A Christmas Hope for the Scarred Rancher (Preview)

Chapter One

The lantern light flickered low in the front room, throwing shadows across the familiar walls as Gage Boyd eased the door shut behind him. The hinge gave a weak protest, and he paused until the sound faded into the silence of the sleeping house.

He carried a small leather valise in one hand, its weight hardly more than a few changes of clothes. Nothing else. He never had been a man to bring more than he needed.

Boots scuffed softly across the wood floor. The air still held the scent of last night’s fire in the hearth, faint smoke mixed with pine. Upstairs, the house was quiet. His mother, Opal, and his younger sister, Birdie, must be asleep. Safe. He wasn’t about to wake them. Not at that hour.

From outside, he could hear the muted stirrings of the ranch coming to life. Wade would be at the barn, steady as sunrise, and Ike wouldn’t be far behind. The younger hands, too… boys who hadn’t yet learned how to move quiet in the mornings.

They’d all expect him soon enough. He’d ride out with them before long, same as always. But first, he needed an hour or two of rest. That was all he wanted.

Gage shifted the valise to his other hand, his shoulders stiff from travel. Tall and broad through the chest, he filled the narrow hallway even when he tried to slip through it unnoticed.

A strand of dark hair fell loose across his brow, brushing against the rough line of an old scar that ran from his jaw to the side of his neck. The burn’s twisted edge disappeared beneath his collar, down the right arm of his shirt. He’d long since stopped flinching when the skin pulled, but the sight of it could still turn strangers’ heads.

That never mattered. His family and his men knew him, and he had work to keep him steady. Work didn’t ask for smiles or explanations.

The house creaked with the wind against the shutters as he crossed the parlor. For a moment he let his gaze linger on the staircase and on the soft glow of lamplight seeping from the crack beneath his mother’s door upstairs. He hoped she was still asleep. She worried too much when he came and went. Birdie, too.

He set his jaw and started down the hall toward his room. His steps were careful. He was a man who had learned to carry his burdens in silence long ago.

The door to his room stood where it always had, at the far end of the hall. He pushed it open, thinking only of the mattress and a stolen hour of sleep.

But he froze.

A soft light glowed inside. A candle flame, carried by a slender hand. A figure moved slowly around the room, her shape outlined in shifting amber. She wasn’t one of his men. And she certainly wasn’t family.

The intruder was a woman.

Tall, with auburn hair catching the candle’s glow like copper fire, she paced along his bookcase, fingertips ghosting over the spines as if she searched for something. Her eyes were striking green even in the dim light, narrowed in concentration as she leaned closer to the nightstand.

A thief.

The thought landed hard and certain.

Why else would she be here at such an hour, moving as quietly as a fox through his private space?

A beautiful thief, though.

Gage stiffened. Beauty didn’t soften crime. He wasn’t about to let Boyd Ranch harbor lawlessness. Not under his roof. Not in his father’s house.

“Who are you?” His voice cracked the stillness like a rifle shot.

The woman jerked, startled clean off her feet. The candle tumbled from her grasp, hitting the floor with a hiss.

Hot wax splattered. Darkness swallowed the room.

“Wait—” she gasped, scrambling backward.

Gage’s instincts surged. He lunged before she could bolt, boots striking wood as he reached for her. She twisted as though she was set on fleeing straight through him. His hand closed around her arm, firm but not cruel.

“You’ll stay right where you are,” he growled. “We’ll see what the sheriff makes of you.”

She strained against his grip, fury sparking as bright as the candle flame had moments before. “Unhand me this instant!”

“Not a chance.” His tone was iron. He tightened just enough to keep her still.

She drew herself up despite his hold, eyes flashing green fire in the shadows. “How dare you lay hands on me!”

“You were prowling my room in the dead of night,” he shot back. “You expect courtesy?”

Her breath came fast, her free hand clutching at her skirts. “I…was not—”

“Not what? Not rifling through my things?” His voice dropped, dark with suspicion. “I saw you.”

She yanked against his grip again, the rustle of skirts loud in the dark. “You overstep, sir! I demand you let me go this very instant!”

He held steady, his hand locked around her forearm. “And I demand you explain yourself. What business does a woman have sneaking about a man’s room in the middle of the night?”

“Business? What nonsense. I was,” she sucked in a sharp breath, “I was making myself useful. Mrs. Boyd has—”

“Useful?” His disbelief came out as a low growl. “Rifling through my things like a burglar?”

“How dare you!”

Her voice rose, so offended he half-expected the rafters to shake with it. He leaned closer to hear her better in the dark. Her green eyes caught the faint glow from the hall window. They were wide and flashing.

“Dare me?” he shot back. “You’re the one creeping about with a candle.”

He tried to sound steady, in control, but the truth was he didn’t quite know what to make of the sight before him. Her standing there, defiant and trembling, with the flame lighting her face. He hadn’t expected this argument.

“I was not creeping!” The woman jerked her chin up, her free hand braced against his chest. “I was—oh, you are insufferable! You will regret treating me in this manner.”

“Regret?” He barked out a humorless laugh. “The only one regretting tonight will be you, ma’am, once the sheriff has a word with you.”

She stiffened, and for a moment he thought he had her cornered at last. But then she lifted her voice again. “You ridiculous, arrogant man. Do you truly think so little of women that you imagine the first you see must be a thief? I was simply trying to—”

“You were caught in my room,” he interrupted. “In the dark. Looking through my nightstand.”

“Looking through—? Oh, heavens, you thick-headed…” Her words strangled off in frustration, and she gave a little growl of her own. “I was seeing what needed tending.”

“Tending?”

“Yes!” Her eyes blazed at him through the gloom. “Your room is a disgrace, sir, and I was doing what any housekeeper worth her salt would do.”

He held his breath.

“You’re caught, ma’am. No sense pretending otherwise.”

For a moment, she froze in his grip. Her chest was rising fast, breath trembling against the silence. Then her jaw dropped. He could just make it out in the pale wash of the moonlight at the window. She wasn’t angry anymore. She wasn’t even struggling.

She was laughing.

At first it was just a breathy sound, as though she were trying to keep it inside. Then it spilled over. A soft, musical laugh that built until she bent slightly, hand pressed to her side.

He blinked at her in disbelief. “You find this amusing?”

“Entirely!” she managed between peals, her shoulders shaking. “Oh, mercy, I knew you’d be impossible, but I didn’t think you’d be a fool as well.”

His spine went rigid. A fool?

Before he could bark a reply, a door down the hall creaked open. Then another. The sound of feet hurried toward them.

“Gage?” His mother’s voice was carrying just the faintest edge of concern. “What’s going on?”

“Is someone hurt?” Birdie’s quicker, younger voice chimed in, followed by a whisper of skirts as she ran down the hallway.

The woman in his grip straightened at once, laughter still trembling in her frame. He didn’t let her go. Not yet.
Birdie appeared first, hair loose around her shoulders, nightgown hem brushing the floor as she skidded to a stop in the doorway. Her eyes went wide.

“What in the world—”

“I caught a thief,” Gage said, grim and certain. “She was prowling my room.”

That set Birdie off. She clutched the doorframe, then burst into laughter.

“A thief? Oh, Gage, you big oaf!”

The word stung. He glared at his sister, then back at the auburn-haired woman who was still smiling as though this were the most delightful jest she’d ever heard.

“This is no laughing matter,” he snapped. “I found her in my room. Going through my things.”

“She’s not a thief,” Birdie sputtered through her giggles. “She’s—oh, you’ll see. Mama, tell him!”

Opal Boyd appeared at last with her candle in hand and her shawl drawn close around her shoulders. Her expression was calm, but her eyes took in everything at a glance. Her son, rigid and bristling. The stranger with flushed cheeks and fire-bright hair. Birdie doubled over with laughter.

“Gage,” Opal said, voice quiet but firm, “release her.”

He hesitated. “Mother, you don’t understand—”

“I understand perfectly,” she said, her gaze not wavering for a second. “This is Hope Dodson. Our new housekeeper.”

The room tilted. Gage blinked once… twice. It was as if the words couldn’t settle right in his ears.

“Housekeeper?” he asked.

“Yes,” Opal said simply.

She stepped forward, calm as ever, and touched the young woman’s arm with gentle reassurance.

“I sent for her weeks ago,” Opal explained. “She arrived while you were gone. She’s been with us since last Tuesday.”

The woman, Hope Dodson, lifted her chin and met his stare. Her green eyes were bright with challenge.

“Not a thief, you see,” she added.

Birdie laughed harder. “Oh, Gage, I wish you could see your own face.”

His jaw worked, but no words came. He released Hope’s arm slowly, the weight of his mother’s gaze on him. The warmth of her skin lingered against his palm, unwelcome and unsettling.

Hope smoothed her skirts, then gave a little sniff, as though she’d won some grand battle.

“You might want to remember that before you go calling me names again, Mr. Boyd.”

He dragged a hand over his face, trying to find some sense in the chaos. What he’d thought a thief was in truth his mother’s newest hire. A stranger in his house. In his room.

And trouble.

Undeniably, unmistakably, trouble.

Chapter 2

The morning sunlight spilled through the kitchen windows as Hope bent over a growing basket of clothes. Shirts, pants, aprons, stockings.

She shook each piece briskly before folding it down. Her motions were quick and certain. Laundry was nobody’s favorite chore, but Hope liked it well enough. There was order in it. A certain rhythm.

Carefully, she pressed another bundle of shirts into place. Today, she’d wash them all, line after line strung across the yard until the breeze and sunshine did the rest. Hard work? Yes, but it suited her. It kept her hands busy and her thoughts from wandering too far.

“Hope, you should have seen his face!”

Birdie Boyd’s laughter rang through the kitchen as she darted in, her arms laden with more linens. The eighteen-year-old practically dropped them into Hope’s basket before plopping herself down on the edge of a chair.

Hope bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling too widely.

“I did see it, Birdie,” she replied. “I was there, remember?”

“Oh, but I mean after.” Birdie’s light brown hair had come loose from its braid. Her hazel eyes flashed with mischief as she leaned forward with elbows on her knees. “You missed how red he turned when Mama scolded him. Like a boy caught stealing pie. Oh my stars, I’ve never seen him look so foolish.”

That was when Hope gave in, chuckling as she shook out a pillowcase.

“I thought he’d drag me to the sheriff by my hair,” she said.

“He wouldn’t dare!” Birdie replied with a soft gasp. “Well… he might’ve thought about it.” She tipped her head, her smile fading into something softer. “You’re not going to leave, are you? Just because he… well, because he’s like that?”

In response, Hope paused as her hands smoothed the linen flat across her lap.

Last night’s scuffle came back sharp. The sudden grip on her arm, his rough voice accusing her of theft. The man had manhandled her; there was no denying it. But he hadn’t hurt her. His hold had not been painful. And when she’d laughed, the shock on his face had been so complete that all her irritation melted into amusement.

“No,” Hope said at last, gentling her voice. “I won’t be leaving, Birdie. It takes more than one grumpy rancher to frighten me off.”

Her whole face lit with relief. “I knew it! I told Mama you weren’t the kind to run. He just doesn’t know you yet. That’s all. He’s really not a monster, Hope, even if the men in town say so.”

Hope lifted her brows. “They call him a monster?”

Birdie leaned in, lowering her voice as though confessing some dire secret.

“Not in so many words,” she said. “But they say he’s too stern. Too hard. They say he doesn’t smile… they say he’s cold.”

“You don’t believe that?” Hope asked, resting a pillowcase on the basket.

“Of course not.” Birdie’s hazel eyes were steady now. “I know him. He’s kind. He just doesn’t let people see it. He carries things he shouldn’t. He’s carried them too long. But he’d give the shirt off his back for anyone on this ranch. He’d do anything for Mama and me. And one day… maybe he’ll laugh again.”

Hope studied her. She was almost struck by the girl’s devotion. Birdie’s words echoed something she’d felt herself, in those few short minutes last night. The sense of a man holding too much inside, wearing silence like armor.

Still, she couldn’t resist a little tease. “Well, if his laughter sounds anything like yours, Birdie, I might not be able to stand it.”

She gasped in mock offense, then dissolved into giggles again.

“Oh, you’ll see,” Birdie replied. “He’s not hopeless. He’s just… complicated.”

Lifting the heavy basket into her arms, Hope rose. “Aren’t all men?”

As she carried the load toward the door, Birdie trailed after her.

“I’ll help you with the water,” she said. “Mama says the well’s running strong this morning.”

Hope shook her head. “You’ve done enough bringing me all this. Stay and finish your breakfast. I’ll fetch the water.”

“You’re certain?” Birdie asked, biting her lip. “I don’t like you doing everything by yourself.”

“I’m the housekeeper,” Hope replied with a grin. “Besides, if I let you do my work, what will be left for me?”

That was when Birdie’s laugh returned, bubbling over like a spring brook. “Very well. But don’t be too long, or I’ll come searching.”

“Understood.”

She stepped out into the morning air with the basket balanced against her hip. The ranch yard was already alive with sound. There was a stamping of hooves in the corral and men’s voices carrying on the breeze.

Politely, she said hello to Wade and Ike as she crossed the yard toward the well, careful to keep the basket balanced against her hip. Both men tipped their hats in return, friendly as ever.

“Morning, Miss Hope,” Wade called, offering her a smile. He was a lean fellow with eyes that crinkled when he laughed.

Ike gave her a short nod. “Cold one. You’ll want to finish your washing before the wind picks up.”

Hope returned the smile, warmed by their simple kindness. “That’s the plan. Thank you, gentlemen.”

From the moment she’d arrived, Wade and Ike had gone out of their way to make her feel welcome. She suspected it was partly because they were men who spent their lives around horses, cattle, and each other, and the presence of a woman (other than the mother and daughter in the main house) was something of a novelty. But there was no harm in it. Their friendliness helped ease the sting of loneliness.

Because she certainly was lonely.

She set the basket down by the well and began winding the rope, the bucket sloshing faintly below. Her thoughts wandered as she worked.

She reminded herself that she’d come West to start fresh. To prove she could stand on her own.

Philadelphia had become too heavy with memory, too crowded with faces that pitied or questioned or judged. After her father died, there hadn’t been anyone left to care what became of Hope Dodson, except Hope herself. She had no brothers, no mother, no husband.

Only her determination to carve out a place where she belonged.

The West, with its vast skies and untamed land, had whispered promises of freedom. When she’d connected with an agency that set people up for jobs out West, she’d felt the tug of urgency. It was a chance, at least. A way to build something new, even if it meant pulling water in the freezing morning air until her hands ached.

The rope gave a jerk, and the bucket rose dripping into view. Hope grasped the handle carefully, straining a little as she swung it onto the stone lip of the well. The water gleamed dark and cold, tiny ripples shivering in the sunlight.

She braced herself and wrapped both hands around the bucket’s wire handle. The thing was heavy. Far heavier than it looked. She had to catch her breath after only a few steps.

“That looks like more weight than you can manage.”

The deep voice startled her. Hope glanced up, and there he was. Gage Boyd with his hat low against the morning sun.

She tightened her grip on the bucket and lifted her chin. “I can manage fine.”

He didn’t argue. He simply crossed the distance in a few long strides, took the handle from her hands, and hefted it as though it weighed no more than a pail of milk.

“Here,” he said quietly. “I’ll take it.”

Hope blinked at him, caught between relief and irritation. “That wasn’t necessary.”

“Maybe not.” His tone was calm, almost guarded. “But it’s done.”

She grabbed the basket and fell into step beside him as he carried the water toward the washing spot behind the house, where a wide tin tub already waited. His silence pressed between them, heavier than the water he carried. At last, he cleared his throat.

“About last night.” He spoke slowly, as if weighing each word. “I owe you an apology.”

Her lips curved despite herself. “For calling me a thief? Or for nearly dragging me to the sheriff?”

Color touched his cheekbones, though he kept his gaze straight ahead. “For both.”

“I told Birdie it wasn’t a big deal,” she said, laughing.

“It was,” he said. “And I should’ve known better. My mother wouldn’t have brought anyone into this house she didn’t trust.”

He shifted the bucket easily in one hand, the muscles in his forearm taut beneath his rolled shirtsleeves.

“I didn’t know she’d hired a housekeeper,” he continued. “She never mentioned it in her letters.”

“So, you thought the most logical explanation for a woman in your room was thievery?” she asked, tilting her head playfully.

His mouth twitched like he was trying to smile, though it never fully appeared.

“It seemed that way at the time,” he replied.

She studied him as they walked, letting the silence linger. In daylight, he was even more striking than she remembered. Tall, straight-backed, features cut sharp as if the land itself had carved them. His dark hair curled faintly at the ends, and his eyes, though shadowed beneath his hat, carried an intensity that drew her gaze and held it.

And that scar. Just visible above the collar of his shirt, running along the right side of his neck. It disappeared beneath the fabric, but the jagged edge hinted at something violent.

Hope’s curiosity stirred, but she bit it back. Whatever story lay behind that scar was his alone to share.

They reached the washing area, and Gage set the bucket down beside the tub with easy strength. He straightened and stepped back, as though careful not to intrude further.

“Thank you,” Hope said. She meant it. For all his stiffness, it was a kind gesture.

He nodded once, almost formally. “I hope your time at Boyd Ranch proves less… eventful. And more beneficial. For everyone.”

His words were polite, but distant. Reserved, just like Birdie had hinted.

Dipping her hands into the bucket, Hope scooped water into the tub. The shock of cold bit her skin, and she couldn’t help wincing. Winter here was sharper than anything she’d known back East. The air was crisp enough to sting her lungs, and the water was colder still.

She felt his gaze on her for an instant. Then he tipped his hat, turned, and walked away without a word.

Hope watched him go, tall and sure against the bright morning sky. A handsome man, undeniably. A man of wealth, strength, and responsibility. The kind of man who should have been wed long ago, with children tumbling at his heels and a wife keeping his house.

Yet here he was, alone. Silent. Carrying more than just the scar on his neck.

She drew a breath, steadied herself, and turned back to the task at hand. She had just rolled the sleeves of her dress higher, bracing herself against the sting of the cold water, when a soft voice drifted across the yard.

“You’re not thinking of quitting, are you, dear?”

Turning, she found Opal approaching from the back steps. The older woman carried herself with a graceful sturdiness, as though years of hardship had taught her how to keep her chin high and her spirit steady. Her brown hair, now threaded with silver, was coiled neatly at her nape. Her hazel eyes watched Hope with concern.

The question startled Hope so much she laughed, shaking her head.

“No, ma’am, not at all,” she replied. “That’s the very same thing Birdie asked me earlier. She seemed half-certain your son had frightened me off for good.”

Opal’s lips curved, though her eyes softened with something more wistful than amused.

“My Birdie worries too much. She always has.” She clasped her hands lightly in front of her. “But Gage… well, he can be rather short with people. Especially those he doesn’t know. It isn’t that he means to be unkind, you understand. Only…”

Her voice trailed away, drifting somewhere Hope couldn’t follow. The woman’s gaze slid to the horizon, as if it pulled her back toward another time. Another memory. The lines around her mouth deepened.

Hope paused in her work and studied the woman with curiosity. She’d glimpsed Birdie’s exuberance and Gage’s guarded strength, but in Opal there was something different.

Something wise, yet tinged with a sorrow that didn’t quite let go.

More than anything, Hope wanted to ask. She wanted to know what shadows lingered behind the gentle woman’s words. But she pressed her lips together and said nothing. It wasn’t her place.

Instead, she dipped the cloth into the water and wrung it out in her hands.

“Well, I promise you nothing is amiss,” Hope said. “Truly. Gage actually apologized to me again just now.” A smile tugged her lips at the memory. “And he carried my water for me, if you can imagine. He feels dreadfully bad about the whole incident.”

That seemed to draw Opal back to the present. Her brows lifted, and she tilted her head slightly, as though considering this piece of news.

“He did, did he?” she murmured.

“Yes,” Hope said. “He was quite serious about it, too. I almost felt bad for him… though I confess, I found the whole thing more amusing than upsetting.”

Opal’s expression softened again, though this time her smile carried a trace of something else.

“Interesting,” she said at last, seemingly half to herself.

Hope blinked. “Interesting?”

But Opal only patted her hands together, brushing away the thought like flour dust. She gave Hope a serene smile.

“Never mind me,” she said. “I’ll leave you to your washing.”

With that, she turned gracefully and began walking back toward the house, skirts brushing lightly over the grass.

Bemused, Hope watched her go. What could possibly be so interesting about Gage Boyd carrying a bucket of water?

A chuckle escaped her as she shook her head. Life out here was already turning out to be more interesting than she expected.