Page 1 of Yuletide Cookies (Christmas Card Cowboys #1)

Chapter One

Eliza Foster scrubbed the clean counters at Foster’s Bakeshop and refused to watch the people pouring into the new corporate bakery across the street.

She couldn’t control sales, but she could at least keep the shop spotless.

Outside, Main Street of Evergreen Springs, Montana, lay muffled under last night’s snowfall. Garlands looped from lampposts and a string of colored lights blinked in the store windows.

In the display case waited a gingerbread village with gumdrop lights and buttercream icing, ready for the Chamber of Commerce pickup. If the Chamber skipped out, that meant another hole in her budget.

A car horn tooted, and Eliza glanced up.

Five more people joined the line snaking past the Sweet Delights sandwich board sign. It boasted a QR-code loyalty program: REFER A FRIEND, GET A FREE CUPCAKE! Their holiday BOGO featured a glossy photograph of Grandma’s Snowball Cookie? , dusted with Our Patented Powdered Sugar!!!

How did one patent powdered sugar? Gram would’ve rolled her eyes.

A pang stabbed Eliza’s stomach. Oh, Gram, I miss you so much.

Her morning tally? Three customers.

Three.

Mrs. Yancy chattering about her paperback, bent so far that the spine begged for mercy.

Carl Wykoski, the crowd-shy librarian, paid with exact change and paused at the door.

He glanced back like he meant to say something, then swallowed it and left.

Reverend Jones, with his daughter Annie, picked up day-olds for the Tuesday night AA meeting.

As a surprise, Eliza tucked a frosted snickerdoodle into the bag for the girl because it was her favorite.

Over at Sweet Delights, the regional manager swept past the queued crowd and into the store. An elegant blonde in a French twist who always wore a pink coat to match the colors in the corporate logo.

Betsy Houston.

Eliza had never met the woman, but Evergreen Springs had a busy grapevine that buzzed with gossip. This was her nemesis. The person leading the charge to end Foster’s Bakeshop.

Grr.

Disheartening. After work, all she wanted was to close the shop and curl up in bed with Nutmeg and a good book, but it was Monday and girls’ night out with her three besties. She considered texting her friends to beg off, but they would just insist on coming over to cheer her.

The bell above her door chimed, and the wired-on jingle bells jangled along in a half-beat.

Her heart hopped and she pulled her gaze from the window. Customer?

“Morning, sunshine!” Tom Crenshaw, the mailman, pushed inside. Ice clung to his mustache, and his bag bulged like Santa’s. A gust of frigid air followed him and ruffled the tinsel garland.

Just Tom. Eliza sighed.

“Beautiful day out there. Sun shining bright. Fresh snow on the peaks resembles your frosted honey buns,” Tom said. “Got your daily delivery.” He shuffled through the stack with gloved hands. “Bill, bill, catalog, bill...” He paused and lifted a white envelope. “Huh-oh.”

“What?”

Tom passed her the mail.

She zeroed in on the legal-sized envelope. Expensive paper. Thompson & Associates stamped in raised lettering. The lawyers handling her grandmother’s estate.

Her stomach nosedived.

Tom reshuffled letters in his bag and paused. “You okay? You seem down.”

“December blues.” She kept her voice light. “You know how it is.”

“Sure, sure. Your first Christmas without your Gram.” He hesitated, then glanced across the street, where a woman dressed like Mrs. Claus wore a Sweet Delights apron and handed out samples on the sidewalk. “And they’re not helping any.”

“No, they are not.”

“Corporate chain stores are killing the Moms and Pops.” He shook his head. “Shame.”

“It is hard to compete.”

“They can’t compete with you on quality, Eliza.”

“No, but they can undercut my prices and woo away customers with slick marketing and loyalty programs.”

“My kids still talk about your Halloween cookies. Ghosts with little faces. Sophie wants them for her tenth birthday. I know Halloween cookies in February sound weird…”

“Anything for Sophie.” The envelope corner poked into her palm, reminding her of trouble.

Maybe it’s good news.

“Chin up, Eliza.” Tom nodded at Sweet Delights, where the line now stretched past Holbrook’s Hardware.

“That place is like a new toy. Shiny for a while, but folks remember what matters. Your customers will come back once they realize mass-produced products can’t touch the loving care you put into your baked goods. ”

“I appreciate the support.” She starched her smile in place.

“Well, you have a wonderful day.” He gave her one last pitying glance and left, bells singing their broken song.

The second he cleared the window, she tore open the envelope.

Dear Miss Foster,

While finalizing your grandmother Jean Foster’s estate, we discovered a significant financial obligation requiring immediate attention. A balloon payment of $40,000 is due December 15th.

Huh?

The numbers blurred. Forty thousand dollars? In two weeks?

Eliza’s mind vapor-locked. How could her grandmother take out such a loan without telling her? And for what?

The dementia started mild, with Gram forgetting ingredients and repeating stories. By the end, she was calling Eliza by her mother’s name and asking when they would attend the book club that ended in 2007.

How on earth could she raise that kind of money in such a short time? She almost texted Dad in Florida, where he and Mom retired three years ago to be near her brother Liam, his wife Penny, and their toddlers.

Almost.

Dad grew up under this tin ceiling, flour dust in his pants’ cuffs, cinnamon scent clinging to his hair.

He would say, we’ll handle it, kiddo. But her parents lived on a tight budget.

They had already taken out a HELOC loan to help Liam and Penny buy their house earlier this year, and the rest of their savings sat locked in investments.

She couldn’t ask them to risk their retirement to save her.

Mr. Hartley would know what happened. Bad news beat guessing.

She grabbed the shop’s landline, punched in the number for Evergreen Springs Bank, and held her breath. She endured the recorded bot menu and finally reached a human.

“Kyle Hartley, how may I?—”

“Mr. Hartley, this is Eliza Foster.” She kept her voice from shaking by sheer will.

“From Foster’s Bakeshop. I just received a letter about a balloon payment on a loan my grandmother took out.

My Gram left me the bakery, and she never told me about any loan.

I just found out in a letter from her lawyer. ”

Papers shuffled. Keys clacked. “Ah, yes, Miss Foster. Interest-only note.”

“But who has been making the interest payments since my Gram went into memory care?”

“It was an automatic deduction from her checking account, but that account is now empty, and the forty thousand balloon is due December fifteenth.”

“December fifteenth! That’s only two weeks away!”

“Yes. I do sympathize that this went undetected during your grief. I know settling estates isn’t easy.”

In the kitchen, Bertha the sourdough starter bubbled too long. The sharp tang of over-fermentation pricked the air. She needed feeding.

“Can we push the due date? I’m a bit short.” By thirty-nine thousand dollars.

“I’m afraid the terms are specific. Your grandmother signed?—”

“My grandmother had dementia.” She exhaled and fought to keep her tone professional when she wanted to shout. “Her mind failed her. She wouldn’t have understood what she signed. You knew her, Mr. Hartley. You knew she wasn’t well.”

“We didn’t know at the time Mrs. Foster took out the note. I sympathize, but the term of the contract is ironclad. We must have full repayment by December 15th.”

The dementia had been so gradual at first. No one, not even Eliza, noticed the signs until it got bad. If she’d missed it, how could she hold the bank accountable?

Hartley clicked his pen twice.

“And if I can’t pay?”

“Foreclosure begins January second.” He cleared his throat. “The bank will take possession of the building and all assets tied to Foster’s Bakeshop.”

January second!

The building had belonged to her family for six generations. Since 1878. And in two weeks, it would all be gone.

“What was the loan for?” Eliza asked.

“Bakery renovations. She heard about Sweet Delights coming in, and it was her attempt to compete.”

Renovations? The shop hadn’t seen any upgrades in decades. If Gram borrowed money to renovate the bakery but the work never happened, where did it go? Had Gram stashed it in an account Eliza knew nothing about, then forgot it? What if the money waited right now to pay off the balloon note?

If only.

“Anything else I can help you with today?” Hartley asked.

“No.” Her jaw ached from clenching. “Nothing.”

She hung up.

How had she missed the loan? Why didn’t Gram tell her? She bit her lip and wrung her hands. Prayer seemed the only way out.

“I need help,” she said to the empty shop, to her great-great-great-grandmother’s ghost, to whoever might listen for heavenly intervention. “Please. I simply can’t lose this place.”