of his Stetson. It makes sense that he’s here; he owns the farm, after all. But suddenly, I’m hit with the inexplicable urge to break down and cry.

Before I can punch the gas and roll by, he spots me, his head lifting. So I brake gently and turn the wheel with white knuckles, gliding into a makeshift parking spot.

You can do this, Bellamy. Dry your eyes first, then stiffen your body.

I exit the car and drink in the scent of Fraser fir, concolor fir, and white pine. A gust of wind whispers through the trees, ruffling my hair and sending goose bumps erupting along my skin. The sun dips lower as I follow the footpath up to the barn to meet Papa Blue.

“I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t see it.” He’s a little less athletic than Hank, and his cowboy hat is dusty, as always. The man is physically incapable of spending time indoors, no matter the weather. “Bellamy Blue here to stay.”

I ignore his craggy smirk and the use of that last name. He’s correct anyway. It hasn’t changed.

Curling my arms around him, I sink into his strong hug and sigh. He smells like pipe and apple cider. “Not stay. You know that, Pops.”

He makes a sound of dubious refusal in the back of his throat, releasing me. “What are you doin’ in town then?”

“It’s my year for the cabin.” I brush a strand of hair from my face. “My thirtieth.”

“That so?” His eyes widen, then he chuckles. “Must have forgot.”

I lift my chin and survey the farm. Nearby, an employee hands a little girl a candy cane. A mitten-clad couple buys cups of peppermint hot chocolate from a food truck.

Mouth watering, I turn back to my former father-in-law. “How’s the farm? Business looks booming.”

“It’s keepin’ on.” His brow furrows, thick fingers hooking into his belt loops. “How ’bout you, honey?”

“Oh, you know,” I say, forcing a smile, “doing the same.”

“You good?” His question is gruff, but Papa Blue always listened to me in a way that no one else could. He saw everything, even if he didn’t say so.

No, I’m not good. That’s what I want to say. I want to tell him that I miss Silverwood and our Christmas tree farm. That I hate my job in the city.

I always wanted to be an artist, but I wanted Hank more, so I traded big city life in San Francisco for a slow-paced one in small-town Montana.

Four years into our marriage, I painted a piece inspired by Hank, titled it, Cowboy Wading into Water and posted it on Instagram.

It blew up overnight, and I became known for my distinctive Montana scenes.

I was even featured in Target’s Artist Spotlight series.

It was a beautiful burst of glory I haven’t recaptured since.

After the divorce, I went back to the art gallery I left when I met Hank. While I worked the front desk, I put together my portfolio. Networked.

My agent organized a gallery show, but instead of hitting it big again, I failed. Spectacularly. I only sold one painting that night. After, in my quiet, dark apartment, I cried and typed out a text I never sent.

Rather than dive into any of that, I plaster on a smile. “Good.”

Papa Blue peers at me. “Still living that artist life?”

“Pretty close.”

Starving artist is more like it.

“Honey, you’re living in an apartment the size of a cardboard box,” my mom loves to remind me every time we talk. “Use your divorce settlement.”

But I can’t. I don’t know why. Using that money feels like admitting that I’ve given up. But on what? I still don’t know. Myself? Hank and me? That’s ridiculous. There is no more Hank and me. I’m twenty-nine and divorced. That’s the epitome of giving up.

A harsh gust of icy wind whips through the trees. I hitch a thumb at my rental car. “I should get up to the cabin before the storm blows in.”

“Car won’t make it up that incline.” Papa Blue’s gaze narrows in disapproval.

Over my shoulder, I eye the shoddy Kia and curse the rental company.

I blink at him. “What do I do?”

He grins, the lines on his face deepening. “You can still pull a sled, can’t you?”

Ten minutes later, my bags are stacked on top of a rustic red Christmas sled and the clouds in the sky have lowered further.

He gives the sled, then me, a doubtful look. “You need help up?”

I puff a lock of hair out of my face. “It’s okay. I got it.” Balancing my backpack on my thigh, I dig a pair of thick gloves out and slide them on.

“Still a natural.” Papa Blue breaks into a proud grin.

I smile. A real one this time.

“You give a holler if you need anything.” He squeezes my arm. “We missed you around these parts. Don’t be a stranger.”

I ignore the we. And the pressure behind my eyes. “I won’t. Thanks.”

Slowly, I leave behind the buzzing Christmas tree farm and hoof my way up the steep incline. It’s only a ten-minute trek, but already my ass muscles burn. Luckily, the hills of San Francisco have prepared me for this.

As I ascend, I hum “Jingle Bells” and periodically peer up at the thick black clouds that have moved in.

“Almost there,” I huff as I weave through thick pine trees, my boots crunching leaves and rock. When the top of the A-frame cabin peeks through the dark treetops like a guiding light, my heart stutters.

Once the ground flattens out, I shove my way through the forest, passing the hand-carved sign that reads Our Mansion in the Mountains.

That’s what Hank and I called it.

It may only be eight hundred square feet, but we lived so many dreamy moments here and created so many happy memories. My first sale. A call from an agent. The night Hank and I first made love. The start of what became our traditional Christmas tree ornament exchange. The time Hank and I—

A lone snowflake lands on my nose, snapping me back into focus.

Stop.

Stop thinking about Hank.

He doesn’t matter. He isn’t here.

The tightness in my chest eases when the cabin comes fully into view.

Surrounded by a small grove of trees, it gleams like a Christmas oasis.

Snowflake wind chimes dangle, clinking lightly, from a frosted eave.

The wide front porch with its green front door.

A pyramid of firewood perfectly stacked.

Festive glittery lights strung along the sloped roof.

For what feels like the first time in three years, a surge of joy overtakes me. To me, this cabin is home. It’s always been home.

I move quicker this time, out of hope, out of happy, patting my front pocket to ensure my key is ready.

My body purrs at the sleep I plan to catch up on.

My fingers itch to paint until I’ve gone Van Gogh.

My mouth waters in anticipation of the food I plan to eat, ready to tuck into life-changing carbohydrates like it’s a matter of life or death.

Two strides from the front porch, a loud hacking sound hits my ears.

Going stock still, like a doe scenting danger, I scan my surroundings. Someone’s on the property. Someone’s on my property.

I steel a breath, yank off my gloves and wedge my key between my thumb and forefinger like a claw. Then, leaving the sled, I hustle around the cabin, prepared to give the trespasser a piece of my mind. Because peace from my mind is what I desperately need these next few days.

But, as I stumble through the trees, I forget my bearings. I haven’t been here in over a year. I trip over a tree stump and run smack dab into a Fraser fir.

Then a shock of olive-green flannel. A hard body. A thunderous grunt.

I look up.

Oh God. My worst nightmare.

My ex-husband.