Page 51 of Branded By the Cowboy

SELL SMART. BEFORE YOU LOSE MORE.

I frown.

“Think it’s a rival ranch?” Tom asks.

“No,” I say.

The words feel too polished. Too professional. A quiet menace that doesn’t come from neighbors. It comes from people withplans.

People who don’t care about what land means, only what it’s worth. The same people committing acts of sabotage on the ranch?

I don’t say it out loud. Not yet. I tuck it into the box of worry in the back of my mind and close the lid tight.

* * *

That night, halfway through dinner, Shay suddenly goes still.

One moment, she’s laughing and teasing Tom about his third helping of lasagna; the next, her hand flies to her belly, and her body tenses.

Her fork clatters to the plate.

Henry’s out of his chair in a blink. “Shay? What is it? What’s wrong?”

She exhales through clenched teeth, eyes shut. “Cramp. Sharp. Low.”

The room stills.

Then Ben bolts up. “We’re going to the hospital.”

“It’s probably nothing,” Shay mutters, but her hand hasn’t moved. Her face is pale.

Henry’s already at her side. “Let’s go.”

I don’t say a word. I just move—grab coats, boots, car keys. Luna helps Shay up while I throw a blanket around her shoulders. She winces but doesn’t protest. That alone sets my nerves buzzing.

We don’t waste time.

The house empties in minutes. Ben and Tom take one truck. I take the other with Luna in the passenger seat and Henry and Shay in the back.

Henry whispers to her. “You’re okay. You’re doing great. Just breathe.” Like silence might undo them both.

Shay grips my hand, tension knotting her jaw every time a new cramp rolls through her.

“I don’t think it’s labor,” she says softly, more to herself than to us. “Too early. It doesn’t feel… rhythmic. Just tight. Pressure.”

Still, I see the flicker of fear in her eyes in the rearview mirror.

I focus on driving, jaw locked, hands tight on the wheel. I don’t speak, but every so often, my gaze finds Luna’s. And those warm brown eyes keep me steady.

We get there fast.

The nurses move quickly but calmly. Shay is hooked up to monitors, her vitals checked, belly examined. Henry hovers beside her, white-knuckled and quiet, brushing strands of auburn hair from her forehead while she breathes through another cramp.

The doctor comes in and listens. She asks questions. Then smiles gently and says, “Good news. The baby’s fine. Heartbeat is strong. It’s not labor—it’s Braxton Hicks. False contractions. They can occur as early as twenty weeks. But given the intensity, it could also be mild dehydration.”

The nurse gives Shay some fluids, and the doctor recommends overnight observation to be safe before she leaves.

Shay bursts into tears—not from pain, but from the release of it all. Henry pulls her into him, holding her while she laughs and cries at the same time.

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