5. Luna
Chapter 5
Luna
We fix the post in silence, side by side. The wire bites through my gloves, sharp and cold, but I don’t flinch. I’ve done worse. Fixed worse. A snapped fence post is nothing compared to the kind of breaks I’ve had to repair in my own life.
Beside me, Angus doesn’t say much. He hands me nails, holds the post while I brace it, and works in steady silence. I’m grateful for it. The quiet. The lack of hovering.
Most men I’ve met assume a girl wouldn’t know a hammer from a hairbrush. But Angus? He doesn’t assume. He watches. Not in a creepy way. In a way that feels like he’s seeing the facts and filing them away. Like I’m passing some unspoken test.
The cold seeps in. The wind snaps at my braid. But I keep working.
So does he.
Eventually, the fence gives a groan of protest and settles back into place.
“That should hold,” I say, brushing my hands off on my jeans.
He grunts something in agreement. That’s about as verbose as he gets.
But when I glance over, I notice his hands—mud-slicked and scraped raw from the wire. Fresh wounds over old ones. And maybe I shouldn’t… but I reach into my coat pocket and pull out a clean rag.
He watches as I wrap it around his knuckles.
“Wire bite,” I murmur, knotting it loosely.
My breath hitches as our fingers brush. The distant sounds of birds chirping and leaves rustling disappear. For a second, the whole world seems to hold its breath too.
“Thanks,” he says gruffly.
I clear my throat, suddenly all too aware of his body—how big he is, how close we’re standing.
“You’re welcome,” I say, stepping back before I do something stupid. Like press my lips to his scarred, beautiful hands.
The morning breeze catches my hair, lifting it from my shoulders as I look up at the vast Montana sky.
“The sky’s so open here,” I murmur, lifting my face toward it. “Like someone took the lid off the world.”
Angus doesn’t answer, but I can feel his gaze on me. Warm. Weighty. Like a blanket straight from the dryer.
And for the first time in a long time, I take a full breath.
It doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t erase the years or the scars. But it fills my lungs with something tangible.
Something that tastes like hope.
* * *
Later, I find him in the stables, checking inventory. The horses shift restlessly behind him, big bodies full of muscle and patience. I lean against the stall rail, gloves tucked in my back pocket.
“Your mom?” I ask, nodding toward the photo nailed to one of the beams.
He turns, and his face does something strange—softens and hardens all at once. “Yeah. Right before I left.”
“Left?” I echo gently.
“For the Navy,” he says, clearing his throat. “I enlisted out of high school. Served with the SEALs for a while. Didn’t make it home much after that.”
My eyes widen. I knew he was ex-military, but… “A SEAL?”
“Was. Retired after I took a hit overseas.”
My gaze drops to the scar on his cheek, piecing it together. “Is that when you came back here?”
He nods. “Came back. Stayed.” He looks past me, out toward the open pasture. “Figured if I was gonna limp through life, might as well do it on familiar ground where I can do some good.”
I lean my elbows on the stall rail, boots crossed at the ankle like we’re just two people swapping stories, not two strangers about to become man and wife.
“You don’t limp,” I say simply. “You stand tall.”
He swallows hard and looks away.
The horses shift behind him, hooves scraping against the wood, and the barn smells like hay, old leather, and a life that’s still trying to be good, even after everything.
“I’m glad you stayed,” I say before I can stop myself.
That earns me a look. Not surprise, exactly. More like… suspicion, as if he’s not sure what to do with kindness that doesn’t come with strings.
I tug my gloves from my pocket and pull them on. "You need a hand with inventory?"
Angus clears his throat as if something thick and unfamiliar has wedged itself there. “Yeah,” he says gruffly. “Wouldn't hurt.”
And it wouldn't.
Not even a little.
“She’s the reason you’re doing this, isn’t she? Your mother,” I clarify when I see his frown, tipping my chin toward the photo. “The marriage. The paperwork. All of it.”
He exhales through his nose, jaw tightening. “She made it part of the will. After she died, we found out Henry had a year to marry, or the ranch would be turned into a clown school.”
My eyebrows shoot up, but I don’t interrupt.
“Henry married Shay,” he continues, voice rough. “Saved us. Saved him . And the ranch. We thought that was the end of it. But she wasn’t done meddling.”
He glances at the photo again. “My mother could out-stubborn a bull and out-think a lawyer. She added a sub-clause. If Tom and I didn’t marry, too, the land would still be chopped up and sold off to developers. Don’t be fooled into thinking this charming small town will stay untouched. Big developers have been circling, offering ranchers vast sums of money for their land. But people won’t sell. Unless they’re pushed.
The way he looks makes something tight and painful crack open in my chest. He’s not the kind of man to walk away from a fight for the people or the land he loves. And Ruth Sutton knew that.
“She must’ve loved this place,” I say softly.
“She did.”
“She must’ve loved you more.”
That one seems to hit him somewhere deep. Something heavy settles in my chest, a familiar weight, as he looks at me, really looks. I return his gaze openly, holding the silence in the absence of words. I let him see my fierce ache to belong, to protect something with roots, to be more than a name on a deed or a girl in the guest room.
What he sees in my eyes obviously reassures him. Because it’s not pity. Not fear. Not obligation.
It’s recognition.
Like knows like.
Different scars, same hurt underneath.
He swallows hard like he’s trying to digest something too big for words. “Why’d you agree to come?”
I shrug one shoulder. “Growing up, I was shunted from place to place. At times, all my belongings fit inside a grocery bag. I wanted something that couldn’t be yanked out from under me.”
“And you think this is it?”
“I think it's a start.”
He watches me like he’s trying to figure out what that means.
I brush my fingers along the edge of the stall rail, tracing the grain of the wood as I consider my next words. “I don’t remember my parents. I’ve been in foster care since I was a baby. Bounced around a lot. Some good homes. Some bad.” I lift my gaze to his again, daring him to pity me as I state the facts. “Nothing ever stuck. Nothing ever stayed.”
The space between his brow creases in a frown. “And you think a ranch in the middle of nowhere with a grumpy bastard like me is a safer bet?”
My mouth quirks into a ghost of a smile as I step down from the rail. “Depends. You planning on kicking me out?”
“No,” he says immediately, his voice rough.
“Then it's safer than anything I've ever had.” The words feel too honest, too raw, but I can't take them back. I don't want to.
His stormy blue eyes lock onto mine. Something shifts in his expression, softening the hard edges that make him Angus Sutton.
And at that moment, I know—without meaning to, without even knowing when it happened—that Angus Sutton is burrowing beneath my defenses.
I don’t know which of us moves first. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s him. But suddenly, the space between us disappears.
One second, I’m staring at the man who’s somehow rewiring my entire life with nothing more than monosyllables and a gaze that feels like gravity…
And the next, he’s kissing me.
It’s not soft. It’s not cautious. It’s need —sharp and hot and real.
His mouth crashes into mine, and something breaks open inside me.
He grips my hips before his hands slide up my back and into my hair, fisting gently at the base of my neck as if he’s memorizing the map of me and doesn’t give a damn if he gets lost.
He kisses like he works—intensely, with full focus and quiet conviction. I open for him with a gasp, and he takes advantage—tongue sliding deep, sweeping over mine with slow, deliberate strokes that make my knees threaten to give. His body presses into mine, hot and solid, and I clutch his flannel to keep me upright.
I feel him everywhere. In every breath. Every heartbeat. I swear I taste every heartbreak he’s ever swallowed, every hurt he’s never spoken.
And I give him mine in return.
When he finally slows, breaking the kiss enough to rest his forehead against mine, we’re both breathing like we just survived something.
Or like we’re about to drown in it.
“This is a mistake,” he mutters, voice raw.
Still, he doesn’t pull away.
Neither do I.
I lick my lips, tasting him. "Then why does it feel so right to me?"
It's as though something inside me recognized him before my mind caught up.
Angus doesn't answer. His eyes—dark and hungry—search mine for a moment. Then he presses one last kiss to the corner of my mouth like a promise, a warning, a line we’re already halfway over—and steps back before I do something really stupid. Like trip him into the hay, tear his flannel open with my teeth, and give the horses a show they’ll whinny about for weeks.
This man doesn’t need a fairytale bride or sweet nothings. He needs a woman who shows up. Who stays when things get cold and quiet and hard.
And that woman is me.
He kissed me like I was the one thing he never let himself hope for.
But from now on, he won’t have to hope. Because I’m here to stay.