Unwrapping a Cowboy (Christmas on Wilder Mountain #1)

Chapter 1

ONE

JOVIE

I know my heart is in trouble the moment I see the sign.

“Welcome to Wilder Mountain” is carved deep into a wide plank of wood that hangs between two rough posts. Evergreen garlands wrap around the top. Twinkle lights glow warm and gold in the gray afternoon.

Someone has even painted a tiny red cardinal on the corner of the sign.

Snow falls in chunky but pretty flakes. The road curves along the mountainside. Pines tower over both sides, their branches frosted and heavy. Every few driveways, I spot a wreath on a fence. A strand of lights along a porch. Smoke twisting from a chimney.

Something catches in my chest and tightens.

It’s going to be way too easy to fall in love with this town. Which is only going to make leaving it to go back to my life in the city all the more difficult.

“Okay, nope,” I say to the empty car. “I am not crying.”

At least, not yet. But it’s been a year. The kind of year that has left me on the verge of bursting into tears pretty much every day.

Once I get through this little trip, once I make sure the holidays are perfect for my dad, I’ll give in to the urge to have a massive cry.

I shift my grip on the steering wheel. My phone sits in the cup holder with the map app open and a text thread with my dad pulled up.

Send pics when you get there! Only if it’s not a secret.

It’s a secret. But I promise it will be worth it.

I trust you, kiddo. Love you. Drive safe.

Love you more.

I blink fast and focus on the road.

I am not here for me. I am here for him.

Dad has talked about ranches my whole life. When I was a kid, he used to point to pictures of wide open land in magazines and say things like, “That’s where I’d put the barn,” or, “You could ride a horse straight into the sunset from there.”

When other dads took their kids to theme parks, mine dragged me to county fairs so we could stand around the livestock pens and imagine which horse we would buy if we ever had a ranch of our own.

He never bought the ranch.

He took the safe job. He sat under fluorescent lights for thirty years. He drove a beige sedan. He wore khakis five days a week and saved every extra dollar to pay for my braces, my first car, and college.

After retiring last year, I hoped he’d maybe finally have the chance of living out his dream of being a cowboy. But…

His heart is not what it used to be. The last time we went to the doctor, the word “caution” came up a lot. So did “avoid extremes.” So did “travel is possible, but be smart about it.”

No heart-racing rides across a meadow. No sleeping in subzero temperatures. No pretending he is twenty-five and invincible.

If I want him to live his cowboy dream, I need to be careful and strategic. That’s why I am here in Wilder Mountain a few days before Christmas instead of back in Seattle.

It’s why I am chasing a man who does not answer his phone and apparently thinks websites are a scam.

“Rhodes,” I mutter, like the name is a spell. “You better be real.”

Greer says he is real. Greer says he is the best.

The little blue dot on my phone map creeps along the last stretch of highway before town.

A banner stretches across the main road as I reach the edge of Wilder Mountain proper.

It reads “Holiday on the Hill” in looping red script.

More garlands. More lights. A big metal star hangs in the middle of the banner and glows even brighter than the rest.

The star makes me think of wishes. That tight, wobbly feeling in my chest squeezes again.

I turn down the volume on the radio and crack my window a little. Cold air rushes in. It smells like pine, woodsmoke, and sugar. Which should be a strange combination, but it works for a place like this.

A place that looks like it came out of a damn greeting card.

Seriously, Downtown Wilder Mountain looks like someone broke into a snow globe and dumped it out on the earth. Old brick buildings line the main street.

Every storefront window holds some kind of holiday display. Tinsel. Lights. Snowflakes. A life-sized reindeer made out of wood.

I drive past a small square with a big evergreen tree in the center. More lights there. Kids in puffy coats chase each other around the base of the tree. A woman in a red knit hat carries a tray of steaming cups from a kiosk that promises hot cocoa and cider.

I want to park and just stand there for a minute. Let the glow of the holiday season soak in.

Instead, I follow the directions to the lodge. I did not come here to get hypnotized by twinkle lights. I have a mission. A deadline. A plane ticket home, so I can present my dad with the best Christmas surprise he has ever received.

The Wilder Lodge sits on a slope just above town.

It is the kind of place that would have its own Instagram account if it were anywhere else.

Dark timber, wide porch, snow piled along the railings.

Big picture windows that look out over the valley.

Warm light glows from inside. More wreaths.

More garlands. A pair of rocking chairs wait on the porch, each with a plaid blanket folded over the back.

I park, grab my overnight bag and laptop backpack, and hurry up the steps. My boots crunch softly on the snow.

Inside, the lodge smells like pine and coffee and something baking. The lobby is a riot of cozy. Sofas and overstuffed chairs. A stone fireplace with a fire going. Stockings along the mantle with names stitched on them.

I check in with a woman behind the front desk. She has dark curls pulled up in a messy bun and a sweater that says “Merry and Bright” in gold script. Her name tag reads GREER.

My heart lifts.

“Greer,” I say. “Hi, I don’t know if you recognize me, but I’m—”

“Jovie!” Her eyes widen. Then she lets out a delighted squeal. “Shut up, I can’t believe you’re here. I mean, you said you would be, but…”

She squeals again, rounding the desk to pull me into a tight hug.

“You look exactly the same as you did in college,” she says, stepping back. “But like, in a very grown up, thriving Bad Bitch way.”

“I’ll take that,” I say. “You look like you stepped out of a cozy romance novel.”

She wiggles her eyebrows. “Well. Small town lodge manager at your service. And maybe future wedding planner if you ever decide to run off with a mountain man.”

I snort. “Let me nail the cowboy experience for my dad first. Then we can talk about my love life.”

Her face softens. “How is your dad?”

That wobbly spot in my chest pulses again. I picture my dad’s tired smile. The way his hand shook a little when he signed the last stack of retirement paperwork. The way he still tries to make jokes when he gets winded walking up the stairs.

“He’s hanging in there,” I say. “Slower than he wants to be. Still talking about horses. Still pretending he has not read every single brochure I send him about heart health.”

Greer nods. “He is going to lose his mind when you tell him about this.”

“If I can actually pull it off,” I say.

“You will,” she says without hesitation. “You’re you. And I gave you the best recommendation.”

I drop my bag by my boots and prop my elbows on the desk.

“Okay. Tell me everything again,” I say. “Because I have called every number you sent me. Half of them were disconnected. The one that picked up had a voicemail that was full.”

Greer winces. “That would be him.”

“Please tell me he’s at least real and not an elaborate prank.”

“He is very real,” she says. “I promise. Rhodes is the real deal. He runs a working ranch up the road. No tourist traps. No fake photo ops. Just actual ranch work and horses and open land.”

“And no phone etiquette,” I say.

Greer makes a face. “He is allergic to technology. He has one of those little flip phones. I swear I have seen him glare at it like it personally offended him.”

“Does he own a laptop?”

“I would pay good money to see him try to use one,” she says.

I groan. “I design experiences for a living. You know that. I need real details. Schedules. Safety info. Liability forms. I cannot just show up at my dad’s door on Christmas Eve and tell him, ‘Good news, you are going to meet a cowboy someday.’”

Greer tilts her head. “You are here. That is how you get details.”

“Please tell me that is not the only way you book him.”

“It is,” she says. “He mostly takes referrals from locals and people he trusts. He is picky about who he lets on the ranch. Which, honestly, should make you feel better. He is careful. He will not put your dad in danger. And he loves spring. Weather is gentler. Trails are safer. He can plan around your dad’s limitations. ”

The knot in my chest loosens a bit. That is exactly what I need to hear.

“And he will listen to me?” I ask. “Because I need to be able to sit down with him and build out an actual experience. Timeline. Activities. Medical precautions. I want to hand my dad something tangible on Christmas Eve. Not vibes.”

Greer smiles. “You brought your laptop, right?”

“Of course.”

“Then you and Rhodes can build your little cowboy bucket list experience document. You just need to get him to listen first.”

I bite my lower lip. “Any tips on getting a stubborn cowboy to listen to a stranger from the city who has already called his phone six times?”

“Be honest,” she says. “Tell him about your dad. Don’t lead with spreadsheets. Lead with why.”

“Greer,” I say. “Have you met me?”

She laughs. “Yes. Which is why I know you can do both. Heart and logistics. You always could.”

I glance at the big window behind the lobby sofa. Snow falls a little thicker now. The sky is that soft gray that means more is coming.

“How bad does it get up here?” I ask.

“It can get pretty wild,” she says. “We take it seriously. The roads are clear now, though. And you are only running into town, not heading into the backcountry. You will be fine as long as you keep an eye on the updates.”

“Town?” I echo.

“The Mercantile,” she says. “He goes in this time of day to pick up feed. If you hustle, you can probably catch him while he is loading his truck.”

My pulse kicks up.

“This is now?” I ask.

She checks her watch. “Give or take fifteen minutes.”

“So my options are to shower and change or to meet your mysterious cowboy in my travel leggings and three day old bun.”

Greer looks me over. “You look adorable. And determined. He will not know what hit him.”

I look down at my outfit. Leggings. Oversized sweater. Coat unbuttoned. My bun is, in fact, holding on by hope and dry shampoo. I do not look like a polished professional. I look like a woman who slept four hours and lived off gas station coffee and mini muffins.

Which, to be fair, I am.

“It’s fine,” I say. “I do my best work under pressure.”

“That is a lie,” she says fondly. “You do your best work with color coded calendars and three backup plans. But pressure just makes you faster.”

“Good point,” I say.

She slides a key card across the desk, then pulls it back and scribbles something on the paper sleeve.

“This is your room,” she says. “Third floor, end of the hall. Great view. And this is your real key.”

She taps the note.

“Directions?” I ask.

“Directions,” she says. “Take main street down the hill and turn right at the big tree in the square. You cannot miss it. The Mercantile is on the left. Big windows. Old sign. Smells like coffee, leather, and sawdust. Find that. Find him.”

“Greer,” I say. “What does he look like? I should know who I am ambushing.”

She considers this.

“Tall,” she says. “Obviously. Broad shoulders. You can tell he lifts things for a living. Dark hair. Sometimes he has a hat on. Sometimes not. Always looks like he wants to be left alone.”

“Wow,” I say. “You really sold that.”

She laughs. “Trust me. You will know him when you see him.”

My stomach flips. I hate that it flips. This is business. This is logistics. This is not me coming to Wilder Mountain to flirt with a cowboy.

I tuck the key card into my pocket and heft my bag.

“Do I look like someone who can convince a grumpy stranger to help me give my dad the best Christmas gift of his life?” I ask.

Greer studies me for a beat. Her smile shifts. It softens.

“You look like someone who loves her dad so much she drove up a mountain days before Christmas to build his dream from scratch,” she says. “If Rhodes cannot see that, that is his problem.”

My throat burns.

“Okay,” I say quietly. “I am going to go ambush your favorite cowboy then.”

“Text me if you need backup,” she says. “Or bail money.”

“Not funny,” I say.

“A little funny,” she says.

We both grin.

I drop my bag in my room, splash water on my face, reapply tinted lip balm, and try to convince my hair to look more like “intentionally messy” and less like “storm victim.” It kind of listens. I grab my coat and scarf and head back out.

The air bites colder when I reach the street again.

Snow dusts the tops of parked cars. My breath puffs in little clouds.

I walk quickly, my boots sliding once or twice on hidden patches of ice.

The town sounds different now that I am on foot.

Closer. Softer. Laughter from inside a bakery.

The clink of mugs. Bells on a shop door.

The square opens up on my right. The big evergreen tree towers overhead, wrapped in lights from top to bottom. The glowing star on the banner above the street shines even brighter now against the dim sky.

I cannot help it. I slow down. I look up.

When I was a kid, Dad always made me wish on the first star I saw at night. Even when I hit my too-cool phase in middle school, he never let it go. “You never know,” he would say. “Sometimes the universe listens harder at night.”

I focus on the Wilder Mountain star and breathe.

I do not make a big, dramatic wish. I keep it simple.

Please. Let this work. Let Dad get his cowboy dream. Let him be well enough in the spring to enjoy it.

The wind gusts. For a second, the lights flicker. The star glows just a little brighter.

My heart stutters.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Message received.”

I turn right at the tree.

The Mercantile is halfway down the block.

Big glass windows. Warm light inside. Shelves of goods visible from the street.

A wooden sign swings gently above the entrance.

Wilder Mountain Mercantile, in faded paint.

A wreath hangs on the door. A bell waits up top, ready to ring when customers walk in.

A truck is backed up to the curb in front. Old, sturdy, dusted with snow and mud. Bales of hay stacked in the bed. A pair of worn leather work gloves sit on the tailgate.

My pulse kicks up again.

I cannot see who is loading it. Just the edge of a broad back through the open door. A flash of a dark coat. The brim of a hat.

I swallow, pull in a breath that feels like ice and pine needles, and reach for the Mercantile door handle.

The bell jingles overhead. Warmth and the smell of coffee and wood flood over me.

The man at the counter turns toward the sound.

I suck in a breath as I take in his lightly whiskered face, piercing green eyes, and jeans that hug his hips. And he seems approachable.

I have a feeling this man may be the key to making my Christmas plans come true.