Big Sky Christmas

The cinnamon buns were compliments of Vince Butterfield, who had been cycling out to the ranch every week since Maddie was confined to the house. Vince had lost his driver’s license once on a DUI charge and had made a promise to himself then that he’d never get behind the wheel of a car again.

The bike was good enough to get him around town and to and from his trailer, even in the winter. But Coffee Creek Ranch was twenty minutes by car—much too far for a bicycle trip in winter. So Jackson suspected there’d be no more cinnamon-bun deliveries after this last one.

Once upon a time Vince and Maddie had been sweethearts. But Vince had left her to follow the rodeo circuit. He came back to Coffee Creek for visits, but only moved back permanently when a chance meeting with Winnie and the offer of a job at her café had been the motivation he needed to finally stop drinking.

And so he’d moved into a trailer a few miles from town, bought a bike and started a new career as a baker—something he was surprisingly good at.

At first he’d very much kept to himself. But lately it seemed as if he’d like to mend fences with Maddie. Besides the cinnamon-bun offerings, it was Vince who’d taken care of the cattle when Maddie was first hospitalized. That was before Maddie had made Jackson her preposterous offer.

Jackson’s side of the deal was simple. He was to take over the operations of Silver Creek Ranch, expand the herd this spring and live in the ranch house, allowing Maddie to remain in her own home for as long as she was able. She claimed she didn’t need a nurse—and had no money for one besides—but her doctor had insisted she was too sick to live alone.

In return for this—which wasn’t much in Jackson’s estimation—Maddie was going to leave the ranch to him when she died. Or so she claimed. He, personally, still hoped to talk her out of it.

“What’s your day look like today?” Maddie plucked a crumb from her blue housecoat and placed it on the tray.

“I’m starting work on that new room for Winnie Hays. I’ll pick up some groceries and be home around three.”

“Good. I asked my attorney to come out at three-thirty.”

Jackson held out his palm like a traffic cop. “This isn’t about your will, I hope.”

“Of course it’s about my will. We have to get this settled. Make our deal official.”