Page 49 of Branded By the Cowboy

I’ve never wanted mornings before her.

Not like this.

The sun’s not quite up yet, still a low haze bleeding into the sky. The world is soft around the edges—no chores, no voices, only the creak of the porch swing and the occasional clink of ceramic. The morning air carries the faintest whisper of thaw—still cold, but the porch stove hums steadily, throwing off enough heat to keep us warm.

Luna pulls her legs up beside her and tucks her toes under my thigh like she’s been doing it for years. We sit in silence for a while. Not because we’re avoiding anything but because silence never feels empty with her.

She sips her coffee and stares out across the frosted fields, her profile lit gold by the early light. Hair messy. Hoodie too big. Because it’s mine.

My chest tightens. I’m not used to this kind of peace. Not without the other shoe dropping.

“I like this,” she says finally, her voice soft. “The quiet. The coffee. You.”

I grunt. Not because I disagree. But becausesame.

She smiles behind her mug, eyes flicking toward mine like she’s used to my grunts of affection by now.

And then she murmurs, “I never stayed anywhere long. I was placed in my first foster home at ten. Then twelve. Fourteen.”

I wrap my hand around her ankle where it’s tucked beneath my thigh but don’t interrupt, letting her find the words in her own time.

“I had one placement that lasted two years. They got my first smartphone. They had a golden retriever named Beans who used to sneak into my bed at night.” She pauses, swallowing hard, gaze distant. “I thought they were going to adopt me. I really did. But then their daughter got pregnant at sixteen, and suddenly, there wasn’t room for me anymore.”

My grip tightens enough to say,I hear you. I’m here.

“There were bad homes too,” she says softly. “One with cockroaches and mold. One where they withheld food as punishment. One where I slept with my shoes on because I never knew if I’d get moved in the night.”

My jaw clenches, but I keep still. She doesn’t need my rage. She needs my presence.

Luna stares at the flames dancing in the stove. “I stopped letting myself want things. It was easier. Wanting meant disappointment. Needing meant risk.”

I don’t say I’m sorry. She’s not looking for pity. I just slide my thumb slowly across her ankle—steady, grounding. A silent promise that I’m here. That I’m not going anywhere.

She turns her head, eyes fixed on the horizon like it might offer her answers. “My file said I was found at a hospital. No name. No blanket. Nothing. Just… me.” Her voice is quiet, but each word lands with weight. “I used to make up reasons my parents didn’t keep me. Maybe they were too young. Sick. Scared. Anything to make it not about me.”

She swallows hard. “But deep down, I always wondered if it was because I was… unlovable.”

A breath shudders out of her. “It was a full moon the night I was found. That’s why they called me Luna. The name felt like a placeholder. Something temporary until my parents came back for me. But they never did. Monroe was the name of the social worker who handled my case. So that’s who I became. Luna Monroe. A foundling under a full moon.”

She pauses, blinking against the tears in her eyes.

“But now I say my name—Luna Sutton—and for the first time, it feels real. It feels likemine. Because I chose it when I chose you. I’m not the girl left behind anymore. I’m the woman who stayed. Who wasseen.Wanted.Loved.”

My throat tightens and my chest aches.

I shift closer, threading my fingers through hers. “That’s exactly who you are.”

The swing creaks gently as it sways, the rhythm slow and soothing. Luna’s thumb brushes over mine absently, and something inside me stills, like it’s finally found a place to rest.

“I don’t tell people these things,” she says after a long pause. Her voice is quieter now, as if the words are reluctant to come. “I thought that if I said them out loud, they’d be real. And if they were real, they’d always own me.”

I lift our joined hands to my lips and kiss her knuckles—chapped from work and wind, callused in places from living too hard for too long.

“They don’t own you,” I say. “Not anymore.”

She leans her head against my shoulder, and I feel her exhale. A sob. A surrender. The good kind.

Her shoulders tremble against me. And suddenly, she’s crying.

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