Page 50 of Branded By the Cowboy

Not loud. Not messy. Silent tears that slip down her cheeks like a dam finally gave way.

I say nothing. I don’t ask her to stop. I don’t tell her it’s okay. I pull her closer, pressing my lips to her temple as I hold her through it.

Like I’ve got all the time in the world.

Because I do. For her, I do.

After a while, her breathing slows. The storm inside her eases. She stays tucked against me, eyes closed, cheek resting over my heart.

“Beans used to snore,” she mumbles after a beat, voice hoarse but lighter somehow. “Loudest dog I’ve ever met. He’d wiggle under the covers and pass out with his feet in my ribs. And he drooled.”

I chuckle. “I promise not to drool or pass out in bed with my feet in your ribs. Well, not unless it’s a kink you want to explore.”

Luna huffs out a soft laugh. “Weirdo.”

“Yourweirdo,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

She sighs happily. “Yes, you are.”

I meet her gaze. “I meant it when I said I wanted forever. Cows, goats, chaos… all of it. With you.”

She studies me for a moment as if she’s trying to memorize this version of me—the one who smiles and uses full sentences. “Even if I snore?”

“I’ll record it and make it my ringtone.”

That earns me another of those laughs I’ve come to love so much as she snuggles into me again.

We sit like that for a while. Breathing. Being.

The wind picks up across the fields, whistling low through the porch boards. Somewhere inside the house, a kettle starts to hiss.

She doesn’t move. Neither do I.

We’ve both weathered life’s storms. A little dented, a little rusted, but still standing.

Still capable of love.

Because sometimes healing doesn’t look like breakthroughs or declarations.

Sometimes it looks like silence shared and a woman leaning against a man who’s not going anywhere.

* * *

Later that afternoon, Tom bursts into the house like a man with news.

“Got something weird,” he says, brandishing his phone.

I raise a brow. “You finally realized you have opposable thumbs and learned how to text?”

He rolls his eyes and tosses me the phone. “It’s a message from Daniel on our family group chat,” he says, referring to one of our cousins.

Jacob—my dad’s brother—owns the ranch across the valley from us with his three sons. He and Dad haven’t spoken in years, though no one ever says why. Whatever cracked between them stayed unspoken, like a landmine buried too deep to dig up. But that rift never touched the rest of us. Tom, Henry, and I grew up close with our cousins, and nothing about the bad blood between our fathers ever got in the way of that. There’s tension, sure—quiet, steady, always humming beneath the surface—but family’s family. Even when it’s complicated.

I drop my gaze to Tom’s phone, reading Daniel’s message.

Anyone else getting these offers? They’re saying we should sell before more things go wrong. Sounds like a threat.

A screenshot of a flyer is attached. No logo. No company name. Just a local number and bolded text:

---