Page 2 of Branded By the Cowboy

Shay, Henry’s wife, is four months pregnant, and Henry is walking around like she might give birth at any minute.

Tom slides into the passenger seat and props his boots on the dash like we’re heading out for a Sunday drive—not staring down the possible end of our family’s legacy.

I shoot him a look. He just smirks—full Sutton charm, not a shred of shame.

“We’re gonna need a plan,” I mutter as I crank the ignition.

Tom nods. “Guess we should contact Marlie.”

“Yeah. She’s discreet.”

“Wanna flip a coin to decide who reaches out first?”

I shift into drive. “Nope. We’re both doing this.”

“Fair enough.” He drops his boots. “Let’s just make sure our prospective brides aren’t crazy. Or con artists. Or allergic to goats.”

I don’t answer. My focus is already on the stretch of road that winds out of town, leading back to Havenridge Ranch.

I don’t want a wife. Don’t want a partner. Hell, I barely want conversation. But I’ll do what has to be done.

Keeping the ranch in the Sutton familymatters more than my comfort, and I won’t let a damn legal clause undo everything we’ve built.

* * *

I’m still gripping the steering wheel like a lifeline as I drive through the timber archway marking the ranch entrance—weather-worn wood carved with “Havenridge”—and grit my teeth as the truck shudders over the cattle guard.

When I pull up in front of the ranch, Tom immediately hops out, muttering something about circulation and “death by necktie.”

By the time I’ve parked, he’s halfway to the porch, stripping off his blazer like it’s on fire.

“Gotta change before the goats stage an intervention,” he calls. “Pretty sure one of them looked at me with pity earlier.”

“That was probably your reflection, Tom,” I call through the open window.

He flips me off while his tie tries to strangle him.

I leave the engine running, tugging uncomfortably at my shirt collar. Neither of us is used to formal clothing, but we made the effort for the meeting with the lawyers this morning.

I stare through the windshield at the ranch house I grew up in. It’s not just wood and windows and a roof patched too many times. It’sours. Built by calloused hands and bad backs, loved by a woman with a spine of steel and a heart so big it made room for every stray soul who crossed her path. My mother didn’t raise quitters; she raised Suttons.

I kill the engine, and the silence inside the cab is immediate and absolute, just the ticking of the engine cooling and my pulse banging against my ribs.

I climb out of the truck, boots crunching against the gravel, the spring breeze cooling the back of my neck. I head inside and quickly change into jeans and a flannel before heading back outside. Thankfully, Henry, Shay, and Dad aren’t around, so questions about our meeting with the lawyers can wait until later.

I saddle Beau, the scent of leather, horse, and hay filling my lungs like the only prayer I've ever needed. The mountains rise jagged against the sky, the same view generations of Suttons have called home. My boots sink into the soft earth as I lead him out of the barn, the distant lowing of cattle carrying on the wind. This land isn't just dirt and grass—it's blood and bone and heartbeat. And I'll be damned if I'll let it slip away.

I head out to the east pasture. When I get there, I see the fence is down again.

Gritting my teeth, I swing off my horse to inspect the damage. The wire's been cut—clean and deliberate. I don’t see any footprints—it was too windy last night for that—but something doesn’t sit right. It hasn’t for weeks.

I kneel, running a calloused hand over the sharp edge of the break. Whoever is doing this is getting bolder. First, the south pasture, then the creek line, and now here—less than a mile from the main house. This isn’t random. Someone’s screwing with us.

“Who the hell are you?” I mutter under my breath.

We have a good standing in Clover Canyon. Sure, some folks think we’re too proud, too traditional, too involved with the vets and not enough with turning a profit.

The distant lowing of cattle drifts across the pasture. I scan the horizon for any sign of trespassers but see nothing but rolling hills and a clear blue sky.

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