Page 9 of Branded By the Cowboy

Before I can take a step, Angus is there. No announcement. No offer. Just a solid, calloused hand closing around the strap of my bag, pulling it gently from my grip like it’s a foregone conclusion.

“I’ve got it,” he rumbles.

And somehow, it’s not just about the bag. It’s a promise tucked into three words. Quiet. Steady. Unshakable.

I blink hard against the sting in my eyes. Because nobody’s ever carried the weight for me before. Not like this. Not like theymean it.

Get a grip, Monroe. It’s a duffel bag, not a declaration of undying love.

“The main barn's there,” Angus says, pointing in the direction his dad and brothers went. “The pasture extends a few hundred acres beyond that ridge.” His voice is clipped and practical. “We run cattle on the north section and recently started raising Boer goats on the south slopes. They're more profitable per acre and less susceptible to drought.” He hesitates, then adds, “It was my idea, and I roped in Dad and Tom. Henry thought we were crazy at first.”

Before I can answer, a blur of motion comes charging from the barn—three dogs, all muscle and mud, bounding straight toward us.

I tense, instinctively bracing.

“They’re fine,” Angus says without looking. “Working dogs. That’s Maisie, Anne, and Felicity.”

The trio skids to a stop in front of us, tongues lolling, eyes bright. One of them—a wiry tan mix—drops a stick at my feet like we’ve been best friends since birth.

“They stay outside mostly,” Angus adds, reaching down to scratch behind the ear of the largest one. “They’re not house dogs. Shay’s pup’s the only one allowed inside. Little border collie Henry bought her for Christmas. Spoiled rotten and knows it.”

I smile, bending to toss the stick. The dogs take off like rockets, disappearing around the side of the barn.

I take it all in—the wide skies, the smell of hay, the distant bellow of cattle.

I exhale slowly. “It's beautiful here. Peaceful.”

Angus nods and extends a hand toward the house. “I’ll show you around.”

Inside, the house smells like woodsmoke and soap. Boots are lined up by the door. A crocheted blanket covers the back of the couch. Family photos line the walls and mantelpiece. Not staged ones—real ones capturing a growing family with a loving eye through the years.

The kitchen is straight out of a catalog. Not the shiny, sterile kind. Therealkind, with worn wooden cabinets and a chalkboard listing the week’s chores. A cast-iron skillet hangs on a hook near the stove, blackened and seasoned with a thousand breakfasts. The linoleum floor is yellowed and scuffed, the pattern half-faded like it gave up trying to compete with muddy boots.

A big farmhouse sink sits under the window, its enamel chipped in the corner. Mismatched mugs line an open shelf beside it, some chipped, all clearly loved. The stove is old enough to be vintage, the kind with heavy dials and a personality of its own.

The table in the middle is long and scarred with use—knife marks and ring stains. It looks like it’s held everything from birthday cakes to vet bills. Now, a bowl of apples sits in the middle next to a haphazard stack of unopened mail, like life’s been moving too fast for sorting.

It’s wonderfully homely, as though Ruth Sutton stitched love into the floorboards when no one was looking.

Angus leads me upstairs, showing me to a room with a quilted bedspread and a little window overlooking the barn.

“You’ll sleep here. It’s one of the rooms with its own bathroom,” he says. “There’s a dresser, closet, and extra blankets in the chest.”

I set my bag down but don’t sit. “Do you”—I clear my throat, embarrassed, and try again. “I only have the clothes I’m wearing and wondered if?—”

“I’m sure Shay has something,” he says quickly. “I’ll ask her.”

I nod, staring at the worn floorboards. “Thanks.”

“Hang on.”

He disappears down the hall, footsteps fading into the quiet.

I sit on the edge of the bed, fingers pressed into the quilt—soft and faded, with memories stitched into every patch of blue and cream.

Angus returns a minute later, holding something. “Here. Figured this might be more comfortable for now.”

It’s one of his flannel shirts. Faded red. Soft-looking. Big enough to swallow me whole.

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