Page 64 of Branded By the Cowboy

I park beneath the old oak tree near the inn’s side entrance. The Honey Pot’s all golden light and dark timber, a place built to last through ten generations and a dozen bad winters. A carved wooden sign sways on its chain above the porch—Rooms Available—and the scent of barbecue and warm peaches curls out from under the eaves.

Luna climbs out slowly, absorbing it all. “The Honey Pot,” she reads. “Didn’t you say?—”

“I promised you a beer you’d like on our wedding day.” I circle to her side and take her hand. “Figured we owed ourselves a couple of nights away. No goats. No broken fences. No raccoons in the grain bin. Just you and me.”

She blinks, surprised softness blooming in her eyes. “You planned this?”

“Booked it last week. Called in favors with Henry and Shay to wrangle things back home. Told Tom not to burn anything down.”

“And you think that’s a plan that’ll work?”

I grin. “Let’s call it optimistic delegation.”

Luna’s laugh—the one I fought so hard to earn a few months ago—resonates through my ribs.

We head inside, and the moment the door shuts behind us, we’re wrapped in the warmth of the place. Polished floors. Low lighting. Music from a jukebox playingSweet Home Alabama.The smell of oak and spice and something slow-cooked to perfection hovers in the air. It's not fancy—it’s rustic and cozy. A place that remembers things and honors history without pretending it didn’t hurt.

The man behind the bar lifts his head. Broad as a barn door, with the calm intensity of someone who could skin a bear and recite poetry in the same breath.

Emmett Furbane.

He sees me and grins. “Angus.”

“Good to see you, Emmett.” I gesture to Luna. “This is my wife, Luna.”

Emmett’s eyes sparkle with mischief. “You finally found someone who’d put up with you?”

“Pretty much,” Luna says, stepping forward with a smile and offering her hand. “I’m Luna.”

He shakes it. “Welcome. Don’t worry if the walls creak. Old place likes to whisper when it’s happy.”

I smirk. “Only thing creaking tonight will be the bed. Hopefully.”

Emmett grins. “That’s my cue to leave you to it. Dinner’s smoked brisket with cornbread and peach slaw. First beer’s on the house.”

We settle at a table in the corner, low-lit and tucked out of the way. Luna’s eyes drift toward the bar and the hand-carved shelves lined with old bottles.

“This place feels like a secret,” she whispers.

“It’s ours now,” I say. “Our secret.”

Our beers arrive in mason jars. Rich amber and brewed right here. I watch her take a sip. Her nose scrunches. Then her eyes widen.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “You were right. It’s delicious.”

She takes another sip, letting it sit on her tongue a second longer this time. “It’s smooth, but there’s a bite. Like… molasses and burnt orange? But then there’s this smoky thing at the end like someone roasted caramel over cedar.”

I grin. “Told you it was good.”

“Don’t get cocky. You still owe me cornbread.”

I raise a brow. “You’ll get it. And dessert, too, if you’re good.”

Her cheeks flush a little. “What if I’m not?”

I lean in close. “Then I’ll have to improvise.”

Dinner’s damn near perfect—brisket like it was slow-danced over fire, slaw with a bite of sweetness that lingers, and cornbread that melts on the tongue. Luna eats slowly, savoring each bite, eyes soft and lips curved in a smile that makes the whole trip worth it.

---