Page 53 of Branded By the Cowboy

Henry shoots up. “Nope. You’re on rest duty, remember?”

“Iamresting,” Shay insists. “Feeding goats is relaxing. It’s basically yoga with hay.”

“You’re barely five months,” I say gently, setting the spatula down and wiping my hands. “And you had contractions. You need to rest.”

“I can walk,” Shay says, but she’s already easing back into her seat. “Fine. You win. But only because my back is killing me.”

“I’ll take care of it,” I offer, grabbing my coat. “You put your feet up and boss us around from the porch like a proper ranch queen.”

Shay smirks. “Deal.”

The guys gather their gear and head out, Angus pausing long enough to brush a kiss across my temple. “Don’t linger out there too long. Forecast says the wind’s picking up.”

I nod. “Won’t be long. Just want to check the water buckets and do a quick sweep of the storage room in the barn.”

He eyes me for a moment longer as if he wants to say more. Then he nods and heads out, boots thudding down the porch steps. I watch until they disappear past the rise, then blow out a slow breath.

The house feels quieter without them.

Shay curls up on the sofa with a book and a fuzzy blanket, her feet propped up, one hand resting lightly over her belly. I stack the last of the breakfast dishes, rinse out the sink, and wipe down the stove. It’s a simple, grounded routine I envied in other people’s homes.

Now it’s mine.

“Heading to the barn,” I tell Shay, popping my head into the living room.

“Sure I can’t do it?” she asks hopefully.

I shake my head. “You were in the hospital three days ago.”

“Which is why I’m fine now,” she says stubbornly, already trying to lever herself up.

I raise a hand. “Nope. Sit. Drink your tea and rest. Doctor’s orders, remember?”

She grumbles something under her breath that sounds suspiciously likebossy sister-in-law,but she stays put.

I grab my coat and scarf, tugging them on as I head for the door.

By the time I step outside, the sky has turned a flat, pewter gray, the breeze biting with a sharp edge. I tug my collar higher and crunch across the patchy yard, my boots skimming over the wet straw and half-melted snow.

The air smells strange. Unease blooms in my stomach.

I shake it off. It’s just the season turning.

A faint sound catches my ear. Not the usual rustle of animals or the groan of the barn settling in the cold.

A crackle.

Dry. Wrong.

I pause, hand on the gate latch.

Then I smell it—smoke. Not woodstove smoke. Not chimney smoke. But hot, acrid,burning.

My stomach drops.

I spin toward the barn.

For a second, everything looks normal—just quiet buildings under a gray sky. Then I see it: a thin plume of smoke curling from the far side of the structure, barely visible against the cloud-thick morning. It snakes upward, too fast, too dark.

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