Love at First Snow

By Tanya Hanson

When Elaine Martin first sets eyes on former bull-rider Alex, Kennedy, her heart says he belongs right here, with her, on her Colorado ranch. Someday. But her faith' s in tatters and she can' t soften her heart. When her vagabond uncle seems to have made shady arrangements that may cause her and her mother to lose the ranch, Elaine digs in to her lack of faith and distrust in people. No matter how much she wants to love Alex, she's not sure she can let him in.

Can Alex' s trust in God help to restore her own? Through Alex's gift of encouragement, comfort, and strength, will Elaine learn to love again?

• Language: English
• Publisher: White Rose Publishing
• Release date: Nov 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781522304432

Book preview

Love at First Snow

Tanya Hanson

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Love at First Snow

COPYRIGHT 2023 by Tanya Hanson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Pelican Ventures, LLC except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. eBook editions are licensed for your personal enjoyment only. eBooks may not be re-sold, copied or given to other people. If you would like to share an eBook edition, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Contact Information: [e-mail]

All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version(R), NIV(R), Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com

Scripture quotations, marked KJV are taken from the King James translation, public domain. Scripture quotations marked DR, are taken from the Douay Rheims translation, public domain.

Scripture texts marked NAB are taken from the New American Bible, revised edition Copyright 2010, 1991, 1986, 1970 Confraternity of Christian Doctrine, Washington, D.C. and are used by permission of the copyright owner. All Rights Reserved. No part of the New American Bible may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Cover Art by Nicola Martinez

Watershed Books, a division of Pelican Ventures, LLC

www.pelicanbookgroup.com PO Box 1738 *Aztec, NM * 87410

Watershed Books praise and splash logo is a trademark of Pelican Ventures, LLC

Publishing History

First Watershed Edition, 2023

Electronic Edition ISBN 978-1-5223-0443-2

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To Lisa McCaskill, the wonderful editor who makes my stories better, and to Lisa Pelton, the wonderful friend and in-law who reads them all.

What People are Saying

Sanctuary, book 3 of the Heart Crossing Ranch series: Recipient of the Coffeetime Romance Reviews CTRR Recommended Read Award. How will God guide two cancer survivors finding love?

Author LoRee Peery: Royalty at the Ranch. God doesn’t always answer our prayers the way we want However, it’s a romance and we all know they end with joyful hope. I’d like to live on Hearts Crossing Ranch. Heart-warming and well-done.

1

December 1976

Still no snow.

First thing I did every morning was pull open my bedroom curtains to check if any had fallen overnight. No luck today, even though I’d not really expected to see any. I can always hear snowflakes tumbling down, even though they make no sound at all like my kitten’s footfalls. Soft, silent, turn around, and she’s there and I never heard my fuzz ball at all. Just like snow.

Bright blue sky blinded me. Not a cloud in any direction. Of course, the mountains half-mooning the ranch wore crowns of ice crystals on the tops of their heads, but down here, we had none of the white stuff. Freezing rain on Thanksgiving Day didn’t count. Graupel and hail a couple times, not to mention occasional sleet. And frost most mornings. But snow? Nope.

However, not once, not ever, since Martins had settled here more than a hundred years ago, had there not been a White Christmas. But the white stuff sure was sure taking its time this year.

Well, Christmas was still a week away.

I opened the window to check for the smell of snow on the wind. All I got was a blast of frigid air. The ranch was sure pretty. A couple horses and wranglers practiced reining in the corral. On the hills surrounding us like big strong arms, aspen trees bare of their fall glory reached up their tall white branches like fingers submitting supplications.

Pretty stuff, but my heart sank a little. By now, in normal times, the fences and outbuildings, the ranch house itself, would be lined with pine garlands and lights. Mama had always started decorating every square inch the day after Thanksgiving. But these weren’t normal times. I understood Mama not being in a holiday mood last year, but this year, I wanted her to move on. Daddy had loved Christmas. He’d have wanted her to.

Grief slammed me again.

Then my skin goosed all over with cold. I banged the window shut, grabbed Daddy’s thick sweater off my dresser, and scrambled into it over my underwear. A typical Icelandic pullover, the lopapeysa was his lone souvenir from his Navy stint in Keflavik during World War II. That was his only time away from Colorado, a couple years before he married Mama. I’d borrowed it often during his lifetime, but it was all mine now. Though I’d worn it so often his scent was long gone. My heart hurt again. Well, it always hurt, but sometimes, worse than others.

I missed him so much.

I slid into flannel-lined bell-bottom jeans, hoping for a trail ride before Mama lit into me about going back to college. At least I’d already showered and shampooed when I got in last night from my late shift at the diner. I liked my job OK, but didn’t like taking the smell of chicken-fried steak and burgers to bed with me. But it always meant my hair was a tangled mess because I went to sleep with my head wet.

Grumbling in front of my dresser mirror, I grappled the long brown mess into a ponytail. Oh, I’d love to have that darling short style Dorothy Hamill had sported at the last Olympics. My hair was about the same color, too. A sudden memory of sweet-smelling hairspray crawled up my nose. But Miss Bea charged seven bucks for a haircut at the Bea-Hive Beauty Shop in town. With Uncle Jerome’s grubby, greedy hands in Daddy’s affairs, I didn’t dare spend the money.

And Mama better stop yapping about wasting money on college for me. Not with whatever shenanigans Uncle Jerome had going on. Nobody told me anything, ever, but I knew in my heart. He’d seemed caring and compassionate after Daddy’s funeral, but Mama hadn’t heard from him for the last few months. I knew she worried. Who knew what he was up to?

No good. I was sure of it.

Maybe if I offered to feed her chickens and harvest some kale from her winter garden, Mama’s mood would improve.

But then my clock, surrounded by my crumpled work uniform, screamed silent at me. Eight-thirty! Unheard of on a ranch to be such a lazybones. Well, that cooked my goose for helping with the chickens. Mama would be grumpier with me than ever.

Yep. There she was at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at me with a wooden spoon tapping against her hip. She’d never spanked me once as a kid, though I’d heard wooden spoons were a parent’s weapon of choice. A long white envelope stuck up from the pocket of the worn-out calico apron she’d worn every day for a million years. Maybe I’d stick a new apron in her Christmas stocking. That is, if she bothered hanging it.

Her blue-eyed glare promised nothing good.

‘Morning, Mama. I smiled and spoke as bright as I dared. That envelope could only mean trouble. Sorry I overslept. I..truly meant to take care of the hen house and check the kale.

Her smile was small but real. All done, early on, honey. Let’s talk over some breakfast. Despite the honey and the smile, her face was the one she’d used often throughout my childhood when I’d been naughty and didn’t know it yet.

I flushed, but had to move on to something else. Quick. That envelope meant no good. My late shift at The Bear and Bison meant I was tired enough to sleep later than most ranchers ought, but I apologized again. Sorry, Mama. I overslept.

I’d reached the bottom step, and she gave me a hug. It’s fine. I don’t sleep well— She turned her gaze away toward the front door. "Or much at all, really. Getting up earlier than usual, keeps