Page 7 of Yuletide Cookies (Christmas Card Cowboys #1)

Chapter Seven

She sat up so fast Nutmeg meowed in protest from the foot of the bed.

Her bare feet found the cool linoleum, and she switched on the lamp beside the small table. She stared at the note he’d left her: I will be here come morning.

Would he? Or would she unlock the storeroom to find nothing but empty shelves, the Christmas card gone, yesterday written off as the product of stress and sleep deprivation?

She pulled on jeans and Gram’s cable-knit sweater, braided her hair, and headed downstairs. The sweater still smelled faintly of her grandmother’s lavender soap, a comfort she needed right now.

Halfway through the bakery storefront, the smell of woodsmoke caught her attention and drew her into the kitchen to the old brick corner part of the original building.

Wyatt knelt before the black cookstove her great-great-great-grandmother once fired every morning almost a hundred and fifty years ago.

The firebox sat open, embers glowing like tiny hearts in the darkness. Firelight caught his cheekbones. Sleeves rolled to his elbows revealed forearms corded with muscle. His hands worked the damper with the sure confidence of someone who understood fire.

He was real. He was here, and he was baking on a stove that hadn’t been used since the 1940s.

“You lit it.”

He turned at her voice, and something flickered through his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or something warmer.

“Drew the flue. Took her slow. She woke easy for me.” He spoke like the stove knew him.

“The fire inspector would roast me alive if he walked in.” She set a palm to warm brick and moved closer, close enough to catch his scent. “It hasn’t been lit in decades.”

“Found matches and kindling. Old stoves need patience and respect.” He nudged the damper. “Cast iron like the ovens I know. The mark is worn, but I’d bet it was made in Pittsburgh.”

“You’d win that bet. What are you planning on baking?”

“Biscuits.” He grinned, and that grin did something dangerous to her.

Lord. Those eyes could drill straight through a woman. Gray like storm clouds. She turned for the cast-iron skillet, aware he was still watching her, and she almost dropped it.

“You okay?”

“Just fine.” She didn’t glance at him again. “Let me show you around the kitchen.”

He stood and came toward her. She gulped.

“Here’s the bins.” She opened the pantry doors with more force than necessary. “Bread flour in the tall one. Lower protein for cookies there. We label by numbers.”

“Ain’t all flour bread flour?” He stood close enough that she could see the shadow of stubble along his jaw.

“I suppose it is where you’re from, but baking science has come a long way since 1878. We’ll use all-purpose flour for your biscuits.” She took out the bin.

“We’ll need fat. Buttermilk. Salt. Baking powder,” he said.

“I’ll round it up.”

“Thank you kindly.” He tipped his Stetson, the gesture old-fashioned and oddly charming.

“You can take that hat off indoors. No need.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He studied her. “My hat’s as much a part of me as my boots and spurs.”

“You can leave the spurs off too. No broncs to tame in here.”

“No, ma’am,” he said, humor in his eyes. He disappeared into the storeroom and returned sans hat and spurs.

Holy moly.

She hadn’t realized how much the brim shadowed him. Without it, the planes of his face stood clear. He possessed a high forehead, a strong brow, and thick brown hair that curled at his collar. Hatless, he looked younger, unguarded.

She busied herself arranging ingredients, but she could feel him watching her.

He washed up at the sink, already comfortable with indoor plumbing. When he took the butter from her, their fingers touched for a moment. His eyes found hers, held, and for a heartbeat neither of them moved.

Then he cleared his throat and turned to the counter. He grabbed two knives and started cutting the butter into pea-sized pieces.

“Nice technique,” she said, leaning against the counter to watch him.

His cheeks pinked, and he ducked his head. “My ma taught me. Said the secret was keeping everything cold and to work quickly.”

“Smart woman.”

“She was.” Emotion flickered across his face, loss maybe, or homesickness.

The coffee maker clicked on, water whispering through grounds.

Wyatt jumped. “What’s that?”

“Coffee machine. I set a timer.”

“It keeps its own hours?” He watched the drip with genuine wonder. “Useful kind of magic.”

“Want some?”

“Do ducks swim?”

She smiled. “How do you take it? Black?”

The pink returned to his cheeks, deeper this time. “Well, I don’t need milk, but I got a powerful sweet tooth, Miss Foster.”

That admission charmed her. This tough cowboy, blushing over sugar. “Two tablespoons?”

“Can you make it three?”

Laughing, she poured him a cup and stirred in three sugars. When she turned to hand it to him, he was closer than expected.

“That’s mighty good. Thank you, Miss Foster.”

“You can call me Eliza.”

“Eliza.” He said it slowly, like he was tasting her name. “I wouldn’t mind if you called me Wyatt.”

“It’s a deal.”

He went back to the biscuits, and she watched him work. Pat, fold, turn, fold again. There was something mesmerizing about his careful attention, the slight furrow of concentration between his brows.

“You’re watching me,” he said without looking up.

“You’re worth watching.”

His hands stilled and the heat in his eyes made her grip the counter.

“Eliza.” Just her name, but the way he said it, rough and wondering.

“The biscuits.”

“Right. The biscuits.” But he didn’t move for another heartbeat, just stood there looking at her like he was memorizing something.

He set the biscuits tight in the cast-iron skillet, slid the pan into the oven, nudged the damper, and closed the door. When he straightened, there was flour on his cheek.

Without thinking, she reached up to brush it away.

He went absolutely still under her touch, his eyes locked on hers as her thumb swept across his cheekbone.

“Eliza,” he said again, almost a question this time.

She dropped her hand and stepped back. “You had flour.”

“Flour.” He repeated it like he’d forgotten the meaning of the word.

They watched the oven, standing closer than necessary, sipping their coffees in unison. The kitchen felt smaller somehow, charged with something that made her hyperaware of every movement.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled out golden biscuits, letting them cool a moment, then split one in his palm. He slid butter between the halves and held it toward her.

“Taste.”

Eat from his fingers? The intimacy of it made her hesitate.

She leaned in and took a bite, and maybe it was her imagination, but she thought his breathing changed when her lips brushed his thumb.

The biscuit crackled on the outside, but inside it was soft and hot. Butter pooled on her tongue. Buttermilk tang, perfect salt, caramel edge from the iron.

“Oh, my.” She closed her eyes and took another bite. “This is incredible.”

“You like it?” His voice had gone rough.

She opened her eyes to find him watching her mouth. “We could charge five dollars. Six with gravy.”

“Six dollars for one biscuit?” He sounded beyond shocked.

“At least five-fifty.”

“I earn six dollars a week.”

That reminder of the gulf between their worlds should have been sobering. Instead, she found herself intrigued.

“How many can we sell?” he asked, but his eyes weren’t on the biscuits.

“As many as we can bake if they taste like this.”

He lifted the biscuit again. “Another bite.”

This time she knew what she was doing when she leaned in. She took a huge bite and grinned as butter dribbled down her chin.

He picked up the kitchen towel and wiped it away, his movements slow, careful. Their eyes latched and held. The kitchen disappeared.

“I shouldn’t be thinking what I’m thinking,” he said, his hand still near her face.

“What are you thinking?”

“That you’re the prettiest thing I’ve seen in any century. That I got no business feeling this way about a woman I just met. That if I kissed you, you’d taste sweeter than any biscuit.”

She gripped the counter behind her. “That’s dangerous thinking.”

“I know.” But he didn’t step back. If anything, he moved closer, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to keep eye contact. “You got rules, I’m guessing. Smart woman like you.”

She nodded. She did have rules. Go slow, protect her heart, never bank on someone who could disappear as mysteriously as they’d appeared.

“I got rules too. About taking liberties. About respecting a lady. About not starting something I can’t rightly finish.” He dropped his hand and stepped back.

“Those are good rules,” she said, though the loss of his touch felt wrong.

“They are.” He met her eyes. “But Eliza? They’re mighty hard to remember when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like maybe you’re thinking dangerous things too.”

She was. And when he smiled at her, soft and uncertain and achingly real, she knew she was in so much trouble.