2. Henry
Chapter 2
Henry
I squat down and wrestle with the flint, the kindling crackling as it finally catches fire. The glow from the fireplace chases away the evening chill that’s settled in every corner of the old ranch house. It’s a sturdy six-bedroom fortress with a wraparound porch that’s seen better days, but I can’t imagine calling anywhere else home.
The house has always been more than a building. It’s part of me, like the beat of my heart. My great-grandfather built it with his bare hands—each beam and plank hammered into place with sweat and grit. The walls hold stories of the Sutton family, whispered through the years, passed down like a legacy. Every creak of the floorboards, every draft sneaking in through the windows, is a reminder of what this place has endured. Fires, floods, droughts—none of it could bring this house down.
But time’s taken its toll. The wraparound porch sags in places, groaning under the weight of history. Paint peels from the window frames, and the roof could use another patch job before the snow sets in. Still, it stands as stubborn and resolute as the family that’s lived here. My family.
“Come on, don’t be stubborn,” I mutter at the fire, coaxing it to life. The flames listen, dancing like they’re as connected to this place as I am. They know their job is to warm the bones of a house filled with good and—more recently—bad memories.
The firelight flickers across the room, casting long shadows on the walls. The scent of burning pine drifts through the air, mingling with the faint smell of leather from the armchair by the hearth. It’s a smell that feels like home, one I’ve known since I was a boy sitting cross-legged on this very rug, playing with my brothers while Mom called us to dinner. The warmth seeps into the room, pushing back the cold that clings to the corners like a stubborn ghost.
I stand, dusting my hands, and let my gaze drift over the darkened rooms, each echoing with Mom’s laughter. Six bedrooms, but it feels as empty as hell.
Her laughter filled this house, weaving through the halls like sunlight streaming through the windows. She had a way of making this place feel alive as if it were more than wood and nails. Now, it feels hollow, like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something—or someone—to bring it back to life.
Outside, the outbuildings are shadows against the moonlight, strong and silent witnesses to the Sutton legacy. The barn stands tall, its roof patched so many times that it looks like a quilt. The stables sit beyond it, their doors slightly ajar, a faint light spilling from within. I can make out the silo further back, its silhouette sharp against the night sky. They’re more than buildings; they’re symbols of the work, sacrifice, and stubborn pride that built this ranch.
But all of this could turn into a circus—quite literally—if I don’t get hitched soon. A clown school. That’s what Mom’s will stipulates. Like some kind of sick joke, except no one’s laughing, least of all me. Marry or watch clowns take over? Not while I draw breath. But finding a bride? That’s a whole different rodeo.
“Damn it,” I grumble, scratching at the stubble along my jaw. “She really had to choose a fucking clown school?”
The words hang in the air, heavy with disbelief. The walls don’t answer. They never do. They sit there, holding up the weight of my world. This house has always been a silent witness, a steadfast companion through every victory, every loss. And now, it’s waiting for me to figure out how to keep it standing.
There has to be some way around this, but the more I think about it, the less I come up with. I’ve been married once, which taught me all I need to know about marriage. Why would Mom try to force that on me again?
“Stubborn woman,” I say, giving the mantelpiece an affectionate pat. The wood is smooth under my hand, worn down by years of touch. Mom kept little trinkets on here—ceramic horses, picture frames, a jar of pennies she called her “rainy day fund.” Now it’s dust and memories. “Don’t you worry. I won’t let them turn you into a funhouse.”
The fire pops, sending a spark skittering across the hearth. I stomp it out with my boot, my scowl deepening. The idea of clowns running around this place is absurd, almost laughable, but it keeps me up at night. The thought of Mom’s legacy—a ranch built on generations of blood, sweat, and tears—being reduced to balloon animals and cream pies makes my stomach churn.
“Talking to yourself again, Hank?” Dad calls from somewhere deep in the house. A creak of floorboards announces his approach long before he saunters into the living room. His footsteps are slow and deliberate as if he’s carrying a weight heavier than his old bones can bear.
“Better than talking to clowns,” I shoot back, my mood as dark as the night outside.
“Hey, we’ve still got time. What’s it been? Three months since…” Dad trails off, the sentence dying in the heavy air between us. His voice, usually steady as a mountain, falters at the end, and a familiar pang of loss grips my chest.
“Yep. Three months since she left me with this mess,” I say, staring into the fire. “Nine months to find a willing woman or pack up our saddles.”
“You’ll think of something, son. You’re not one to quit easily,” Dad replies, hovering in the doorway. He never can settle when he’s in the house. I know it’s because of the memories of Mom that haunt us all when it comes to this place. “Or maybe your brothers will find a solution.”
“Their schemes smell worse than the cowhands after bean night.” I cross my arms, ready to shut down whatever madness they’ve cooked up now.
Dad chuckles, but a flicker of unease passes across his eyes. He’s always had faith in us boys, but I can tell this whole clown school business is weighing on him too. He leans his shoulder against the doorframe, the firelight catching the lines of his face. Weariness resides there, but also something softer—a hint of the man who wrestled with us on the living room rug when we were little, his booming laugh echoing through the house.
“Trust me.” He grins, but I see the uncertainty in his eyes. “We’ll figure it out.”
“Last time I trusted those two, I ended up wearing a tutu for charity. No thanks,” I say, but the corner of my mouth twitches. The memory of that particular fiasco—a bet gone wrong—still makes me shake my head. It’s hard not to find some humor in the absurdity of it all.
Dad’s laughter rumbles low in his chest, a sound I haven’t heard enough of lately. “Keep an open mind, okay?”
“Open mind,” I echo, turning back to the fire that’s now roaring confidently. “Just what I need.”
The warmth from the hearth seeps into my bones, steadying me. I’ll need that strength to face whatever harebrained plan my younger brothers may have concocted. Angus and Tom mean well, but their definition of “help” often leads to havoc. Still, they’re family, which means I’ll hear them out—even if it’s just to shut them down.
I shove the poker back into its stand as Dad waves goodnight, heading back to the bunkhouse. His footsteps fade into the distance, and the house settles into silence once more. The fire crackles, chasing away shadows that stretch long and thin across the room. The warmth fills the space, but it does little to touch the ice that’s taken up permanent residence around my heart.
A heart once eager and open, now a slab of meat behind ribs that has seen too much.
“Women,” I mutter under my breath, my voice lost in the vastness of the ranch house that’s been my world since I can remember.
Six bedrooms, each one filled with memories of laughter and arguments, the wraparound porch where Mom used to sit sipping her iced tea, watching us boys play in the dirt. Every creaky floorboard, every chipped tile in the kitchen—I know them like I know the lines on my palm.
But the thought of sharing this place with another person, a woman? That sends a different kind of shiver down my spine. I’ve seen the way the ladies in town look at me. A mix of pity and opportunity that makes my stomach turn. They’d love to step into the role of Mrs. Sutton, queen of the ranch. But they don’t know the first thing about me.
The last one who did, Sandra, saw me as a ticket to respect she hadn’t earned. Took pride in being a SEAL’s wife without living the life. I was nineteen, full of dreams and honor, thinking I had the world figured out. She threw my rank around like it was hers to use, demanding discounts and acting all high and mighty. And when I came home early from deployment to surprise her, I was the one surprised. The only thing she was good at was lying and cheating, and boy, she was an expert at both.
The first snowflakes dance against the windowpane. It’s picturesque, a scene that should be on a Christmas card, but it feels more like a warning. Time’s running out, and if I don’t find someone to marry, this whole place turns into a clown fiesta.
I rub my hands over my face. No woman, no matter how sweet-smelling or pretty-eyed, will make me risk my heart again. My bed’s been empty since Sandra, and that’s how it’ll stay. I’m celibate by choice because the alternative? Too damn painful.
“Love,” I scoff at the idea as I watch the snow thicken outside. “A con game I’m not falling for.” Not that it matters much. What woman wants a husband whose heart is locked up tighter than the safe in my office? They want love, romance, the whole fairy tale. Not some business deal to secure land and cattle.
“Who needs them?” I declare to no one in particular, but even as the words leave my lips, I know the truth. Without a bride, I’m as good as homeless. And that’s something I can’t let happen. Not to me, not to this ranch. Not to my family.
“I need some air,” I say to the empty room and walk to the front door.
I leave the warmth of the living room for the chill of the wraparound porch. The wood creaks beneath my boots, the cold slicing through me like a knife. The snow is still falling, flakes catching in my stubble like tiny icy fingers, reminding me I’m very much alone in this house.
My breath fogs in front of me as I look toward the stables. A light flicks on for a moment before it turns off, replaced by the glow of Dad’s television. Where exactly are Angus and Tom? I hope they aren’t at the Watering Hole, the only bar in town.
I’m about to turn back inside when headlights cut through the night, slicing across the snowy yard and pulling up near the porch. My brothers’ truck, unmistakable even in the dark. It’s late, almost midnight. What kind of trouble have they dug up now?
The engine cuts, and a few seconds of silence follow before doors slam and footsteps crunch in the snow. They’re grinning like idiots, all teeth and no sense.
“Got something to show you, Henry,” Tom says, his voice carrying a mischievous edge that only ever means trouble.
Angus nods in agreement, his smile not quite reaching his eyes the way it used to. “It’s important,” he adds, leaving it hanging there like a lure.
Before I can press them for answers, another set of headlights pulls in behind their truck—a car I don’t recognize. I narrow my eyes, watching as it parks and the driver turns off the ignition. I step off the porch, boots sinking into the fresh layer of snow, my gut twisting with curiosity and annoyance.
“Who’s that?” My tone is flat, expecting some harebrained explanation or worse, a setup.
“Just wait,” Tom replies, an eagerness in his stance that sets me further on edge. This has to be one of their schemes. A surprise? At midnight? In the middle of a snowstorm? Only my brothers would think that’s a good idea. “Christmas has come early for you, Henry.”