Page 12 of Branded By the Cowboy

We leave Jingle in the warm kitchen and head outside into the chilly morning, the door thudding softly behind us. The sky is heavy with spring clouds that can’t decide between sunshine and sleet. Mud clings to my boots, and the wind carries the sharp scent of hay and diesel.

We cut through the sideyard toward the equipment shed, and I spot a woman in blue coveralls. Her chestnut hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail under a grease-streaked ballcap. She has one foot braced on the side of a tractor with both hands wrist-deep in its engine as she cusses at it.

“George!” Shay calls.

The woman doesn’t startle. She leans back, wipes her hands on a rag, and gives us a lazy once-over. Her gaze lands on me with the easy confidence of someone who doesn’t need permission to size up strangers.

“George, this is Luna Monroe. Luna, meet George Lucas. Hurricane in coveralls and the only female mechanic in the county.”

“George Lucas?” I ask, quirking an eyebrow.

George groans and tosses the rag over her shoulder. “Yeah, yeah.May the force be with me.I’ve heard every joke. No, I don’t have a lightsaber. My father is not Darth Vader. And I’ve never met Yoda.” She winks. “Although I may be a secret Jedi.”

I laugh. “Good to meet you, George. Your secret Jedi identity is safe with me.”

“Good to meet you, too, Luna,” George replies, her smile warm and genuine. “And if that coffee is for me”—she eyes the mug in my hand—“we’re already best friends.”

“It’s all yours.” I chuckle, handing it over.

George takes a sip and closes her eyes with a sigh. “Yep, besties.”

Shay grins. “Careful, Luna. Flattery like that, and George will be roping you into changing oil filters by next week.”

George shrugs, not denying it. “Only if she’s good with a socket wrench.”

Shay nudges me with her elbow. “Come on, let’s feed the goats before they riot.”

George waves us off with a flick of her rag. “See you around, Luna.”

“Looking forward to it,” I say—and I mean it.

I follow Shay as she carefully navigates the icy, muddy yard.

“The goats will probably glare at us for being late,” she says, chuckling.

“Maybe they should unionize.”

Shay barks a laugh. “They did once. But we caught the ringleader eating the barn cat’s food and revoked his voting privileges.”

We fall into a companionable rhythm as we reach the pen. The goats bleat at the sight of us, some pacing dramatically like underfed divas, others already tucked into the little shelter like they’ve claimed squatter’s rights.

“Here,” Shay says, nudging a bucket of feed toward me with her boot. “Let’s earn their goodwill.”

I take the scoop and fill the troughs while she crumbles hay into the racks. A bold little brown goat headbutts my knee, clearly unimpressed with my speed.

“Sorry, Your Majesty,” I mutter, tossing in a handful.

“They’re spoiled,” Shay says fondly. “Tom named them after snack foods. That one’s Pretzel. The one giving you side-eye is Cheese Puff. And the one with the white socks is Biscuit. He’s cute but keeps tripping over his own hooves.”

“You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

We finish spreading the last of the hay, and Shay leans on the fence for a moment, her expression shifting—less playful now. The weight of something unsaid settles into the air between us.

“You’ll hear talk around here,” she says, watching the goats. “About incidents. Fences going down. Gates left open. Equipment mysteriously failing.”

I glance over. “Bad luck?”

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