Page 17 of Yuletide Cookies (Christmas Card Cowboys #1)

Chapter Seventeen

The next morning, Eliza lay in bed, listening for sounds of him. The apartment was quiet, but she wasn’t alone. The soft clink of a mug being set down was followed by the familiar scent of coffee drifting under her door.

Wyatt was making coffee in her kitchen.

The normalcy of it struck her, how right it felt. She slipped from bed, pulled on her robe, and peeked out the door.

Wyatt stood at her small stove, spatula in hand, his back to her. He’d rolled his sleeves to the elbows, revealing strong forearms thick with dark hair, and he hummed, “Home on the Range.”

“Morning,” she said.

He turned, smiling. “Morning. Hope you don’t mind. I found eggs in the refrigerator and thought you might be hungry.”

“I don’t mind at all.” She moved to the coffeepot, inhaling the rich aroma. “How did you sleep?”

“Better than I expected. That couch has some strong opinions about a man my size, but it was warm.”

She smiled, pouring herself a cup. “Told you so.”

“Yes, ma’am, you did.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Might have to admit you were right about that.”

“I’m right about a lot of things,” she teased, leaning against the counter beside him.

“I’m beginning to see that.”

Their gazes locked, and the moment from last night returned, the sense of standing at the edge of something both terrifying and wonderful. But morning brought clarity instead of hesitation, certainty instead of doubt.

“Eggs are almost done,” he said, breaking the spell. “Hope you like them scrambled.”

“Scrambled is perfect.”

He served up breakfast, and they sat at her small table by the window.

Outside, Main Street was coming to life, people hurrying through the snow, breath clouding in the frigid air. Across the street, Sweet Delights’ windows glowed bright.

“Feels strange,” Eliza said, breaking the comfortable silence. “Knowing I’ll never open the bakery again. I mean, we’re closed on Sundays but…”

Wyatt nodded. “Hard to break tradition.”

“Tradition.” She stared into her coffee. “Gram liked to say tradition is just peer pressure from dead people.”

He absorbed that, then threw back his head and laughed. “Your grandmother sounds like my kind of people.”

She grinned. “Gram would have liked you. She appreciated people who knew the value of hard work.”

“What would she say about all this?” he asked.

Eliza considered the question, trying to hear Gram’s voice in her head. “She’d probably say... ‘Well, sugar, when a door closes, don’t waste time staring at it. Start looking for a window.’”

“Wise woman.”

“She was.” Eliza sipped her coffee. “I just wish I knew which window to look for.”

Wyatt broke a piece of toast in half. “What happens after the foreclosure? Where will you live?”

“Tessa said I can rent a room from her.” She reached out to stroke Nutmeg, who was curled at Wyatt’s feet. “Until I figure something out long-term.”

“And me?”

She set down her mug. “Now that’s a question I haven’t thought through. I didn’t know if you’d be staying. Are you?” she asked. “Staying.”

“It’s not rightly up to me.”

She nodded. The Christmas card could call him back to 1878 at any moment. Neither of them knew how much time they had together.

“If you knew you could stay, where would you like to live?”

“It’s too much to think about,” he said.

She was about to push for more of an answer, but a knock pounded the front door of the bakery below. They looked at each other.

“Were you expecting someone?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No.”

The knock came again, more insistent this time.

“Your friends?”

Eliza shook her head. “They’re most likely at church.”

“Should we ignore it?”

“I better go see who it is,” Eliza said, pushing back from the table.

Wyatt stood. “I’ll come with you.”

They descended the stairs, the knock growing sharper, more insistent. Wyatt moved toward the door, his posture shifting into something protective. He pulled back the bolt and swung it open.

A woman stood on the step, wrapped in a pink wool coat the exact color of the Sweet Delights sign across the street. Her blonde hair was perfectly styled, her smile professional and practiced.

“Good morning,” she said, extending a manicured hand. “Betsy Houston, regional director for Sweet Delights.”

“I know who you are.”

“May I come in?”

Eliza’s stomach dropped. She straightened, conscious of her pajamas and bathrobe. “What do you want?”

Betsy didn’t seem fazed by Eliza’s bluntness. She stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, bringing with her a cloud of exotic perfume and corporate ambition. She approached the counter and set down a portfolio.

“I was at the showcase last night,” Betsy said, unwinding her scarf.

Eliza blinked. “I saw you manning the Sweet Delights booth.”

“Yes. Your…” Betsy flicked a glance at Wyatt, “employee here gave me a cookie to sample while you were out of the booth on a bathroom break or something.”

“I’m surprised you bothered stopping by.” Eliza saw no reason to be polite.

“With that line you generated, I had to come find out what the fuss was all about.” Betsy Houston’s smile was all straight white teeth and branding savvy.

“And what did you discover?” Eliza folded her arms over her chest.

“I don’t gush, Miss Foster, but that cookie stopped me in my tracks. The flavor was extraordinary. Distinct. And the story behind it gives it staying power.” Her glossy smile widened. “It’s marketing made in heaven.”

The praise should have warmed Eliza, but instead, it left her cold. Sweet Delights didn’t deal in compliments. They dealt in acquisitions. If Betsy thought the recipe was extraordinary, it wasn’t just Eliza’s family treasure anymore. It was a target.

“It’s my three-times-great-grandmother’s original recipe,” Eliza said, her voice thin. “She first baked it here in 1878.”

“My point exactly.” Betsy’s tone sharpened with enthusiasm. “Tradition sells. Nostalgia sells. People crave it, and we know how to package it.”

Eliza’s stomach turned. Maggie Foster hadn’t mixed sugar and spice by lamplight for nostalgia. She had done it to cheer up neighbors during a hard winter. To bring sweetness when the world turned bitter. That difference mattered.

Betsy flipped open the portfolio and slid a typed sheet across the counter. “I have a proposal you need to see. Sweet Delights would like to purchase the exclusive rights to the Yuletide cookie recipe. Our offer is fifty thousand dollars.”

The number blazed from the page like a neon sign. Eliza’s heart lurched. Forty thousand would pay off the loan. The extra ten grand would give her breathing room, time to figure out what came next. She could keep the bakery, maybe even renovate like Gram wanted.

Her hand braced against the counter. Fifty thousand dollars.

“That’s generous,” she said. “For one cookie recipe?”

“Yes.” Betsy’s eyes gleamed with greed. “It’s a fair offer. With our reach, Yuletide cookies can become the holiday cookie in every household.”

Wyatt stepped closer. “That ain’t just a cookie you’re trying to buy. It’s her history.”

Betsy flicked him a dismissive glance, then returned her attention to Eliza.

“You’ll want time to think. But opportunities like this don’t last. We would like to move fast.” She tapped the folder with one manicured nail, the sound loud in the empty shop.

“I’ll follow up tomorrow with an actual contract in hand. ”

Without waiting for a reply, Betsy Houston turned and walked out, the door closing behind her with a decisive click.

Eliza stared at the folder, the neat black type visible through the thin paper. Fifty thousand dollars. Her chest squeezed. For the first time since she got that letter from Gram’s lawyer, she could see a real path forward.

She lifted her gaze to meet Wyatt’s, finding something guarded in his expression.

“You’re considering it,” he said. Not a question.

“It would save the bakery. Forty thousand pays off the loan. The rest could go toward renovations or new equipment...”

“At what cost?”

“It’s just a recipe,” she said, but even as the words left her mouth, she knew they weren’t true.

It wasn’t just a recipe. It was Maggie’s legacy, a thread connecting six generations of Fosters to the town they’d helped build.

It was everything she and Wyatt created together at the showcase.

The perfect balance of his hands and hers working in tandem, the way their movements synchronized without words.

Wyatt didn’t argue. He just stood there, watching her with those dark eyes that seemed to see through every defense she tried to build.

“What would you do if it were you?” she asked.

“It’s not my decision to make.”

“But if it were yours?”

He considered this, his gaze drifting to the antique photograph on the wall. Maggie Foster standing proudly before her new bakery in 1878.

“Where I come from, a person’s word is all they have. Their handshake, their promise.” He met her eyes again. “Can’t put a price on that.”

“But fifty thousand dollars...” The number still boggled her mind.

“Money comes and goes.” His voice softened. “What matters is what you can live with after.”

Eliza fingered the proposal, feeling the weight of her decision.

Could she live with herself if she sold Maggie’s recipe to the very corporation that had helped drive Foster’s out of business?

Could she face her grandmother in whatever came after this life if she traded six generations of family history for a corporate check?

But could she live with herself if she turned down the only chance to save the bakery?

“I need time to think.”

Wyatt nodded. “Some decisions shouldn’t be rushed.”

“Twenty-four hours,” she said, tucking the folder under her arm. “I have twenty-four hours to decide.”