Page 10 of Branded By the Cowboy

I take it, stunned by the gesture more than the shirt. It smells faintly like sandalwood, clean soap, and something warm I don’t have a name for.

“Thanks,” I whisper.

Silence falls between us. I sense the weight of his gaze and when I look up, his expression shifts too fast for me to fully read—something like concern, maybe. Not just about the clothes. About the fact that I showed up with a single bag and nothing else. About the way my fingers twitch at my sides like I’m bracing for judgment that hasn’t come yet.

He clears his throat and gestures toward the window. “You’ll get good light in the morning. Helps on days that start slow.”

“Thanks,” I say again, a little softer this time.

“I don’t expect anything from you,” he adds roughly. “Work if you feel like it. Rest if you don’t. I won’t bother you.”

I look at him then.Reallylook.

He’s tired. Not just physically, but in his bones as if he’s been holding up the sky for too long and no one ever asked if he needed a break. It makes me want to wrap my arms around him and offer him comfort.

“I’m not here to take,” I say softly. “I pull my weight.”

He nods. No argument. No pushback. Just quiet understanding.

He lingers like he wants to say something more. Then he nods and turns to go, boots heavy on the hallway floor.

The door clicks shut behind him.

And I sit there holding his shirt like it’s more than fabric. As if it might be a piece of something solid in a world I still don’t trust.

* * *

That night, I lie awake in the strange bed, listening to the creaks of old floorboards and the distant hush of wind through the pine. The house doesn’t feel haunted. It feels lived in and loved enough to make it a home.

I don’t know if I belong here.

But I want to.

And maybe—if the walls don’t fall and the ground holds steady—I’ll finally get to stay.

I must fall asleep eventually because the next thing I know, gray light is filtering through the lace curtain, soft as breath. Frost coats the inside of the windowpane, and a hawk circles lazy loops above the barn, silhouetted against the pale dawn.

For a moment, I lie there, still as stone.

It’s always the first morning that feels the most dangerous. The unfamiliar bed. The ache of what you left behind—even if what you left wasn’t much. Your body doesn’t know it’s supposed to feel safe yet. Mine never quite learned how.

But nothing creaks open. No shouting. No slammed doors. Just birdsong and the crunch of distant boots on gravel.

I sit up, stretch, and make the bed the way I was taught in the system—tight corners, no wrinkles. Presentable. Neat. Proof I’ll earn my place here in case they check.

My gaze snags on the dresser with mismatched knobs and a stack of folded towels on top. I open the drawers. Empty. No surprises.

Downstairs, I follow the scent of coffee and something inviting. Yeast, maybe? Cinnamon?

The kitchen is warm and welcoming, a kettle hissing gently on the stove. A woman with a red braid hums while she kneads bread dough, her hips swaying slightly to a tune only she can hear.

At her feet, curled up on a worn kitchen rug like it’s guarding the carbs, is a black-and-white border collie puppy. It lifts its head when I appear in the doorway, ears perking like it’s been expecting me, and makes a beeline for me.

The woman turns and grins when she sees me hesitating in the doorway. “Oh, you must be Luna. Don’t mind Jingle. She thinks she owns the place.”

I crouch down to pet the puppy. “She’s adorable.”

“She’s trouble but the lovable kind. I’m Shay—Henry’s wife. Tom’s and Angus’s sister-in-law. And”—she gestures at her slightly thickened waist—“part-time baker and incubator to Baby Sutton.”

---