Page 1 of Branded By the Cowboy

Chapter1

Angus

If I didn’t love my mother so damn much, I’d be tempted to cuss her name right here in front of Hollis and Tate’s legal office.

I run a calloused hand through my dark hair, the stubble on my jaw rough against my palm. At six foot three, I’m a figure of frustration in dusty boots and a suit jacket that feels too tight, straining across shoulders built from years of ranch work. The lawyers behind that fancy door have no idea what it means to work the land until your body aches and your soul feels carved from the same rock as the mountains.

I grit my teeth, shove the envelope into the inside pocket of my coat, and try to keep my jaw from locking. The cold bites at my knuckles. My boots creak against the old timber steps as I stomp down, my brother trailing behind me like a storm cloud with hair.

“She really went and did it,” Tom says, shaking his head.

Yes, she did. And Ruth Sutton probably smiled while doing it—like some meddling angel with a clipboard and a wicked sense of humor.

Tom seems more impressed than pissed. His reaction to the news was immediate laughter. I’m still not sure if it was disbelief, nerves, or the sheer absurdity of imagining either of us playing house.

“Sub-clause C,” I mutter. “Buried in the fine print.”

“Technically, theaddendumto the back half,” Tom replies with a shrug. “It was legally filed. Hollis said it holds.”

Henry already played the marriage-for-land game. I figured Mom had fired her last shot.

Guess not.

Turns out she saved a little surprise for Tom and me, neatly tucked away like a rattlesnake in a feed sack.

In plain English: Tom and I have to marry within the next six months. Falling in love is optional, but the legal contract is mandatory; otherwise, the ranch gets sold in parcels. Not only the house and barns—but the rehab cabins, the horse trails, the hayfield, and the hollow where the veterans go to breathe again. All of it. Gone.

I round on my brother once we’re out on the sidewalk. The cold wind kicks up hard enough to slap my coat open, but I don’t care. “She already made Henry do this.”

“Worked out great for Henry. Happy Thursday,” Tom says, clapping me on the back. “Guess it’s time for us to order brides.”

“She couldn’t have trusted us to run the ranch?”

“Shedid. She just didn’t trust us not to die alone in the process.”

I glare at him, and he has the decency to look mildly sheepish.

“Look,” Tom continues, “I’m not thrilled about getting hitched before I’m ready, either. But what choice do we have? If we don’t do this, everything we’ve worked for is gone. Including the rehab project. Carved up and sold off to whoever throws the highest bid. You want to explain that to the guys who just moved in?”

“No.” My answer is immediate, bitter, and final. “I don’t.”

The VA referral program is close to our hearts since Dad and Sheriff Lucas turned the northern pasture into housing and rehab for veterans. We’ve poured everything into making it work—sweat, hours, and a good chunk of sanity.

It’s mostly run by Jackson Cutter now, a friend and former Army Ranger, and we also have a therapist, Dr. Colleen Marks, who comes in three times a week. The vets help each other out as part of their recovery. We provide them a place to start over, but they put in the work. It’s not a handout; it’s a second chance.

Those men trusted us—trustedme—to provide them with solid ground after war shattered their lives. I think about the ones in those cabins: Thompson, who still wakes the others with his screams some nights, and Wilson, whose hands shook so badly he couldn't hold a coffee mug for his first three months here.

They finally found peace at Havenridge.

I won’t be the reason they lose it.

I promised each of them they’d have a home here for as long as they needed one. And Suttons don’t break promises.

I’m not about to lose it because my mother didn’t trust time to do its damn job.

“You going to tell Dad and Henry?” Tom asks as we reach my truck.

“Don’t see how we can keep it from them,” I reply, jerking open the truck door. “But it’s not like Henry doesn’t have enough on his plate.”

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