Page 3 of Auctioned to the Cowboy

“Great,” I mutter before pressing the button on my steering wheel. “Hey, Mom.”

“Shay,” she gasps, her voice shaking. “Your father’s at it again. He’s out in the street, naked and shouting about how I’m abusing him. Can you believe that? I’ve called the police.”

The familiar weight of frustration and weariness slams into me like a freight train. It’s always the same pattern, the same fights. I grip the steering wheel tighter, the leather creaking under the strain.

“Of course he is,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral, though the anger bubbling beneath the surface threatens to spill over. “Mom, that’s your bed. You chose to stay in it. He’s beaten and verbally abused us for years, and now he’s trying to beat me even as an adult. I can’t do it anymore.”

My words are a mix of resignation and steel. I’ve been through this conversation so many times that the lines feel rehearsed, though the sting never dulls. My mother clings to my father and the life she’s built around his drunken rages, refusing to let go even as it crumbles around her.

“Shay, you can’t leave me!” she pleads, her voice clinging to denial like a lifeline. “You need us. Both of your parents.”

The words hit harder than they should, but not because they’re true. They’re a reminder of how deeply she’s buried herself in this delusion, dragging me down with her for years. Not anymore.

“Need?” I almost laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “I haven’t needed either of you since high school graduation. That’s not going to work on me anymore. You can leave him, and maybe wecan fix things between us one day, or you can stay. Either way, I’m gone. I’m making a new life. A better one.”

The silence that follows is deafening. I can almost hear the wheels turning in her head, trying to piece together a response that might reel me back in. But I’ve heard it all before, and I’m not biting.

“Shay…” Mom’s voice trails off in disbelief and desperation.

“Goodbye, Mom.” My thumb hovers over the button for a split second before I end the call. The finality of it hangs in the air, heavy and bittersweet. My eyes sting with the threat of tears but blink them away. I won’t cry. I haven’t for a long time.

The Sutton brothers’ truck rolls on ahead, their red taillights like beacons guiding me toward this unknown future. And as the miles stretch on, with each passing second, I’m a little further from the turmoil I’ve known all my life.

The rhythm of the wipers brushing away the falling snow becomes almost hypnotic, a steady beat to my swirling thoughts. My old sedan hums along, the heater barely keeping the chill at bay. I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror—eyes wide, jaw tight, determination etched into every line of my face.

“Here’s to a better life,” I murmur, forcing a smile that feels more like a challenge than a celebration. After all, making the best of a dark moment is what I do best.

The snow falls heavier as we turn onto a long, winding road lined with towering pines. The darkness here feels thicker, the only light coming from the Sutton brothers’ truck ahead of me. It’s quiet too. A quiet that feels alive like the land itself is holding its breath.

Finally, the truck slows and turns into a wide gravel driveway. My headlights sweep over the scene as I follow. A sprawling ranch house looms in the darkness, its silhouette sharp against the snowy backdrop. A barn sits to the left, its doors slightly ajar, and several smaller outbuildings are scattered across the property. The place looks old but sturdy, a home that carries stories in its bones.

The Sutton brothers step out of their truck, the crunch of their boots on the snow-covered gravel breaking the stillness as I open my door.

Tom waves me over, his grin as easy as ever. “Welcome to your new home,” he says, spreading his arms like he’s unveiling a prize.

Home. The word sticks in my throat. This place is far from what I imagined when I pictured freedom, but maybe that’s the point. It’s not supposed to be easy. Nothing worth having ever is.

I climb out of my car, my boots sinking into the snow. The cold bites at my cheeks, and I wrap my coat tighter around me, trying to summon the courage to face whatever comes next.

“You ready to meet Henry?” Angus asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply, though the knot in my stomach tells a different story.

The brothers exchange a look I can’t quite read before leading me toward the house. My heart pounds harder with every step, each crunch of snow underfoot echoing in my ears. This is it—the start of something new, for better or worse.

This is it. My new beginning.

Chapter 2

Henry

I squat down and wrestle with the flint, the kindling crackling as it finally catches fire. The glow from the fireplace chases away the evening chill that’s settled in every corner of the old ranch house. It’s a sturdy six-bedroom fortress with a wraparound porch that’s seen better days, but I can’t imagine calling anywhere else home.

The house has always been more than a building. It’s part of me, like the beat of my heart. My great-grandfather built it with his bare hands—each beam and plank hammered into place with sweat and grit. The walls hold stories of the Sutton family, whispered through the years, passed down like a legacy. Every creak of the floorboards, every draft sneaking in through the windows, is a reminder of what this place has endured. Fires, floods, droughts—none of it could bring this house down.

But time’s taken its toll. The wraparound porch sags in places, groaning under the weight of history. Paint peels from the window frames, and the roof could use another patch job before the snow sets in. Still, it stands as stubborn and resolute as the family that’s lived here. My family.

“Come on, don’t be stubborn,” I mutter at the fire, coaxing it to life. The flames listen, dancing like they’re as connected to this place as I am. They know their job is to warm the bones of a house filled with good and—more recently—bad memories.

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