Page 4 of Branded By the Cowboy

Three days later, Marlie from the agency calls.

“I’m calling about your request,” she says, getting straight to the point. She’s the kind of woman who talks fast and listens faster. “I think I have just the girl.”

“Does she know the setup?” I ask, scrubbing a hand over my jaw. “Ranch life isn’t glamorous. I’m not charming, and I don’t do small talk. I won’t cheat, but I won’t woo either. This is a business deal, not a damn fairytale. If you have a woman who understands that, send her my way.”

Marlie pauses on the line, then chuckles. “Oh, you were very clear about your requirements, Mr. Sutton. I’m confident the woman I’ve found is exactly who you’re looking for,” she says confidently. “Luna Monroe. She’s twenty-five, a foster system kid with a clean record. She’s good with animals, willing to relocate immediately, has no expectations of romance, and is looking for long-term security. I’m emailing all the details now. Read through it and let me know.”

No sooner does Marlie say it than my phone pings with an incoming email.

“Funny thing,” Marlie says, almost too casually. “Your brother Tom called me too within about twelve hours of your request. Guess the Sutton boys are suddenly feeling matrimonial?”

I grunt, noncommittal.

Marlie laughs softly. “You had better be careful, Mr Sutton, or people will become suspicious. People in small towns talk. Lucky for you, I don’t.”

“I know,” I say. “That’s why we contacted you.”

Another warm, knowing chuckle. “Well, I won't say a word.”

I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Appreciate it.”

After ending the call, I pull up my emails and click on the one from Marlie. I scan the information and see the handwritten note from my prospective bride that Marlie has attached.

For a moment, I hesitate, unsure why. Maybe because once I read it, this whole thing becomes real.

“I don’t need flowers. I don’t need fairy tales. I need a roof that won’t vanish, a job I won’t be fired from for being too quiet, and someone who understands that some of us don’t come from much but still deserve a place to belong. I can cook. I can work. I don’t run unless I’m forced. If that’s enough, I’m in.”

Something hot and unexpected flares in my chest as I read her words a second time, then a third. My thumb traces the edge of her handwriting on the screen, surprisingly steady for someone laying her life bare to a stranger. The honesty in those ten lines hits harder than any flowery declaration could. It doesn’t make me feel better, not exactly. But it loosens the knot in my gut a little.

I don’t know what I expected. A letter written in pink ink with hearts over the i’s? A grocery list of fantasies she expects me to fulfill? Some woman trying to turn my ranch into a backdrop for her Hallmark movie?

Instead, I get this.

A woman who doesn’t want to run.

A woman who wants to stay.

For a split second, I let myself imagine her face, wondering if her voice carries the same straightforward strength as her words. I shut that thought down fast. This isn't about attraction—it's about saving Havenridge.

I close the mail app, lean back in my chair, and stare at the ceiling until my vision blurs. The fire pops behind me, and the scent of pine and old ash curls in the air.

I can't deny the strange, possessive heat that settles low in my gut.

“Luna.” The name fits in my mouth like something I've been waiting to say. “Hope you're ready for what you're walking into.”

Chapter2

Luna

“You runnin’ to or from somethin’, sweetheart?” the woman at the bus station ticket booth asks, looking me up and down.

Jeez. Do I look that bad?

I glance down at myself—jeans, a thermal long-sleeved shirt, and a canvas jacket that belonged to a foster brother who aged out and vanished before I could ask where he was going. It’s too big in the shoulders, but it’s warm and smells like cinnamon and old cigarette smoke. My boots are scuffed, my duffel bag has seen better decades, and even I can smell the whiff of desperation that clings to me.

So, yeah. I look exactly like a girl running from something. I certainly don’t look like a potential bride.

“Does it matter?” I ask, clutching my duffel tighter.

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