Page 59 of Branded By the Cowboy

“Yeah,” I say, brushing her hair back gently. “Forever sounds just right.”

* * *

The house smells like coffee, antiseptic, and the smoke that still clings days after the fire’s gone out.

Luna is curled up on the couch with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, the skin on her forearms and hands still pink from her burns. Cheese Puff is nestled at her feet like a smug emotional support goat, chewing on the corner of her blanket like it’s gourmet hay. Across from her, Shay reclines in the armchair with one leg draped over the side. A heating pad is tucked behind her back, and a mug of peppermint tea is balanced on her belly.

Neither of them should be up.

“I’m fine,” Shay grumbles as Henry hovers, fluffing the pillow behind her for the third time.

“You had false labor and a blood pressure spike,” Henry replies gently but firmly. “You’re sitting.”

Tom wanders in from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishtowel and giving the room a once-over like he’s in charge now. “Y’all realize we’ve officially reversed gender roles, right? You’re on the couch, sipping tea and bossing us around, and we’re out here cooking, cleaning, and doing all the damn chores.”

Shaydoesn’t miss a beat. “Welcome to progress, cowboy. You’re living the feminist dream.”

Lylalifts her mug with a grin. “Honestly, I’m waiting for the foot rub portion of the program.”

Tomgroans and mutters something about forming a support group with other mistreated cowboys.

Ben enters with his arms full of folded laundry. “Don’t forget goat-sitting. Biscuit just head-butted the back door.”

Shay smirks. “He’s sensitive.”

“He’s a menace,” Ben mutters.

I stand near the window, arms crossed, looking at the charred skeleton of what used to be our barn. The sky is heavy with clouds again, promising another late-season snow. There’s still ash in the air. Still a scorch mark on the porch. Still a hollow in my chest I can’t seem to fill.

Sheriff Lucas came by yesterday with the report.

Arson.

Accelerant used.

Not an accident. Not lightning. Not negligence.

Someone meant for Luna to die in there.

And that knowledge is a slow, simmering rage I can’t turn off.

I glance back at Luna. She’s laughing at something Shay said, her smile soft but tired. She lifts her mug with her bandaged hand and winces.

She almost didn’t make it out.

I swallow hard and leave the room.

Closing the office door behind me, I pull out my old phone from the drawer. Not the everyday one. The old one I always keep charged, though I don’t know why. The one with a cracked screen and a handful of contacts, including Beckett “Shadow” Lawson.

I haven’t used it in years.

Because reaching out to Beckett would mean remembering things I’ve tried to bury. It would mean dragging the past into the present.

But I’ll be damned if I leave Luna at risk. Not for pride. Not for fear. Not for anything.

I hit the call button.

The line crackles as it rings.

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