Page 18 of Branded By the Cowboy

Angus clears his throat as if something thick and unfamiliar has wedged itself there. “Yeah,” he says gruffly. “Wouldn't hurt.”

And it wouldn't.

Not even a little.

“She’s the reason you’re doing this, isn’t she? Your mother,” I clarify when I see his frown, tipping my chin toward the photo. “The marriage. The paperwork. All of it.”

He exhales through his nose, jaw tightening. “She made it part of the will. After she died, we found out Henry had a year to marry, or the ranch would be turned into a clown school.”

My eyebrows shoot up, but I don’t interrupt.

“Henry married Shay,” he continues, voice rough. “Saved us. Savedhim. And the ranch. We thought that was the end of it. But she wasn’t done meddling.”

He glances at the photo again. “My mother could out-stubborn a bull and out-think a lawyer. She added a sub-clause. If Tom and I didn’t marry, too, the land would still be chopped up and sold off to developers. Don’t be fooled into thinking this charming small town will stay untouched. Big developers have been circling, offering ranchers vast sums of money for their land. But people won’t sell. Unless they’re pushed.

The way he looks makes something tight and painful crack open in my chest. He’s not the kind of man to walk away from a fight for the people or the land he loves. And Ruth Sutton knew that.

“She must’ve loved this place,” I say softly.

“She did.”

“She must’ve loved you more.”

That one seems to hit him somewhere deep. Something heavy settles in my chest, a familiar weight, as he looks at me,reallylooks. I return his gaze openly, holding the silence in the absence of words. I let him see my fierce ache to belong, to protect something with roots, to be more than a name on a deed or a girl in the guest room.

What he sees in my eyes obviously reassures him. Because it’s not pity. Not fear. Not obligation.

It’s recognition.

Like knows like.

Different scars, same hurt underneath.

He swallows hard like he’s trying to digest something too big for words. “Why’d you agree to come?”

I shrug one shoulder. “Growing up, I was shunted from place to place. At times, all my belongings fit inside a grocery bag. I wanted something that couldn’t be yanked out from under me.”

“And you think this is it?”

“I think it's a start.”

He watches me like he’s trying to figure out what that means.

I brush my fingers along the edge of the stall rail, tracing the grain of the wood as I consider my next words. “I don’t remember my parents. I’ve been in foster care since I was a baby. Bounced around a lot. Some good homes. Some bad.” I lift my gaze to his again, daring him to pity me as I state the facts. “Nothing ever stuck. Nothing ever stayed.”

The space between his brow creases in a frown. “And you think a ranch in the middle of nowhere with a grumpy bastard like me is a safer bet?”

My mouth quirks into a ghost of a smile as I step down from the rail. “Depends. You planning on kicking me out?”

“No,” he says immediately, his voice rough.

“Then it's safer than anything I've ever had.” The words feel too honest, too raw, but I can't take them back. I don't want to.

His stormy blue eyes lock onto mine. Something shifts in his expression, softening the hard edges that make him Angus Sutton.

And at that moment, I know—without meaning to, without even knowing when it happened—that Angus Sutton is burrowing beneath my defenses.

I don’t know which of us moves first. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s him. But suddenly, the space between us disappears.

---