Page 13 of Yuletide Cookies (Christmas Card Cowboys #1)

Chapter Thirteen

She couldn’t save the bakery, but she could go out with a bang, and doing that meant perfecting Maggie Foster’s Yuletide cookies so she could serve them at the showcase.

It was important to honor the end of a legacy.

That done, she tied her apron tight and marched into the kitchen, feeling like a general preparing for battle.

The old cookstove glowed, its fire banked thanks to Wyatt’s careful tending. He stood there with a cup of coffee in his hand and a mug on the counter for her.

“Thanks for the coffee.” She took a grateful sip, then set about arranging the ingredients for the Yuletide cookies.

“Welcome.” He grinned.

“We’re doing this exactly as Maggie would have in 1878,” she said. “No mixers or any tools she would not have used.”

Wyatt picked up the recipe card from the table and frowned at it. “Problem is, half these instructions are so faded they’re hard to read. Look here—” He squinted at a water stain obscuring several lines. “Can’t tell if that’s teaspoons or tablespoons.”

She peered over his shoulder. “A tablespoon of cloves? That would be inedible.”

“Teaspoons of molasses wouldn’t be enough, though.”

“We’ll figure it out as we go, letting common sense be our guide.” Eliza measured and shifted flour, creating a well in the center. “You add the wet ingredients.”

“Bossy, aren’t you?” He chuckled.

“Efficient. There’s a difference.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Wyatt poured molasses into the well, but the thick liquid came out in a rush, overflowing the flour walls. “Dad burn it?—”

“Language, Mr. McCready,” she teased.

“That’s mild for a cowboy, trust me.” He tried to contain the flood with his hands, making it worse.

“Here, let me.” Eliza grabbed a spatula, knocking over the container of precious crystallized ginger. The pieces scattered across the floor like tiny gold coins. “No! That’s all we had.”

“I’ll pick them up, and we can rinse them off.”

“Never mind, just clean it up please. I’ll order more from Instacart.” She whipped out her phone and placed the order and then bent down to help him.

They crouched and reached for the same piece of ginger. Their heads collided with a solid thunk.

“Ow!” She sat back, hand to her forehead.

“Blazes, woman, you have a hard head!” Wyatt rubbed his own skull.

“That’s rich coming from the man who tried to break mine!”

They glared at each other from the floor, surrounded by scattered ginger. Then Wyatt’s lips twitched, and they burst out laughing in unison.

“We’re a disaster.”

“Speak for yourself. I’m simply having an off day.”

“Your off day is costing me expensive ingredients.” But she smiled as she threw away the ginger.

They took a timeout and refreshed their coffee. When the delivery driver arrived with the replacement ginger, they started over with a fresh batch.

This time, Wyatt controlled the molasses while Eliza mixed it. The dough came together, but it didn’t look right.

“It’s too wet,” Eliza clicked her tongue.

“Too dry,” Wyatt said. “Needs more molasses.”

“It’s already swimming in molasses.”

“That’s not swimming; that’s wading.”

“Are you mansplaining cookie dough to me? I’ve been baking since I could reach the counter!”

“And I’ve been making trail biscuits since before you were born. In my timeline anyway.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Nothing about this makes sense.”

They stood facing each other across the bowl of questionable dough, both breathing hard.

“Fine, you roll it out then, since you’re the expert.”

“I will.” He grabbed the rolling pin. The too-wet dough stuck, tearing when he tried to lift the pin.

“Be gentle,” Eliza said, pushing her palms downward.

He scowled and added more flour. Too much. Now the dough cracked at the edges. “Your recipe is wrong.”

“It’s Maggie’s recipe.”

“Well, Maggie must have left out crucial details.”

“Or we’ve read it wrong.”

“That could be.”

“Third time’s the charm?” She lifted her shoulders.

“We’re running out of ingredients.”

“And time. The showcase is on Saturday. We have to perfect these by then.”

Wyatt set down the rolling pin, frustration in every line of his body. “Maybe we should try something else. These cookies are cursed.”

“We can’t give up. Maggie’s cookies are one of a kind. From Christmas 1878. The year the bakery opened. We have to include them.”

“Why? Why does it matter so much?”

“Because—” Eliza’s voice cracked as tears threatened to spill over. “Because everything’s ending. The bakery.” She gestured between them. “This.”

He fell silent.

“I just…I need something to work out right. Just one thing.”

His shoulders slumped. “Eliza...”

“I know it’s stupid.” Tears welled up.

“It’s not stupid.” He moved around the counter, stopping shy of touching her. “Nothing about what you’re feeling is stupid.”

“We’re wasting ingredients we can’t afford to waste.”

“The recipe says it takes two hearts. That means we need to stop pulling in opposite directions.”

Eliza wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “One more try?”

“One more. But this time, we listen to each other.”

They gathered ingredients for a final batch. This time, when Eliza said the dough needed more liquid, Wyatt added it without argument. When he suggested resting the dough before rolling, she agreed.

“Roll it thinner here.” She motioned toward the section.

“I see it.” He adjusted the pressure.

The dough rolled out tissue-thin, so delicate they could actually see the wood grain of the kneading board through it, as the recipe specified.

“Filling, quick!” Eliza grabbed the pot from the stove.

They worked in tandem, her spreading as he poured. The filling went on smooth as velvet. They folded the dough together, their hands meeting at the seam, holding it closed while the heat sealed it.

“Don’t let go yet.”

“I’m not.”

They stood there, hands touching through the thin dough, and the tension transformed.

“We make a good team,” Wyatt said. “When we stop being mule-headed.”

“Speak for yourself. I’m reasonable.”

“Sure you are. That’s why you threw ginger at me.”

“I didn’t throw it!”

“Might as well have.”

But they were both smiling, the exasperation mixed with something warmer. They cut the cookies into diamonds, Wyatt’s knife following Eliza’s lead. Into Maggie’s cast iron oven, the cookies went.

“Eight minutes,” he said.

“How do you know? Maggie’s recipe says ten.”

“I’ve learned the mood of this old oven since I started making biscuits for you. It runs hot.”

“Okay,” she said. “I trust your judgment.”

When the cookies emerged golden and perfect, Eliza reached for the pan. “At last!”

“Wait, they’re?—”

Too late. Her fingers touched the hot metal. She jerked back with a cry, but the damage was done. An angry red line blazed across her fingertips.

“Ouch.”

Wyatt moved faster than she’d ever seen him move, grabbing her wrist and pulling her to the sink. “Cold water. Now.”

He turned the tap with his free hand, guiding her burned fingers under the cooling stream. Immediate relief, but it was nothing compared to the shock of his body pressed against her back, his arms caging her at the counter.

“Keep it there.” He wrapped his hand around hers under the water, holding her in place. “At least two minutes.”

“It’s fine?—”

“It’s not fine. I can see it blistering already.” His thumb stroked along her wrist, whether to comfort or from nervous energy, she couldn’t tell. But the gentle motion sent shivers up her arm. “Why didn’t you use the pot holder?”

“I was excited. We finally got them right.”

“Cookies aren’t worth burning yourself over.”

Eliza caught her breath. He was so close she could feel his heartbeat. “Wyatt...”

“Another minute,” he said, but he sounded distracted now. His free hand had come to rest on the counter beside hers, bracketing her in. She could turn around, pivot in the circle of his arms and?—

“Does it still hurt?”

“No.” Her voice came out breathy. “The cold water helped.”

“Good.” But he didn’t move away. If anything, he pressed closer, his chest solid against her back. “Eliza, I need to check the damage.”

He turned off the water and rotated her hand, examining her fingers with a focus that fluttered her stomach. The burn was minor, but he studied it like he was memorizing every detail.

“We need something for this. Butter, or?—”

“Not butter. That’s an old wives’ tale. There’s burn cream in the first aid kit.”

“Where?”

“Top shelf, above the mixer.”

He had to reach over her to get it, his body stretching along hers, and for a moment, they were pressed together. Eliza forgot how to breathe. When he pulled back with the kit, she whimpered at the loss of contact.

“Sit.” He pointed to the kitchen stool.

“I can do it myself?—”

“Eliza Foster, for once in your stubborn life, let someone take care of you .”

The intensity in his voice stopped her protest. She sat.

Wyatt pulled up another stool, positioning himself in front of her, their knees touching. He cradled her injured hand in both of his, gentle as if he were handling spun glass.

“This might sting.” He opened the burn cream.

“I’m not a child.”

“No. You’re not.”

He applied the cream with surprising tenderness, his calloused fingers gentle against her skin.

“You’ve done this before,” she said.

“Trail injuries happen daily. Burns, cuts, breaks. You learn to tend to each other, or you don’t survive.” He smoothed the cream over each finger, taking far more time than necessary. “Course, I’m dealing with cowboys who smell like horses and complain the whole time. This is different.”

“Different how?”

His hands stilled on hers. “Cowboys don’t make my hands shake.”

Eliza’s heart stuttered. “Wyatt?—”

“Do you have any idea what it does to me, seeing you hurt? Even something small like this?” He was still holding her hand.

“It’s just a little burn.”

“In my time, a burn could go septic. It could take your whole hand, or worse. I’ve seen it happen.” His thumb brushed over her palm, back and forth. “The thought of anything happening to you?—”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me.”

“You don’t know that. This world, my world, any world, it’s all dangerous. And you’re so fearless, throwing yourself at everything full force, no hesitation.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“It’s terrifying and amazing. And infuriating. And about the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.”

They stared at each other, the kitchen silent except for the tick of the cooling oven and their uneven breathing. His hands still cradled hers, the burn cream forgotten between them.

Neither of them moved. The space between them hummed with possibility, with want, with the terrible sweetness of almost.

“Be more careful, please.”

“I will.”

He stood. “Those cookies need sugaring while they’re still warm.”

“Right. The cookies.”