Page 17 of Claimed By the Cowboy
Kitty strokes her between her horns, and Pretzel closes her eyes like she’s being blessed by an angel. “She’s beautiful,” Kitty murmurs, smiling as if petting the goat has made her day.
“Pretzel’s the flexible one,” I explain. “Got stuck in a hay feeder once. Still don’t know how she folded herself in half to get in there.”
Kitty laughs, the sound warm and easy, and soon Cheese Puff waddles over, looking like trouble wrapped in fur, followed by Biscuit. “Here she is,” she says, smiling at Cheese Puff. “The escape artist.”
“Yup. Houdini in goat form. And Biscuit…” I lean in conspiratorially. “Well, Biscuit’s just here for snacks. Don’t turn your back on a sandwich around him.”
We linger a few more minutes, Kitty scratching Pretzel’s neck while Biscuit noses her pockets for treats. Cheese Puff hangs back, eyeing her like she’s plotting something. I give her a warning glare, but she turns her back and farts.
When we finally head toward the barn, Pretzel lets out a loud, plaintive bleat that sounds suspiciously like she’s jealous I’m taking Kitty away.
Kitty glances over her shoulder. “I think she likes me.”
I smirk. “Yeah, well, get in line.”
She shoots me a quick look—half surprise, half something I can’t name.
The walk to the new barn gives me a chance to study Kitty without Delaney’s watchful eyes. She moves differently here than she did when I first saw her at the bus depot—less cautious, more open. Like the space is giving her room to breathe.
“This is the new barn? To replace the one thatburned down?” she asks as we approach the new timber structure.
“Yeah. Contractors had it built in time for the Veterans Day Fundraiser last month, but it still needs a coat of paint before winter.”
“Fundraiser?”
I nod. “We host it every year. Proceeds go to the Havenridge Veterans Program. We bring in former service members—guys who need a reset or a place to belong—and give them work here on the ranch. Cattle, horses, crops, you name it. They get steady pay, a bed in the bunkhouse, and a family that doesn’t quit on them.”
Her gaze lingers on the pale wood, something soft flickering in her eyes. “That’s… incredible.”
“Dad and Sheriff Lucas served together and started it when they left the Navy,” I explain. “Beckett runs security, Daniel keeps the logistics side straight, and the rest of us pitch in where we’re needed.”
“Starting over. Having a place to heal, to belong… It’s not so different from us coming here.” Kitty’s brown eyes shimmer as she looks out over the land. “I thought I was broken. But this ranch—it’s given me a second chance too.”
Emotion tightens my throat. “Not broken, darlin’. Just waiting for the right place to bloom.”
Her gaze holds mine, wide and luminous, and the air hums with something fierce and unspoken.
I clear my throat. “I was thinking traditional red for the barn, but...” I shrug, suddenly uncertain. “What do you think?”
She tilts her head, studying the barn with intensity. “Red would be beautiful. Classic. But have you considered sage green? Something that would complement the landscape instead of competing with it?”
The suggestion surprises me. Most people think of barns as red, period. But looking at the building through her eyes, I can see how green would blend with the surrounding pines, making it part of the natural world instead of imposed on it.
“Show me,” I say impulsively.
Her face lights up with excitement. “Really?”
“Paint samples are in the supply room. We could test a few shades, see how they look in different light.”
What follows is the best hour of my life in recent memory.
Kitty throws herself into the project with infectious enthusiasm, mixing sample colors and painting test squares on the barn's south wall. She gets paint on her nose within the first ten minutes, a smudge of sage green that makes her look like a kid who got into the finger paints.
She doesn’t even notice. Just keeps humming under her breath and stepping back to squint at the shades like she’s solving a riddle only she can see.
I lean against the fence post, watching her. Not helping, not interrupting—just soaking her in like the sun after a long winter. I should be focused on the practical aspects—coverage, durability, and cost. Instead, I’m memorizing the way she bites her lower lip when she concentrates, the gracefularc of her neck when she tips her head back to consider her work.
“Which do you prefer?” she asks, stepping off the ladder to survey the test patches. “The darker sage or the lighter one?”
