Branded by the Cowboy (Havenstone: Mail Order Brides #2)

1. Angus

Chapter 1

Angus

If I didn’t love my mother so damn much, I’d be tempted to cuss her name right here in front of Hollis and Tate’s legal office.

I run a calloused hand through my dark hair, the stubble on my jaw rough against my palm. At six foot three, I’m a figure of frustration in dusty boots and a suit jacket that feels too tight, straining across shoulders built from years of ranch work. The lawyers behind that fancy door have no idea what it means to work the land until your body aches and your soul feels carved from the same rock as the mountains.

I grit my teeth, shove the envelope into the inside pocket of my coat, and try to keep my jaw from locking. The cold bites at my knuckles. My boots creak against the old timber steps as I stomp down, my brother trailing behind me like a storm cloud with hair.

“She really went and did it,” Tom says, shaking his head.

Yes, she did. And Ruth Sutton probably smiled while doing it—like some meddling angel with a clipboard and a wicked sense of humor.

Tom seems more impressed than pissed. His reaction to the news was immediate laughter. I’m still not sure if it was disbelief, nerves, or the sheer absurdity of imagining either of us playing house.

“Sub-clause C,” I mutter. “Buried in the fine print.”

“Technically, the addendum to the back half,” Tom replies with a shrug. “It was legally filed. Hollis said it holds.”

Henry already played the marriage-for-land game. I figured Mom had fired her last shot.

Guess not.

Turns out she saved a little surprise for Tom and me, neatly tucked away like a rattlesnake in a feed sack.

In plain English: Tom and I have to marry within the next six months. Falling in love is optional, but the legal contract is mandatory; otherwise, the ranch gets sold in parcels. Not only the house and barns—but the rehab cabins, the horse trails, the hayfield, and the hollow where the veterans go to breathe again. All of it. Gone.

I round on my brother once we’re out on the sidewalk. The cold wind kicks up hard enough to slap my coat open, but I don’t care. “She already made Henry do this.”

“Worked out great for Henry. Happy Thursday,” Tom says, clapping me on the back. “Guess it’s time for us to order brides.”

“She couldn’t have trusted us to run the ranch?”

“She did . She just didn’t trust us not to die alone in the process.”

I glare at him, and he has the decency to look mildly sheepish.

“Look,” Tom continues, “I’m not thrilled about getting hitched before I’m ready, either. But what choice do we have? If we don’t do this, everything we’ve worked for is gone. Including the rehab project. Carved up and sold off to whoever throws the highest bid. You want to explain that to the guys who just moved in?”

“No.” My answer is immediate, bitter, and final. “I don’t.”

The VA referral program is close to our hearts since Dad and Sheriff Lucas turned the northern pasture into housing and rehab for veterans. We’ve poured everything into making it work—sweat, hours, and a good chunk of sanity.

It’s mostly run by Jackson Cutter now, a friend and former Army Ranger, and we also have a therapist, Dr. Colleen Marks, who comes in three times a week. The vets help each other out as part of their recovery. We provide them a place to start over, but they put in the work. It’s not a handout; it’s a second chance.

Those men trusted us—trusted me —to provide them with solid ground after war shattered their lives. I think about the ones in those cabins: Thompson, who still wakes the others with his screams some nights, and Wilson, whose hands shook so badly he couldn't hold a coffee mug for his first three months here.

They finally found peace at Havenridge.

I won’t be the reason they lose it.

I promised each of them they’d have a home here for as long as they needed one. And Suttons don’t break promises.

I’m not about to lose it because my mother didn’t trust time to do its damn job.

“You going to tell Dad and Henry?” Tom asks as we reach my truck.

“Don’t see how we can keep it from them,” I reply, jerking open the truck door. “But it’s not like Henry doesn’t have enough on his plate.”

Shay, Henry’s wife, is four months pregnant, and Henry is walking around like she might give birth at any minute.

Tom slides into the passenger seat and props his boots on the dash like we’re heading out for a Sunday drive—not staring down the possible end of our family’s legacy.

I shoot him a look. He just smirks—full Sutton charm, not a shred of shame.

“We’re gonna need a plan,” I mutter as I crank the ignition.

Tom nods. “Guess we should contact Marlie.”

“Yeah. She’s discreet.”

“Wanna flip a coin to decide who reaches out first?”

I shift into drive. “Nope. We’re both doing this.”

“Fair enough.” He drops his boots. “Let’s just make sure our prospective brides aren’t crazy. Or con artists. Or allergic to goats.”

I don’t answer. My focus is already on the stretch of road that winds out of town, leading back to Havenridge Ranch.

I don’t want a wife. Don’t want a partner. Hell, I barely want conversation. But I’ll do what has to be done.

Keeping the ranch in the Sutton familymatters more than my comfort, and I won’t let a damn legal clause undo everything we’ve built.

* * *

I’m still gripping the steering wheel like a lifeline as I drive through the timber archway marking the ranch entrance—weather-worn wood carved with “Havenridge”—and grit my teeth as the truck shudders over the cattle guard.

When I pull up in front of the ranch, Tom immediately hops out, muttering something about circulation and “death by necktie.”

By the time I’ve parked, he’s halfway to the porch, stripping off his blazer like it’s on fire.

“Gotta change before the goats stage an intervention,” he calls. “Pretty sure one of them looked at me with pity earlier.”

“That was probably your reflection, Tom,” I call through the open window.

He flips me off while his tie tries to strangle him.

I leave the engine running, tugging uncomfortably at my shirt collar. Neither of us is used to formal clothing, but we made the effort for the meeting with the lawyers this morning.

I stare through the windshield at the ranch house I grew up in. It’s not just wood and windows and a roof patched too many times. It’s ours . Built by calloused hands and bad backs, loved by a woman with a spine of steel and a heart so big it made room for every stray soul who crossed her path. My mother didn’t raise quitters; she raised Suttons.

I kill the engine, and the silence inside the cab is immediate and absolute, just the ticking of the engine cooling and my pulse banging against my ribs.

I climb out of the truck, boots crunching against the gravel, the spring breeze cooling the back of my neck. I head inside and quickly change into jeans and a flannel before heading back outside. Thankfully, Henry, Shay, and Dad aren’t around, so questions about our meeting with the lawyers can wait until later.

I saddle Beau, the scent of leather, horse, and hay filling my lungs like the only prayer I've ever needed. The mountains rise jagged against the sky, the same view generations of Suttons have called home. My boots sink into the soft earth as I lead him out of the barn, the distant lowing of cattle carrying on the wind. This land isn't just dirt and grass—it's blood and bone and heartbeat. And I'll be damned if I'll let it slip away.

I head out to the east pasture. When I get there, I see the fence is down again.

Gritting my teeth, I swing off my horse to inspect the damage. The wire's been cut—clean and deliberate. I don’t see any footprints—it was too windy last night for that—but something doesn’t sit right. It hasn’t for weeks.

I kneel, running a calloused hand over the sharp edge of the break. Whoever is doing this is getting bolder. First, the south pasture, then the creek line, and now here—less than a mile from the main house. This isn’t random. Someone’s screwing with us.

“Who the hell are you?” I mutter under my breath.

We have a good standing in Clover Canyon. Sure, some folks think we’re too proud, too traditional, too involved with the vets and not enough with turning a profit.

The distant lowing of cattle drifts across the pasture. I scan the horizon for any sign of trespassers but see nothing but rolling hills and a clear blue sky.

Down in the lower pasture, I see our latest investment grazing—a herd of Boer goats we brought in a few months ago. Henry thought it was crazy to diversify beyond cattle, but those goats will keep us afloat while beef prices fluctuate. Another reason I can't let this place go.

Which brings meback to the heart of it: marry or lose the ranch. Mom’s final to-do list, signed and sealed from beyond the grave.

I exhale hard and drag a gloved hand down my face, the leather scraping against my stubble. Tom’s probably right—she did it so we wouldn’t sink into the silence she left behind.

But something else twists in my gut.

Why would she gamble everything like this?

What did she see coming that we didn’t?

Maybe she thought she could script a happy ending for her battle-scarred sons, like love could be conjured with a legal clause and a deadline.

Henry’s marriage may have started as a paper arrangement, but I’ve seen how he looks at Shay now, like she’s the first warm thing he’s seen after years in the snow. She’s pregnant, glowing, and Henry is building cribs and muttering about baby wipes.

But I’m not Henry. That’s not what this is for me. I’ll do what I have to do. For the ranch. For the veterans who call this place their second chance.

I blow out a heavy breath. I blow out a heavy breath. Time to contact the agency we used for Henry’s bride. Marlie’s quiet, discreet. She already knows our family’s… unorthodox needs.

This arrangement doesn’t have to be about love. It's business—a contract, plain and simple. My years in the SEALs taught me to tackle problems head-on. This is another mission with clear objectives.

And I’ll make it clear to my prospective bride that this isn’t a romance: it’s a business deal. I don’t want a sweetheart. I want a partner. Someone who’ll work hard, keep to themselves, and sign the papers.

Someone who understands this is about legacy, not love.

* * *

Later, I’m back in the house, the scent of woodsmoke curling up from the fireplace as I boot up the laptop. More laughter rings through the house these days—Shay hums when she cooks, and Henry is softer around the edges when she’s nearby. Even with all that light, there’s a hollow spot where Mom used to be. It lingers in the quiet moments, in the creak of old timber, in the silence that settles when no one’s paying attention.

When Tom and I told them about the sub-clause earlier, Henry swore so loud it scared the goats. Shay blinked, sat perfectly still for a beat, then said, “Well, that’s one hell of a plot twist,” and went straight to the kitchen to stress-bake two pies and a lasagna.

And Dad? He sat in the kitchen chair like the air had left the room. He didn’t speak for a long time. Finally, he said, real quiet, “The woman’s been gone for six months, and she’s still surprising me.”

I shake my head. Dad wasn’t wrong. Ruth Sutton surprised all of us.

I click through to Marlie’s Angels website, the agency that brought Shay into our lives. Marlie Sloane, the owner, has a great gut instinct and personally interviews each candidate via video. She’s sharp, no-nonsense, and has a radar for bullshit.

It takes a while to fill out the forms with the level of detail Marlie requires, and I hesitate before answering the final question:

Why are you seeking a match?

I type four words.

To save Havenridge Ranch.

Then I delete them. Too sentimental. Too raw.

Instead, I write:

Fulfilling a legal clause. Ranch obligations take priority.

I click “submit” and shut the laptop hard enough to make the table shudder.

This isn’t about feelings. It’s not about filling the hole of grief carved into my chest. It’s about duty, legacy, and land that deserves to stay in Sutton hands, no matter what tricks fate—or family—throws my way.

Let them send me someone. A stranger. I don’t care if she smiles or scowls or sleeps in a separate room. As long as she signs the marriage certificate and keeps to herself, we’ll get along just fine.

* * *

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.”