Page 62 of Branded By the Cowboy

Luna

The porch boards creak beneath my feet, old wood sun-warmed and worn smooth by June’s first real heat. I tug Angus’s sweater tighter around my shoulders. It smells like him—leather and sandalwood, comfort and grit woven into fabric.

Below the rise, the pasture glows soft gold, touched with green. Cattle graze slow lines through tall grass. The barn’s gone—only ashes and the bones of a new frame remain—but the land still breathes. Still lives. And so do we.

It’s taken time. A few rough nights. The burns have mostly healed and faded to pale lines. The coughing has also eased. I feel stronger. Steadier. I can walk into the sunlight without flinching. I can breathe without bracing.

Angus steps up behind me, arms wrapping around my waist. “Mornin’, wife.”

I smile and lean into him. “Mornin’, husband.”

We stand there for a while, the silence easy between us. The breeze carries the scent of wild clover and turned earth. Somewhere out beyond the coop, a goat bleats lazily, and a tractor hums in the distance.

Then Angus says, “Fence line’s holding, but the stretch near the south creek’s gonna need new posts.”

“I’ll help.”

He hums. “Figured we’d get started after breakfast. Maybe dig a new plot behind the coop while we’re at it. You still thinking sunflowers?”

I nod. “For Ruth.”

“She’d like that.”

“She’d probably insist we plant twice as many and add a bench.”

Angus grins. “Then we better add one.”

We fall into planning like it’s second nature. Garden rows. Spring calves. The greenhouse he’s halfway through building because I’ve discovered a passion for planting things and watching them grow. I found a packet of herb seeds on the counter last night—no note—tucked beside the kettle. He says he didn’t put them there. But his eyes said otherwise.

I’ve stopped arguing about the ways he loves me.

He’s not loud about it. Not showy. But it’s in every board he hammers. Every coat he hangs beside mine. Every time he doesn’t ask me to be anything but exactly who I am.

It’s in the way he looked at me when he told me Beckett was coming. I know what it cost him to make that call. The memories it stirred. The guilt it unearthed. But I also know he would face every ghost in his past to keep me safe.

I didn’t know what to expect from the man who dragged Angus out of a burning hell halfway across the world. But when I met him last week—tall, scarred, intense—I saw the soldier in his stillness. The weight in the way he watched everything.

That morning, I stepped onto the porch where he and Angus sat, coffee in their hands and a quiet between them that said more than words could. My husband was relaxed in a way I hadn’t seen before. Not since before the fire. Not since before everything.

I told Beckett I’d heard a lot of good things about him and smiled when he raised a dubious eyebrow. And then I hugged him.

I hadn’t planned to. But it felt right.

He froze—caught off guard—but didn’t pull away. And when I whispered thank you for bringing Angus home, he finally hugged me back. Brief. Awkward. But something settled in that moment. A thread pulled tight between all three of us.

Now he’s here, staying in one of the old vet apartments. He keeps to himself, walks the perimeter every morning, and watches everything.

I don’t know exactly what Beckett’s been through, but I know this: Angus sleeps better with him here.

And so do I.

From where I stand, I spot him down by the new barn wall, arms crossed, that unreadable look on his face. George struts past him in oil-stained jeans, her hair in a tight ponytail, and tosses him a rag like it’s a challenge.

“Try not to strip the threads this time, soldier,” she calls over her shoulder.

He doesn’t answer, but the way his eyes follow her says everything.

I nudge Angus with my elbow. “Think they’ll kill or kiss each other?”

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