6. Angus
Chapter 6
Angus
That evening, I pace the hallway outside the kitchen, jittery and restless—like a man wired on caffeine but starved for calm.
Shay is at the table, flipping through a baby name book the size of a phonebook. Henry’s off picking up lumber from McBride’s. The house smells like cinnamon and firewood and Luna’s shampoo. Vanilla and something soft and floral. Roses, maybe.
She’s on the couch wrapped in one of Mom’s old, quilted throws, reading a book I didn’t even know we still owned. Her knees tucked under her. Hair loose. Face lit by firelight. Looking for all the world like she belongs.
She looks up as I hover in the doorway. “Need something?”
I shake my head. “No. Just passing through.”
She watches me. Calm. Steady. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” I say, backing up a step. “I’m sure.”
Another lie.
Because all I’ve done since this afternoon is think about that kiss. About how her lips tasted like home. How she kissed me back like she couldn’t get enough of me. As if she didn’t care that I was rough around the edges or that this whole thing started with a contract instead of a promise.
And now she’s here. In this house. In my mother’s chair. Quiet and real and mine in every way that matters—except the one I can’t ask for.
I step onto the porch and let the door slam behind me. The cold hits fast and I welcome it.
Out past the barn, the trees shift in the breeze, all long shadows and fading light.
And I think about the woman who bandaged my hand this morning like she wasn’t afraid of the damage I carry.
For the first time in a long time, something inside me begins to loosen.
I don’t know if it’s the start of healing…
Or a slow, steady unravel.
* * *
The sound of rushing water wakes me the next morning. That’s never a good sound on a ranch.
The overnight temp dipped below freezing last night, and the last thing I said to myself before I fell into a restless sleep was, I’ll check the line in the morning.
Good job I’m a light sleeper.
Five minutes later, I’m ankle-deep in muddy slush, watching our main cattle trough pour water like someone opened a faucet and left it running for sport. The valve is twisted wide open—and the locking cap that should’ve prevented that?
Gone.
Tom pulls up in his truck as I’m shutting it off. He climbs out, one eyebrow already raised. “You ever consider installing a fountain and calling it art?”
I glare at him.
He grins. “Morning to you too.”
Henry and Dad pull in behind him. Shay must’ve called them. Probably when I stormed into the kitchen at dawn muttering murder and sabotage and forgot to mention I needed backup.
Henry looks tired. Shay’s been having a hard time with sickness, and I know he’s not sleeping much. But he still comes because he’s a Sutton and we don’t leave each other to drown—literally or otherwise.
Dad crouches beside me and inspects the valve. “This didn’t fail on its own.”
“I know.”
Dad twists the remaining threads with gloved fingers. “Sheared clean. You talked to Sheriff Lucas about all these incidents?”
“And tell him what?” I mutter. “We have a ghost with wire cutters?”
Dad straightens and gives me that level, calm stare he perfected when we were kids. “You need to start documenting this stuff.”
“I have photos.”
“And?”
“And nothing,” I say. “No leads. No suspects. No prints. Just a trail of bad luck with good timing.”
Tom whistles low. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
I don’t look at him. “God, I hope not because that would make me as certifiable as you.”
He clutches his heart. “You wound me.”
“Not yet,” I mutter. “But keep talking.”
“I’m thinking that someone’s trying to screw us enough to make it look like we’re mismanaging the land. And maybe get us desperate enough to sell.”
Dad grunts. “That’d make sense if they weren’t going after the wrong targets. This ranch doesn’t fall apart over a little trouble.”
“They’re not trying to break the land,” Henry says quietly, crouching to inspect the pipe. “They’re trying to break us. Wear us down. One busted line, one broken fence panel at a time.”
Tom shoves his hands in his pockets. “Classic boiling frog. Turn up the heat slowly and no one notices until you’re soup.”
I give him a sidelong look. “Why do you know that metaphor?”
“Why don’t you ?” he shoots back.
Dad stands, brushing off his gloves. “All right, we play it smart. Angus, you and Tom check the south boundary after breakfast. Take photos of everything—footprints, tire tracks, gum wrappers, I don’t care. Anything out of place, I want to know.”
I nod once. “On it.”
Dad looks toward the house. “Luna settling in?”
“She’s fine,” I say too fast.
Tom perks up. “Oh? You two holding hands yet? Braiding each other’s hair?”
I give him a look of disgust. “She’s not here for that. It’s a contract.” The words sound forced as they leave my mouth.
“Right,” Tom says, dragging the word out like he’s chewing it.
Henry doesn’t say much. He just crosses his arms and watches me with that unreadable expression he’s mastered since we were kids. I know he’s wondering if I see the writing on the wall yet. If I’ve noticed that I listen when Luna talks. That she’s already adjusted to life here like she was grown from the soil itself.
I have.
But I’m not ready to admit it to anyone else.
Not when everything around me is already out of my control.
* * *
Back at the house, Luna is in the kitchen with Shay, sleeves rolled to her elbows, apron dusted with flour. She laughs at something Shay says—bright and unguarded.
It stops me cold in the hallway.
Because I haven’t heard her laugh like that since she arrived. Warm and alive. Full-bodied and unfiltered. It echoes in my chest, sneaking past my ribs and settling somewhere I don’t expect.
And I know— God help me, I know —I want to be the one who earns it next time.
That thought troubles me more than it should because it means I’m not simply noticing her. I’m listening for her .
I shake my head and go to the mudroom to remove my wet boots, muttering when I realize the heel is coming loose. Another thing on the list.
Another thing falling apart—along with my ability to keep Luna at arm’s length.
* * *
Later, I find Luna in the barn, feeding the goats. She’s humming. Not a song I know, but a low, steady tune that sounds more like memory than music.
“You ever think about leaving?” I ask, surprising both of us.
She looks up, startled. “The ranch?”
“No. Anywhere. Everything. Life.”
She leans against the rail and thinks about it. “Not anymore,” she says. “Used to. I thought running meant freedom. Turns out it just makes the world feel smaller.”
I nod slowly.
She doesn’t fill the silence. She lets it sit. I respect that.
I clear my throat. “Minister’s coming day after tomorrow to marry us. Same one who did Henry and Shay’s ceremony.”
Luna tilts her head like she’s absorbing my words before asking calmly, “Here at the house?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Living room. Shay’s already planning to decorate like it’s a damn magazine shoot. She’ll probably make you wear flowers.”
Her lips twitch, her brown eyes shimmering with amusement. “Will you be wearing flowers?”
That gets me a genuine smile. “Hell, no.”
“Sounds like you have everything organized,” she says, voice light but steady, “so I guess I better not run.”
“You better not.” My words come out rougher than I mean.
Luna looks at me for a long moment, then nods. “I won’t,” she agrees softly.
I blow out a breath, like maybe she was considering it. “You’ll have full access to the house and accounts for groceries. You don’t owe me anything past what’s required for the will.”
“I understand.”
“If anyone asks, we’re married like anyone else. But in private? You can live however you want. I’m not here to control you.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
“I just—” I stop. Clench my jaw. “I want you to feel safe here.”
She tilts her head, studying me. Then, “Do you feel safe here?”
Not with her asking questions like that. Not with her looking at me like she wants my honest answer.
Because the answer is no.
Not when someone’s messing with the land.
Not when I don’t know if I’m doing right by the people counting on me.
But mostly because I can’t stop watching Luna like she’s a storm I don’t know whether to run from or reach for.
* * *
That night, I dream of Mom for the first time in weeks.
She’s sitting on the porch, sipping tea, watching the fields like she used to. Luna’s there too, barefoot and laughing, telling a story I can’t hear.
And I realize I’ve been wrong.
This isn’t simply about keeping the ranch.
It’s about keeping what makes it home.