3. Luna
Chapter 3
Luna
Angus grunts, cuts the engine, and climbs out.
I follow, pulse hammering in my throat.
The older man steps down from the porch first, his movements steady and unhurried. He stops a few feet away, giving me a nod that’s somehow respectful and assessing. “I’m Ben Sutton,” he says, offering his hand. His voice is low and rough in a way that’s earned, not affected. “Father of these three hooligans. Welcome to Havenridge.”
I shake his hand—his grip is firm, roughened by work—and force a smile. “Thank you.”
The man with the hat steps forward next, offering a quick, easy handshake. “Henry Sutton. Angus’s older brother.” His gray eyes throw me for a second, striking against his tanned skin, and I wonder if he inherited the color from his mother. “My wife Shay wanted to be here to meet you, too, but”—he scratches the back of his neck sheepishly—“her morning sickness isn’t limited to the mornings.”
“She’s excited to meet you, though,” the younger man pipes up, descending the porch steps two at a time. He’s light on his feet for such a tall man. His eyes are bright and full of mischief, the same shade as Angus’s and Ben’s, though they carry a completely different kind of trouble.
He grabs my hand. “Tom Sutton. The handsome one.”
Henry snorts under his breath.
“Humble, too,” I deadpan before I can stop myself. My cheeks burn hot. “I’m sorry, I?—”
Tom laughs, easy and big, as if I’ve already passed some unspoken Sutton test. “Don’t apologize,” he says, releasing my hand with a wink. “You’ll fit right in around here. Especially once my bride shows up. Then we can start a whole support group.”
I blink. “Your what?”
Henry shakes his face like he’s heard this a dozen times already. “Tom’s got a mail-order bride on the way,” he says dryly. “Expected sometime this summer. Assuming she doesn’t read his emails first and run for the hills.”
“Rude,” Tom mutters. “I’m very persuasive. Also, I have goats.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Whatever I thought this family would be like… this isn’t it.
It’s better.
Messier. Louder. Genuine.
Even standing here with my heart thudding against my ribs and my future a giant, terrifying question mark—I feel lighter than I have in years.
“Well, we have work to do,” Henry says, shoving his hat on his head. “We’ll leave Angus to get you settled.”
I shift my duffel higher on my shoulder as Ben and Angus’s brothers head toward the barn, suddenly aware of how heavy it feels and how tired I am.
Before I can take a step, Angus is there. No announcement. No offer. Just a solid, calloused hand closing around the strap of my bag, pulling it gently from my grip like it’s a foregone conclusion.
“I’ve got it,” he rumbles.
And somehow, it’s not just about the bag. It’s a promise tucked into three words. Quiet. Steady. Unshakable.
I blink hard against the sting in my eyes. Because nobody’s ever carried the weight for me before. Not like this. Not like they mean it.
Get a grip, Monroe. It’s a duffel bag, not a declaration of undying love.
“The main barn's there,” Angus says, pointing in the direction his dad and brothers went. “The pasture extends a few hundred acres beyond that ridge.” His voice is clipped and practical. “We run cattle on the north section and recently started raising Boer goats on the south slopes. They're more profitable per acre and less susceptible to drought.” He hesitates, then adds, “It was my idea, and I roped in Dad and Tom. Henry thought we were crazy at first.”
Before I can answer, a blur of motion comes charging from the barn—three dogs, all muscle and mud, bounding straight toward us.
I tense, instinctively bracing.
“They’re fine,” Angus says without looking. “Working dogs. That’s Maisie, Anne, and Felicity.”
The trio skids to a stop in front of us, tongues lolling, eyes bright. One of them—a wiry tan mix—drops a stick at my feet like we’ve been best friends since birth.
“They stay outside mostly,” Angus adds, reaching down to scratch behind the ear of the largest one. “They’re not house dogs. Shay’s pup’s the only one allowed inside. Little border collie Henry bought her for Christmas. Spoiled rotten and knows it.”
I smile, bending to toss the stick. The dogs take off like rockets, disappearing around the side of the barn.
I take it all in—the wide skies, the smell of hay, the distant bellow of cattle.
I exhale slowly. “It's beautiful here. Peaceful.”
Angus nods and extends a hand toward the house. “I’ll show you around.”
Inside, the house smells like woodsmoke and soap. Boots are lined up by the door. A crocheted blanket covers the back of the couch. Family photos line the walls and mantelpiece. Not staged ones—real ones capturing a growing family with a loving eye through the years.
The kitchen is straight out of a catalog. Not the shiny, sterile kind. The real kind, with worn wooden cabinets and a chalkboard listing the week’s chores. A cast-iron skillet hangs on a hook near the stove, blackened and seasoned with a thousand breakfasts. The linoleum floor is yellowed and scuffed, the pattern half-faded like it gave up trying to compete with muddy boots.
A big farmhouse sink sits under the window, its enamel chipped in the corner. Mismatched mugs line an open shelf beside it, some chipped, all clearly loved. The stove is old enough to be vintage, the kind with heavy dials and a personality of its own.
The table in the middle is long and scarred with use—knife marks and ring stains. It looks like it’s held everything from birthday cakes to vet bills. Now, a bowl of apples sits in the middle next to a haphazard stack of unopened mail, like life’s been moving too fast for sorting.
It’s wonderfully homely, as though Ruth Sutton stitched love into the floorboards when no one was looking.
Angus leads me upstairs, showing me to a room with a quilted bedspread and a little window overlooking the barn.
“You’ll sleep here. It’s one of the rooms with its own bathroom,” he says. “There’s a dresser, closet, and extra blankets in the chest.”
I set my bag down but don’t sit. “Do you”—I clear my throat, embarrassed, and try again. “I only have the clothes I’m wearing and wondered if?—”
“I’m sure Shay has something,” he says quickly. “I’ll ask her.”
I nod, staring at the worn floorboards. “Thanks.”
“Hang on.”
He disappears down the hall, footsteps fading into the quiet.
I sit on the edge of the bed, fingers pressed into the quilt—soft and faded, with memories stitched into every patch of blue and cream.
Angus returns a minute later, holding something. “Here. Figured this might be more comfortable for now.”
It’s one of his flannel shirts. Faded red. Soft-looking. Big enough to swallow me whole.
I take it, stunned by the gesture more than the shirt. It smells faintly like sandalwood, clean soap, and something warm I don’t have a name for.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
Silence falls between us. I sense the weight of his gaze and when I look up, his expression shifts too fast for me to fully read—something like concern, maybe. Not just about the clothes. About the fact that I showed up with a single bag and nothing else. About the way my fingers twitch at my sides like I’m bracing for judgment that hasn’t come yet.
He clears his throat and gestures toward the window. “You’ll get good light in the morning. Helps on days that start slow.”
“Thanks,” I say again, a little softer this time.
“I don’t expect anything from you,” he adds roughly. “Work if you feel like it. Rest if you don’t. I won’t bother you.”
I look at him then. Really look.
He’s tired. Not just physically, but in his bones as if he’s been holding up the sky for too long and no one ever asked if he needed a break. It makes me want to wrap my arms around him and offer him comfort.
“I’m not here to take,” I say softly. “I pull my weight.”
He nods. No argument. No pushback. Just quiet understanding.
He lingers like he wants to say something more. Then he nods and turns to go, boots heavy on the hallway floor.
The door clicks shut behind him.
And I sit there holding his shirt like it’s more than fabric. As if it might be a piece of something solid in a world I still don’t trust.
* * *
That night, I lie awake in the strange bed, listening to the creaks of old floorboards and the distant hush of wind through the pine. The house doesn’t feel haunted. It feels lived in and loved enough to make it a home.
I don’t know if I belong here.
But I want to.
And maybe—if the walls don’t fall and the ground holds steady—I’ll finally get to stay.
I must fall asleep eventually because the next thing I know, gray light is filtering through the lace curtain, soft as breath. Frost coats the inside of the windowpane, and a hawk circles lazy loops above the barn, silhouetted against the pale dawn.
For a moment, I lie there, still as stone.
It’s always the first morning that feels the most dangerous. The unfamiliar bed. The ache of what you left behind—even if what you left wasn’t much. Your body doesn’t know it’s supposed to feel safe yet. Mine never quite learned how.
But nothing creaks open. No shouting. No slammed doors. Just birdsong and the crunch of distant boots on gravel.
I sit up, stretch, and make the bed the way I was taught in the system—tight corners, no wrinkles. Presentable. Neat. Proof I’ll earn my place here in case they check.
My gaze snags on the dresser with mismatched knobs and a stack of folded towels on top. I open the drawers. Empty. No surprises.
Downstairs, I follow the scent of coffee and something inviting. Yeast, maybe? Cinnamon?
The kitchen is warm and welcoming, a kettle hissing gently on the stove. A woman with a red braid hums while she kneads bread dough, her hips swaying slightly to a tune only she can hear.
At her feet, curled up on a worn kitchen rug like it’s guarding the carbs, is a black-and-white border collie puppy. It lifts its head when I appear in the doorway, ears perking like it’s been expecting me, and makes a beeline for me.
The woman turns and grins when she sees me hesitating in the doorway. “Oh, you must be Luna. Don’t mind Jingle. She thinks she owns the place.”
I crouch down to pet the puppy. “She’s adorable.”
“She’s trouble but the lovable kind. I’m Shay—Henry’s wife. Tom’s and Angus’s sister-in-law. And”—she gestures at her slightly thickened waist—“part-time baker and incubator to Baby Sutton.”
Shay’s warm reception is instantly comforting—like the human version of an Afghan blanket. I didn’t realize how tightly I’d been holding myself until now.
I stand and step farther in, careful not to trip over the dog now sniffing my boots with great interest. “Congratulations. Henry mentioned you weren’t feeling great yesterday. Something about morning sickness not limited to the morning?”
Shay groans dramatically. “Ugh, it’s like my stomach has a personal vendetta against joy. But thanks. We’re excited. Nervous. But mostly excited. And I think the news has given Ben a new lease on life. Losing Ruth…”
She trails off for a moment, eyes flicking toward the window.
“Losing Ruth hit him harder than he lets on,” she continues softly. “I never met her, but I feel like she’s still here somehow. Not just in the stories—they talk about her like she was the glue holding everything together—but also in the way this place runs. In the way they live.”
She smiles wryly as she wipes her hands with a towel. “And apparently, she was the mistress of long-game meddling. That clause in her will—the one that forced Henry to marry me or risk losing the ranch? That was all Ruth.”
I blink. “Seriously?”
“Dead serious. And now, thanks to a sneaky little sub-clause none of us knew about until recently, Angus and Tom have to tie the knot too.”
A surprised laugh slips out of me. “Wow. That’s... impressive. And mildly terrifying.”
I silently thank Shay for the warning. The last thing I need is to be blindsided by another of Ruth Sutton's posthumous plots. Who knows what other surprises might be in that will? At least now I'll be prepared.
“Right?” Shay grins. “You hungry?” she asks, gesturing to a tin of cookies on the counter.
I hesitate. “I don’t want to intrude?—”
“Luna,” she says, cutting me off, “this is a Sutton kitchen. If you don’t eat something, you will insult the ghosts of our ancestors, and frankly, I don’t have the energy to deal with a haunted oven before lunch.”
A startled laugh bubbles out of me as I sit at the table. “Okay. Cookies it is.”
Shay hands me a cookie and a coffee and sits across from me with her mug of what smells like peppermint tea, her green eyes kind and curious but not invasive. She doesn’t ask about my past or why a girl like me chose a marriage of convenience with her brother-in-law. Instead, she asks, “How’d you sleep?”
Jingle settles beside me, resting her chin on my foot like we’ve known each other for years. “Better than expected.”
“That’ll change when the baby gets here,” she says with a wink. “This whole house will be like a chicken coop.”
I smile and tuck my hair behind my ear. “I don’t mind noise. As long as it’s the good kind.”
Shay nods like she understands more than I’m saying. “You let me know if you need anything, okay? Angus is a good man, but he’s got the emotional range of a potato. You ever need a grumpy cowboy translator, I’m your girl.”
I chuckle. “I appreciate that.”
Shay lifts the cookie tin and sets it between us. “Good. Now eat two more of those, or I swear Ruth’s ghost will knock over every pan in this kitchen.”
The tension in my chest eases. Not gone but cracked enough to let in the smell of cinnamon, the warmth of kindness, and the smallest, fragile hope that I’m allowed to stay.
Shay grimaces, rubbing her stomach. “I’m barely four months along and already feel like a whale. But I think this baby gives us all something to look forward to. Even more of a reason to protect this place and the family legacy.” She smiles and shakes her head. “And Henry—well, he’s already got spreadsheets for swaddling techniques and a whiteboard of potential middle names. He won’t admit it, but the man is full-on nesting.”
A soft laugh slips from me. “That’s kind of adorable.”
“It’s dangerously adorable,” Shay says, grabbing a cookie and biting into it. “We’re one nervous breakdown away from him bubble-wrapping the stairs.”
I laugh as she stands and stretches, her back cracking faintly.
“Okay. Time to check on the drama queens—by which I mean the goats.” Shay grabs her coat from the hook by the door and winks. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, assume they’ve formed a union and elected a spiteful rooster as their leader.” She pauses, raising an eyebrow. “Wanna come with me? Do a quick walkaround? George is here today, too, so I can introduce you.”
“George?”
“Georgina Lucas, but everyone calls her George. She’s a mechanic and services all our machinery. James Hayes, our county sheriff, is her father. But don’t hold that against her. George is very much her own person.” She flashes a grin. “And she’s probably about ready for a caffeine hit.”
I watch Shay pour coffee into a mug and add milk and sugar before handing it to me. “Here, we’ll take this out to her.”
We leave Jingle in the warm kitchen and head outside into the chilly morning, the door thudding softly behind us. The sky is heavy with spring clouds that can’t decide between sunshine and sleet. Mud clings to my boots, and the wind carries the sharp scent of hay and diesel.
We cut through the sideyard toward the equipment shed, and I spot a woman in blue coveralls. Her chestnut hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail under a grease-streaked ballcap. She has one foot braced on the side of a tractor with both hands wrist-deep in its engine as she cusses at it.
“George!” Shay calls.
The woman doesn’t startle. She leans back, wipes her hands on a rag, and gives us a lazy once-over. Her gaze lands on me with the easy confidence of someone who doesn’t need permission to size up strangers.
“George, this is Luna Monroe. Luna, meet George Lucas. Hurricane in coveralls and the only female mechanic in the county.”
“George Lucas?” I ask, quirking an eyebrow.
George groans and tosses the rag over her shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. May the force be with me. I’ve heard every joke. No, I don’t have a lightsaber. My father is not Darth Vader. And I’ve never met Yoda.” She winks. “Although I may be a secret Jedi.”
I laugh. “Good to meet you, George. Your secret Jedi identity is safe with me.”
“Good to meet you, too, Luna,” George replies, her smile warm and genuine. “And if that coffee is for me”—she eyes the mug in my hand—“we’re already best friends.”
“It’s all yours.” I chuckle, handing it over.
George takes a sip and closes her eyes with a sigh. “Yep, besties.”
Shay grins. “Careful, Luna. Flattery like that, and George will be roping you into changing oil filters by next week.”
George shrugs, not denying it. “Only if she’s good with a socket wrench.”
Shay nudges me with her elbow. “Come on, let’s feed the goats before they riot.”
George waves us off with a flick of her rag. “See you around, Luna.”
“Looking forward to it,” I say—and I mean it.
I follow Shay as she carefully navigates the icy, muddy yard.
“The goats will probably glare at us for being late,” she says, chuckling.
“Maybe they should unionize.”
Shay barks a laugh. “They did once. But we caught the ringleader eating the barn cat’s food and revoked his voting privileges.”
We fall into a companionable rhythm as we reach the pen. The goats bleat at the sight of us, some pacing dramatically like underfed divas, others already tucked into the little shelter like they’ve claimed squatter’s rights.
“Here,” Shay says, nudging a bucket of feed toward me with her boot. “Let’s earn their goodwill.”
I take the scoop and fill the troughs while she crumbles hay into the racks. A bold little brown goat headbutts my knee, clearly unimpressed with my speed.
“Sorry, Your Majesty,” I mutter, tossing in a handful.
“They’re spoiled,” Shay says fondly. “Tom named them after snack foods. That one’s Pretzel. The one giving you side-eye is Cheese Puff. And the one with the white socks is Biscuit. He’s cute but keeps tripping over his own hooves.”
“You’re joking.”
“I wish I was.”
We finish spreading the last of the hay, and Shay leans on the fence for a moment, her expression shifting—less playful now. The weight of something unsaid settles into the air between us.
“You’ll hear talk around here,” she says, watching the goats. “About incidents. Fences going down. Gates left open. Equipment mysteriously failing.”
I glance over. “Bad luck?”
“That’s what we thought. At first. Or maybe a ranch hand being careless.” She pauses.
I frown, sensing something more. “But?”
She glances at me, her green eyes serious. “It’s happening more often. And not just here. A couple of ranches on the far side of the canyon have had problems too—including Jacob’s place.”
I frown. “Jacob?”
“Jacob Sutton. Ben’s brother,” she says, her tone careful. “Angus’s uncle. He and Ben don’t talk anymore—something happened years back—but Jacob’s boys still visit. They’re close with Henry, Angus, and Tom.”
She pauses, then adds, “They’ve been dealing with the same kind of sabotage. Fences cut. Damaged equipment. Livestock let loose in the middle of the night. Someone’s messing with things, but we can’t prove who without evidence.”
“Any suspects?”
“Plenty. Ben has kept it quiet, so it doesn’t scare off the veterans who stay at the cabins. But it’s getting harder to ignore.”
A cold knot tightens in my stomach. My eyes drift to the line of trees in the distance beyond the fencing. “Thanks for telling me.”
“You’re part of the family now.” She smiles, then grimaces and rubs her stomach. “I need to head back in. This kid is staging a rebellion in my bladder.”
I nod. “I’ll hang back. Do some exploring.”
Shay nods and I watch her go before heading to the edge of the property, near the tree line. The air feels thicker out here. The wind whistles low through the fence posts, and the ground squelches under my boots, soft with snowmelt and fresh mud. Thin sheets of ice still cling to the shady corners, but the air is softer now—cool, crisp, and smelling faintly of damp earth.
I walk the fence line, observing, mapping. This is how I learn new places—by walking them, feeling them under my boots, and letting the rhythm settle into my bones.
And as I go, Shay’s words come back to me.
You’re part of the family now.
They echo like a promise. Or maybe a challenge.
Something I want to believe. Desperately.
More than I probably should.
Because a family? I’ve never had one of those before.