Page 28 of Auctioned to the Cowboy

I flip the patties with a practiced ease, savoring the moment of peace. The hum of voices from the table punctuates the crackle of meat cooking in the skillet. The Sutton men are already at it, their banter filling the house with a familiar energy I’ve grown to love.

“I’m telling you, boys,” Ben’s voice booms, his excitement unmistakable. “Goat farming is the way of the future. That ranch across the road is a prime opportunity, and we can’t let it slip through our fingers.”

I stifle a laugh, shaking my head as I grab a stack of plates from the counter. Ben’s enthusiasm is boundless, and his dreams—nomatter how far-fetched—have a way of pulling everyone along for the ride.

Tom chimes in, his voice brimming with curiosity. “I’ve been reading up on it. Did you know goat's milk can be used for more than cheese? There are lotions, soaps, even gourmet butter. It’s a gold mine waiting to be tapped.”

I glance over my shoulder and catch sight of Henry sitting at the table with his arms crossed. His hair is mussed from sleep and my hands gripping it earlier this morning when his head was between my legs, licking me to an orgasm. The gray eyes that burned intensely as he thrust inside me are now narrowed in a skeptical glare. The contrast between Ben and Tom’s boundless enthusiasm and Henry’s signature grumpiness is almost too much. I bite my lip to keep from laughing.

“You’re kidding,” Henry mutters, his tone heavy with disdain.

Tom bursts out laughing. “Oh, look who’s the comedian now.”

Angus looks at him blankly.

Tom smirks. “Kidding. Goats. Get it?”

That earns a round of pained groans.

“Goat farming.” Only Henry could make two words sound like a condemnation of an entire way of life. “You’ve officially lost it, Dad. And you’ve dragged Tom and Angus into your insanity.”

The corner of my mouth twitches as I plate the sausages and turn off the burner. I’ve come to recognize Henry’s grumbling for what it is: the bluster of a man who cares deeply. Still, the exasperation in his voice has me suppressing a chuckle as I carry the platter to the table.

“Come on, Henry,” I chime in, setting the sausages down and sliding into my seat. “Don’t knock it until you try it. Goat farming could be fun. A new adventure for all of us.”

Henry lifts an eyebrow, his piercing gray gaze locking onto mine. His eyes flicker with amusement. Or is that resignation? Either way, I take it as a win.

Ben leans forward, clasping his hands together as he gives Henry a pointed look. “You see, son? Shay believes in us. Why are you so dead set against this idea?”

Henry leans back in his chair, his expression a mix of annoyance and reluctant amusement. “Because goats are nothing but trouble. They’ll climb anything, eat everything, and escape at the first opportunity. Cows are hard enough to handle without adding those little escape artists to the mix.”

Tom, ever the optimist, grins as he reaches for a biscuit. “Come on, Henry. Where’s your sense of adventure? Think of it this way—we’d be diversifying. Isn’t that what you always say? Don’t put all your eggs in one basket?”

Henry groans, running a hand through his hair, but his expression is soft now. “Fine. If you’re all set on this harebrained idea, I won’t stand in your way. But don’t come crying to me when your goats are halfway to the next county.”

“See? Progress!” Tom exclaims, raising his coffee mug in a mock toast.

I reach out, placing my hand over Henry’s. His fingers, rough and calloused from years of hard work, turn to lace through mine. It’s a simple gesture, but it speaks volumes.

“Thank you,” I say softly, my eyes meeting his. “For always having their backs, even when you think they’re crazy.”

Henry’s gaze warms. “Someone’s gotta keep them out of trouble.”

“Good luck with that,” I tease.

Ben feigns offense, placing a hand over his heart. “Now, Shay, goats are clever creatures. Give them a chance.”

“Sure they are,” Henry deadpans, his smirk betraying his amusement.

Laughter ripples around the table, and even Henry cracks a small smile.

“Enough about goats,” Angus says, rising from his seat and grabbing a stack of empty plates. “We’ve got work to do, people. Those cows aren’t going to feed themselves.”

“Talking of goats and, um, kids…” I bite my lip, my heart pounding as I glance at Henry.

His gray eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of curiosity breaking through his usual stoic expression. Around the table, the conversation tapers off, the Sutton men sensing a shift in the room’s energy.

“What about kids?” Henry asks, his voice low, tinged with suspicion, though the corner of his mouth quirks upward as if bracing for another of my teasing remarks.

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