Page 20 of Branded By the Cowboy

Because all I’ve done since this afternoon isthinkabout that kiss. About how her lips tasted like home. How she kissed me back like she couldn’t get enough of me. As if she didn’t care that I was rough around the edges or that this whole thing started with a contract instead of a promise.

And now she’s here. In this house. In my mother’s chair. Quiet and real andminein every way that matters—except the one I can’t ask for.

I step onto the porch and let the door slam behind me. The cold hits fast and I welcome it.

Out past the barn, the trees shift in the breeze, all long shadows and fading light.

And I think about the woman who bandaged my hand this morning like she wasn’t afraid of the damage I carry.

For the first time in a long time, something inside me begins to loosen.

I don’t know if it’s the start of healing…

Or a slow, steady unravel.

* * *

The sound of rushing water wakes me the next morning. That’s never a good sound on a ranch.

The overnight temp dipped below freezing last night, and the last thing I said to myself before I fell into a restless sleep was,I’ll check the line in the morning.

Good job I’m a light sleeper.

Five minutes later, I’m ankle-deep in muddy slush, watching our main cattle trough pour water like someone opened a faucet and left it running for sport. The valve is twisted wide open—and the locking cap thatshould’veprevented that?

Gone.

Tom pulls up in his truck as I’m shutting it off. He climbs out, one eyebrow already raised. “You ever consider installing a fountain and calling it art?”

I glare at him.

He grins. “Morning to you too.”

Henry and Dad pull in behind him. Shay must’ve called them. Probably when I stormed into the kitchen at dawn muttering murder and sabotage and forgot to mention I needed backup.

Henry looks tired. Shay’s been having a hard time with sickness, and I know he’s not sleeping much. But he still comes because he’s a Sutton and we don’t leave each other to drown—literally or otherwise.

Dad crouches beside me and inspects the valve. “This didn’t fail on its own.”

“I know.”

Dad twists the remaining threads with gloved fingers. “Sheared clean. You talked to Sheriff Lucas about all these incidents?”

“And tell him what?” I mutter. “We have a ghost with wire cutters?”

Dad straightens and gives me that level, calm stare he perfected when we were kids. “You need to start documenting this stuff.”

“I have photos.”

“And?”

“And nothing,” I say. “No leads. No suspects. No prints. Just a trail of bad luck with good timing.”

Tom whistles low. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

I don’t look at him. “God, I hope not because that would make me as certifiable as you.”

He clutches his heart. “You wound me.”

---