Page 6 of Claimed By the Cowboy
“I’m fine,” I lie. What else can I say? I can’t tell her that her intended husband makes my heart race faster than a panic attack? That for thirty seconds, I forgot I was the invisible sister?
As he reaches for our luggage, I catch myself memorizing details I have no business noticing. The way his shirt pulls across his shoulders. The calluses on his hands that speak of hard work and honest living. The small scar on his jaw that makes me wonder what stories he’d tell if I asked.
Stop it,I tell myself firmly.He’s here for Delaney. You’re just thesidekick, like always.
Tom opens the passenger door.?“Ladies,” he says, but his eyes are on me as I climb into the middle seat.
The cab feels intimate with the three of us packed together. My shoulder brushes Tom’s arm every time he shifts gears, and each contact sends little shocks through my system. He’s warm and solid beside me, radiating a calm strength that draws me to his side like a cat seeking warmth.
“So, tell us about Havenridge,” Delaney says as we leave town behind.
Tom launches into what’s clearly a well-rehearsed speech about the ranch, keeping it simple with his slurred speech—five thoushand acres, Black Angush cattle, goat operation.
But I’m not listening to his words. I’m studying the way his hands grip the steering wheel, strong and capable. The way his voice carries a note of deep pride when he talks about the land. How his thigh muscles flex when he shifts gears, the denim pulling tight over powerful legs.
“Alsho run veteran program,” he adds, his tonepassionate. “Dad ish a former SEAL. Help guysh transhitioning.”
“That's incredible,” I say, meaning it. “My friend Toby from the library is a vet struggling to find his place. He says most civilian jobs feel meaningless after service.”
Tom glances at me, his expression serious. “Which branch?”
I lean forward slightly, drawn by the genuine interest in his voice. “Army. Three tours in Afghanistan. He volunteers at the library now, helping kids with reading programs. Says working with children gives him purpose again.”
“Shmart man. Kidsh cut through bullshit.”
After that, conversation comes naturally. Tom points out landmarks while I pepper him with questions about everything from roadside wildflowers to the peaks towering above us.
This landscape calls to something deep in my soul. After years of cramped apartments and concrete horizons, all this space feels like a gift. The mountain air fills my lungs without the usual wheeze, and for the first time inmonths, I can breathe deeply without my inhaler.
“Indian paintbrush,” Tom says, noticing my fascination with a patch of brilliant red flowers. “Yellow arnica. Good for brui—” He stops, touching his jaw. “Shore musclesh.”
“You know about medicinal plants?”
“Mom did. Ruth.” His voice grows soft with memory. “Had an herb garden. Taught ush boysh the bashicsh.”
Something warm unfurls in my chest. This is a man who knows about healing plants, who learned from his mother and isn’t ashamed to admit it. “I grow herbs too. Had to get creative in our apartment—tin cans hanging from the ceiling, mason jars on every windowsill.”
“Really?” He shoots me another look, this one bright with interest.
"Basil, mint, chamomile. Whatever would grow indoors under less-than-ideal conditions.” I smile at the memory. “Our landlord said it looked like a jungle, but it was the only thing that made that place feel like home.”
“You’ll love Mom'sh herb garden. Bit wild now, but...” He shrugs.
The sadness in his voice makes me want to reach out and comfort him, but I clasp my hands in my lap instead. He’s grieving his mother, and I’m sitting here having inappropriate thoughts about his smile.
When we turn down a dirt road markedHavenridge Ranch,my breath catches. The ranch house sprawls before us like something from a magazine—honey-colored logs and a wraparound porch with flower boxes that overflow with blooms. Beyond it, red barns and white-fenced pastures stretch toward mountains that seem to touch the sky.A new barn rises beside them, its raw, unpainted wood pale against the older, weathered buildings.
“Oh,” I breathe, and don’t care that my voice breaks with longing.
This is what I've been searching for my whole life without knowing it. Not a place, but a feeling. The sense of roots growing deep, of belonging somewhere that matters.
Chapter 3
Kitty
Tom parks near the front porch. In her usual independent fashion, Delaney is out of the truck before he can circle the hood to the passenger side. He offers his hand to help me down, and the gesture feels natural and instinctive, like he’s been helping me from trucks his whole life.
I take his hand without hesitation, and when I step down, my boot catches on the running board. I stumble forward, and suddenly, I’m pressed against his chest, his arms coming around me to steady me.
