Page 23 of Yuletide Cookies (Christmas Card Cowboys #1)

Tessa Mitchell had a mouth problem.

Not the medical kind, though her dentist might have opinions about her stress-induced teeth grinding.

Nope, her mouth wrote checks her pride refused to let bounce.

That morning on the tenth of December, she trudged through ankle-deep snow toward the barn, her breath clouding in the frigid air.

Three days until the Evergreen Springs Christmas Parade, where she promised to deliver nine miniature horses, dressed as reindeer, pulling a sleigh like something from a Hallmark movie.

Minis who possessed the collective discipline of a frat house on spring break. Her fault. She indulged the little buggers. It was impossible to be strict with so much cuteness.

“This time it's not a joke.” She yanked her scarf higher against the wind. “I will finish what I started and make Rent-a-Reindeer a real business.”

The whole disaster started three weeks ago at Zeke's Diner, where she and her best friends met weekly for girls' night out. She was nursing her second, okay, third, hard cider and opened her big mouth.

FYI: Don’t drink and dare.

"You? Miss-Can't-Sit-Still-Long-Enough-To-Finish-A-Cup-Of-Cocoa?

" Megan laughed just the same as in high school when she was student council president and Tessa was the girl who got suspended for releasing crickets in the chemistry lab.

At twenty-nine, ambitious, competitive Megan was now the principal of Evergreen Springs Elementary.

Fiona, a single mom struggling to provide for her seven-year-old son, Jamie, leaned forward, her phone already out because, as their marketing director, she documented everything for the Chamber of Commerce's social media.

She also worked at the movie theater on weekends and babysat half the town's kids.

"So you're going to what, dress up your ponies for birthday parties?" Fiona asked.

"They're miniature horses, not ponies.” Okay, she was defensive. “There's a difference."

"Sure there is." Megan took a long sip of wine. "Just like there was a difference between your dog grooming business and your mobile car detailing venture and your, what was it last year? Organic soap making?"

Heat crawled up Tessa's neck. "Those were learning experiences."

That's when Eliza spoke up. Quiet Eliza, who took over her gram's bakeshop and somehow made it even better. Eliza, who never said an unkind word about anyone.

“You guys, if Tessa really wanted to, she could do it. She just hasn't found what sticks yet." Eliza reached over to pat Tessa’s hand.

Eliza meant to offer support, but the words stung worse than Megan's teasing. Because Eliza was right. Tessa had the resume of someone who couldn't commit to a breakfast cereal, let alone a career.

"You know what?" The words burst out before Tessa's brain could stop them. "I can turn those miniature horses into a full Christmas sleigh team. Antlers, bells, the whole production."

The diner went silent. The dangerous kind of quiet that meant everyone was listening.

"I dare you," Megan said.

"I’ll take some of that action." Fiona grinned, pulled out a ten-dollar bill, and slapped it on the table.

The place erupted in cheers and chants of “Do it, do it.” As people sauntered over to give Fiona, the de facto bookie, money to hold.

And because Tessa's pride, which was trying to kill her, said, "You're on!”

The Chamber of Commerce president, who’d been eating chili fries at the bar, popped over to offer her a spotlight in the parade and to join in the pool with a twenty against Tessa’s succeeding.

Darn it!

In the end, twenty-seven people slapped down four hundred and fifty dollars against Tessa’s success, and two, exactly two, people put up forty bucks for her win.

Eliza and a town newcomer.

Now, trudging toward the minis who believed "teamwork" was a four-letter word, she wondered if pride did indeed goeth before the fall.

Or in her case, utter public humiliation.

But she and the minis had been practicing since the middle of November, and they were no closer to being able to pull Santa’s sleigh than on the day they began training.

Tessa shouldered open the barn door, and nine heads swiveled toward her in perfect synchronization. The only synchronized thing they’d done all week.

"Don't look so excited to see me.” She stomped slush from her boots.

Her first official booking had been at Santa’s Workshop last week at the community center. Just three minis, a cozy Christmas backdrop, photo op... Easy-peasy.

Except she brought Biscuit.

And the irascible gelding dove face-first into a tray of frosted sugar cookies, smearing icing across his nose like war paint.

Kids shrieked with delight, parents whipped out their phones, and Fiona, ever the Chamber’s social media queen, posted the entire spectacle with the caption When Reindeer Attack! #SantasWorkshop #HorsesGoneWild.

The Chamber board hadn’t laughed. Neither had the Evergreen Springs Library.

Later that same day, a text from the head librarian, Carl Wykoski, arrived.

Tessa, we need to cancel Thursday’s storytime. After hearing about the Santa’s Workshop incident, our insurance advisor has concerns. Maybe next year, when you have more experience with live animal events.

The library gig was important—a five-day-a-week appearance from now until Christmas Eve. One horse, no sleigh, just Einstein in antlers while she read The Polar Express.

Foolproof. Right?

But now that was gone. If the library didn’t trust her with one mini, how was she supposed to wrangle nine?

She squared her shoulders and looked at the lineup of stalls. Each horse watched her with varying degrees of suspicion and mischief. Three days left to turn these chaos agents into something resembling Santa's reindeer.

“Okay, Einstein.” She grabbed his halter from the hook. “You're up first, buddy. You're my Rudolph. The headliner. Our star.”

Einstein, a chestnut with one white sock and the escape artist skills of Houdini, eyeballed her as she led him down the middle of the barn to the sleigh.

She clipped him to the cross-ties and held out a peppermint. His lips peeled back, revealing teeth that looked too huge for his tiny head.

“That’s my boy. Now, let’s get you dressed.”

The harness went on easier than expected. Einstein only stepped on her foot twice, which was progress. She fastened the traces to the sleigh, a candy-apple-red Victorian-style beauty that cost more than she’d probably make off this endeavor, but hey, tax write-off.

For three seconds, everything was perfect.

Then Einstein shook. Hard.

The jingle bells exploded into sound like someone kicked over a shelf of wind chimes in a hurricane.

The barn erupted.

Pickles pawed at his stall door. Biscuit lunged against the bars, trying to bite the wood.

Marshmallow rolled, coating himself in shavings.

Tater Tot and Domino began what could only be described as a scream-off, their whinnies climbing to pitches that shouldn't be possible from anything with hooves.

Junebug farted. Snickers ran circles in his stall, and Cupcake, sweet, supposedly calm Cupcake, reared up and slammed his hooves down with a bang that shook the walls.

“Like herding caffeinated squirrels,” she muttered, wrestling Domino's halter on as he tried to spin away.

It took forty minutes to get them all out and tied to the sleigh. Forty minutes of dodging teeth, hooves, and what she suspected was a deliberate attempt at murder.

Domino kept crowding Einstein, shoving his rump as if he were trying to establish dominance. Marshmallow locked his knees and refused to move. Biscuit discovered he could lean against the shaft and hem her in.

The others squealed, reared, and acted like she had asked them to walk across hot coals instead of stand in a line.

Sweat gathered under her Christmas sweater with the light-up Rudolph that seemed festive in the store. Her patience unraveled with each buckle, each adjustment; each moment made it clearer this was never going to work.

But stupid, stubborn pride kept her moving.

She bent to adjust Domino's trace, and he kicked. His hoof connected with her backside.

Pain exploded through her hip. She yelped and stumbled forward, windmilling her hands and tumbling face-first toward the sleigh's runner. She caught herself at the last second, palms slapping against the cold metal, the nose of Rudolph on her sweater blinking like a warning light.

The humiliation stung worse than the bruise already forming. She could imagine Fiona's caption now: Local Woman Kicked by Christmas.

"Reset.” She straightened despite the throb in her hip. "We're gonna reset."

The horses ignored her. Einstein shook his bells. Domino tried to bite Marshmallow. Biscuit sat down. Just sat like a dog.

Megan's laughter echoed in her head. Fiona's dare. Eliza's pity. The whole of Zeke’s betting against her. Each memory landed heavier than the last, pressing down until her chest pinched.

"Fine." She bared her teeth in something that wasn't quite a smile. "You want chaos? Let's dance."

She yanked out her phone and jammed it into the ancient speaker dock she inherited from Papaw. His barn, his dreams of her taking over the family farm, all gathering dust while she played at being something she wasn't.

"Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" blared through the barn, tinny and absurdly cheerful.

She rolled her eyes. “On the nose, but okay."

Like a conductor facing the world's worst orchestra, she stepped into the absurdity. If she was going down, she might as well make it memorable.

She spun in a pirouette, her sweater blinking. She danced her heart out. Wild, unrestrained. Manic laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep in her chest. For one wild, dizzy moment, she could almost see it working.

Almost believed her own hype.

Then her feet hit a big pile of sawdust.

Her leg went out from under her. She had just enough time to think, This is going to hurt , before she crashed flat on her back.

The impact smacked, knocking everything out of her. Air. Pride. Sanity. Her teeth clacked together, and her chest seized.

Panic clawed at her throat. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Could only lie there while her body trembled, mouth gaped, and spots danced at the edges of her vision.

At last, her lungs remembered their job. She dragged in a ragged gulp of dusty, horse-scented air that had never tasted so good.

That's when she heard it.

The unmistakable sound of liquid hitting the floor. She turned her head to see Marshmallow peeing on her boots. The acrid stench of horse urine filled her nostrils.

"Perfect. Just perfect."

The horses loomed over her, bells jangling like laughter. She could picture it all. Fiona's viral post, Megan's smug "I told you so," Eliza's gentle disappointment that would somehow hurt worst of all.

A laugh clawed its way up, but it twisted into something raw halfway through.

She was twenty-seven years old, lying in horse pee, covered in sawdust, with a blinking Rudolph nose on her sweater and a bruised hip, about to fail at yet another dream because she was too proud to admit?—

"I need help."

The words ripped free, hoarse and stripped of all bravado. For the first time in her life, she admitted it out loud. Not to anyone who could hear, just to nine miniature horses.

The barn fell silent except for the faint music still playing. Even the horses stopped moving, as if recognizing that something had shifted.

Dust drifted down from the loft. She watched, mesmerized, as something slipped loose from between the rafters and drifted down.

A piece of paper landed in the sawdust beside her, just missing the horse pee.

She eased into a sitting position, her body protesting, and picked it up.

A Christmas card.

Warmth seeped into her fingers, which made no sense. It was barely above freezing in the barn.

Hand-painted. The signature of the artist in one corner: Jeb. Old, edges soft, like it had been touched by countless hands over countless years.

On the back, written in brown ink:

Cade Sullivan, wrangler, Dec. 10th, 1878.

The image on the front stole what little breath she had left.

A drop-dead handsome cowboy sat astride a chestnut gelding, his duster flaring in the wind, snow swirling around them both.

His hat brim cast his eyes in shadow, but his mouth tipped into a half-smile that felt intimate, as if she caught him thinking of something or someone that made him happy.

Even the horse looked alive, muscles bunched, ready to move.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her throat tightened. Tears stung her eyes.

Why? She didn't know this cowboy from another time, but something in her chest cracked open with recognition, as if she'd been missing him all her life and just now realized it.

A memory jolted. This past Sunday, at Eliza's bakery. The scent of cinnamon rolls and coffee while a tearful Eliza, in a hushed whisper, told her something impossible.

Wyatt McCready, the man who swept into town and stole Eliza's heart, wasn't a hired historical reenactor. He was a cowboy from 1878.

And the portal he used to time travel was a hand-painted Christmas card just like this one.

Now, holding this painting at the exact moment she asked for help, goosebumps raced up her arms.

Just as Mariah Carey belted, “All I Want for Christmas Is You.”