Page 3 of Branded By the Cowboy

Down in the lower pasture, I see our latest investment grazing—a herd of Boer goats we brought in a few months ago. Henry thought it was crazy to diversify beyond cattle, but those goats will keep us afloat while beef prices fluctuate. Another reason I can't let this place go.

Which brings meback to the heart of it: marry or lose the ranch. Mom’s final to-do list, signed and sealed from beyond the grave.

I exhale hard and drag a gloved hand down my face, the leather scraping against my stubble. Tom’s probably right—she did it so we wouldn’t sink into the silence she left behind.

But something else twists in my gut.

Why would she gamble everything like this?

What did she see coming that we didn’t?

Maybe she thought she could script a happy ending for her battle-scarred sons, like love could be conjured with a legal clause and a deadline.

Henry’s marriage may have started as a paper arrangement, but I’ve seen how he looks at Shay now, like she’s the first warm thing he’s seen after years in the snow. She’s pregnant, glowing, and Henry is building cribs and muttering about baby wipes.

But I’m not Henry. That’s not what this is for me. I’ll do what I have to do. For the ranch. For the veterans who call this place their second chance.

I blow out a heavy breath. I blow out a heavy breath. Time to contact the agency we used for Henry’s bride. Marlie’s quiet, discreet. She already knows our family’s… unorthodox needs.

This arrangement doesn’t have to be about love. It's business—a contract, plain and simple. My years in the SEALs taught me to tackle problems head-on. This is another mission with clear objectives.

And I’ll make it clear to my prospective bride that this isn’t a romance: it’s a business deal. I don’t want a sweetheart. I want a partner. Someone who’ll work hard, keep to themselves, and sign the papers.

Someone who understands this is about legacy, not love.

* * *

Later, I’m back in the house, the scent of woodsmoke curling up from the fireplace as I boot up the laptop. More laughter rings through the house these days—Shay hums when she cooks, and Henry is softer around the edges when she’s nearby. Even with all that light, there’s a hollow spot where Mom used to be. It lingers in the quiet moments, in the creak of old timber, in the silence that settles when no one’s paying attention.

When Tom and I told them about the sub-clause earlier, Henry swore so loud it scared the goats. Shay blinked, sat perfectly still for a beat, then said, “Well, that’s one hell of a plot twist,” and went straight to the kitchen to stress-bake two pies and a lasagna.

And Dad? He sat in the kitchen chair like the air had left the room. He didn’t speak for a long time. Finally, he said, real quiet, “The woman’s been gone for six months, and she’s still surprising me.”

I shake my head. Dad wasn’t wrong. Ruth Sutton surprised all of us.

I click through to Marlie’s Angels website, the agency that brought Shay into our lives. Marlie Sloane, the owner, has a great gut instinct and personally interviews each candidate via video. She’s sharp, no-nonsense, and has a radar for bullshit.

It takes a while to fill out the forms with the level of detail Marlie requires, and I hesitate before answering the final question:

Why are you seeking a match?

I type four words.

To save Havenridge Ranch.

Then I delete them. Too sentimental. Too raw.

Instead, I write:

Fulfilling a legal clause. Ranch obligations take priority.

I click “submit” and shut the laptop hard enough to make the table shudder.

This isn’t about feelings. It’s not about filling the hole of grief carved into my chest. It’s about duty, legacy, and land that deserves to stay in Sutton hands, no matter what tricks fate—or family—throws my way.

Let them send me someone. A stranger. I don’t care if she smiles or scowls or sleeps in a separate room. As long as she signs the marriage certificate and keeps to herself, we’ll get along just fine.

* * *

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