13. Angus
Chapter 13
Angus
Luna hands me a mug of coffee and settles on the porch swing beside me with hers.
It’s been a week since the night of the storm. A week of quiet moments and cautious steps. A week of loving her every night, her falling asleep in my bed— our bed—and me trying to believe I deserve it.
I’ve never wanted mornings before her.
Not like this.
The sun’s not quite up yet, still a low haze bleeding into the sky. The world is soft around the edges—no chores, no voices, only the creak of the porch swing and the occasional clink of ceramic. The morning air carries the faintest whisper of thaw—still cold, but the porch stove hums steadily, throwing off enough heat to keep us warm.
Luna pulls her legs up beside her and tucks her toes under my thigh like she’s been doing it for years. We sit in silence for a while. Not because we’re avoiding anything but because silence never feels empty with her.
She sips her coffee and stares out across the frosted fields, her profile lit gold by the early light. Hair messy. Hoodie too big. Because it’s mine.
My chest tightens. I’m not used to this kind of peace. Not without the other shoe dropping.
“I like this,” she says finally, her voice soft. “The quiet. The coffee. You.”
I grunt. Not because I disagree. But because same.
She smiles behind her mug, eyes flicking toward mine like she’s used to my grunts of affection by now.
And then she murmurs, “I never stayed anywhere long. I was placed in my first foster home at ten. Then twelve. Fourteen.”
I wrap my hand around her ankle where it’s tucked beneath my thigh but don’t interrupt, letting her find the words in her own time.
“I had one placement that lasted two years. They got my first smartphone. They had a golden retriever named Beans who used to sneak into my bed at night.” She pauses, swallowing hard, gaze distant. “I thought they were going to adopt me. I really did. But then their daughter got pregnant at sixteen, and suddenly, there wasn’t room for me anymore.”
My grip tightens enough to say, I hear you. I’m here.
“There were bad homes too,” she says softly. “One with cockroaches and mold. One where they withheld food as punishment. One where I slept with my shoes on because I never knew if I’d get moved in the night.”
My jaw clenches, but I keep still. She doesn’t need my rage. She needs my presence.
Luna stares at the flames dancing in the stove. “I stopped letting myself want things. It was easier. Wanting meant disappointment. Needing meant risk.”
I don’t say I’m sorry. She’s not looking for pity. I just slide my thumb slowly across her ankle—steady, grounding. A silent promise that I’m here. That I’m not going anywhere.
She turns her head, eyes fixed on the horizon like it might offer her answers. “My file said I was found at a hospital. No name. No blanket. Nothing. Just… me.” Her voice is quiet, but each word lands with weight. “I used to make up reasons my parents didn’t keep me. Maybe they were too young. Sick. Scared. Anything to make it not about me.”
She swallows hard. “But deep down, I always wondered if it was because I was… unlovable.”
A breath shudders out of her. “It was a full moon the night I was found. That’s why they called me Luna. The name felt like a placeholder. Something temporary until my parents came back for me. But they never did. Monroe was the name of the social worker who handled my case. So that’s who I became. Luna Monroe. A foundling under a full moon.”
She pauses, blinking against the tears in her eyes.
“But now I say my name—Luna Sutton—and for the first time, it feels real. It feels like mine . Because I chose it when I chose you. I’m not the girl left behind anymore. I’m the woman who stayed. Who was seen. Wanted. Loved. ”
My throat tightens and my chest aches.
I shift closer, threading my fingers through hers. “That’s exactly who you are.”
The swing creaks gently as it sways, the rhythm slow and soothing. Luna’s thumb brushes over mine absently, and something inside me stills, like it’s finally found a place to rest.
“I don’t tell people these things,” she says after a long pause. Her voice is quieter now, as if the words are reluctant to come. “I thought that if I said them out loud, they’d be real. And if they were real, they’d always own me.”
I lift our joined hands to my lips and kiss her knuckles—chapped from work and wind, callused in places from living too hard for too long.
“They don’t own you,” I say. “Not anymore.”
She leans her head against my shoulder, and I feel her exhale. A sob. A surrender. The good kind.
Her shoulders tremble against me. And suddenly, she’s crying.
Not loud. Not messy. Silent tears that slip down her cheeks like a dam finally gave way.
I say nothing. I don’t ask her to stop. I don’t tell her it’s okay. I pull her closer, pressing my lips to her temple as I hold her through it.
Like I’ve got all the time in the world.
Because I do. For her, I do.
After a while, her breathing slows. The storm inside her eases. She stays tucked against me, eyes closed, cheek resting over my heart.
“Beans used to snore,” she mumbles after a beat, voice hoarse but lighter somehow. “Loudest dog I’ve ever met. He’d wiggle under the covers and pass out with his feet in my ribs. And he drooled.”
I chuckle. “I promise not to drool or pass out in bed with my feet in your ribs. Well, not unless it’s a kink you want to explore.”
Luna huffs out a soft laugh. “Weirdo.”
“ Your weirdo,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
She sighs happily. “Yes, you are.”
I meet her gaze. “I meant it when I said I wanted forever. Cows, goats, chaos… all of it. With you.”
She studies me for a moment as if she’s trying to memorize this version of me—the one who smiles and uses full sentences. “Even if I snore?”
“I’ll record it and make it my ringtone.”
That earns me another of those laughs I’ve come to love so much as she snuggles into me again.
We sit like that for a while. Breathing. Being.
The wind picks up across the fields, whistling low through the porch boards. Somewhere inside the house, a kettle starts to hiss.
She doesn’t move. Neither do I.
We’ve both weathered life’s storms. A little dented, a little rusted, but still standing.
Still capable of love.
Because sometimes healing doesn’t look like breakthroughs or declarations.
Sometimes it looks like silence shared and a woman leaning against a man who’s not going anywhere.
* * *
Later that afternoon, Tom bursts into the house like a man with news.
“Got something weird,” he says, brandishing his phone.
I raise a brow. “You finally realized you have opposable thumbs and learned how to text?”
He rolls his eyes and tosses me the phone. “It’s a message from Daniel on our family group chat,” he says, referring to one of our cousins.
Jacob—my dad’s brother—owns the ranch across the valley from us with his three sons. He and Dad haven’t spoken in years, though no one ever says why. Whatever cracked between them stayed unspoken, like a landmine buried too deep to dig up. But that rift never touched the rest of us. Tom, Henry, and I grew up close with our cousins, and nothing about the bad blood between our fathers ever got in the way of that. There’s tension, sure—quiet, steady, always humming beneath the surface—but family’s family. Even when it’s complicated.
I drop my gaze to Tom’s phone, reading Daniel’s message.
Anyone else getting these offers? They’re saying we should sell before more things go wrong. Sounds like a threat.
A screenshot of a flyer is attached. No logo. No company name. Just a local number and bolded text:
SELL SMART. BEFORE YOU LOSE MORE.
I frown.
“Think it’s a rival ranch?” Tom asks.
“No,” I say.
The words feel too polished. Too professional. A quiet menace that doesn’t come from neighbors. It comes from people with plans .
People who don’t care about what land means, only what it’s worth. The same people committing acts of sabotage on the ranch?
I don’t say it out loud. Not yet. I tuck it into the box of worry in the back of my mind and close the lid tight.
* * *
That night, halfway through dinner, Shay suddenly goes still.
One moment, she’s laughing and teasing Tom about his third helping of lasagna; the next, her hand flies to her belly, and her body tenses.
Her fork clatters to the plate.
Henry’s out of his chair in a blink. “Shay? What is it? What’s wrong?”
She exhales through clenched teeth, eyes shut. “Cramp. Sharp. Low.”
The room stills.
Then Ben bolts up. “We’re going to the hospital.”
“It’s probably nothing,” Shay mutters, but her hand hasn’t moved. Her face is pale.
Henry’s already at her side. “Let’s go.”
I don’t say a word. I just move—grab coats, boots, car keys. Luna helps Shay up while I throw a blanket around her shoulders. She winces but doesn’t protest. That alone sets my nerves buzzing.
We don’t waste time.
The house empties in minutes. Ben and Tom take one truck. I take the other with Luna in the passenger seat and Henry and Shay in the back.
Henry whispers to her. “You’re okay. You’re doing great. Just breathe.” Like silence might undo them both.
Shay grips my hand, tension knotting her jaw every time a new cramp rolls through her.
“I don’t think it’s labor,” she says softly, more to herself than to us. “Too early. It doesn’t feel… rhythmic. Just tight. Pressure.”
Still, I see the flicker of fear in her eyes in the rearview mirror.
I focus on driving, jaw locked, hands tight on the wheel. I don’t speak, but every so often, my gaze finds Luna’s. And those warm brown eyes keep me steady.
We get there fast.
The nurses move quickly but calmly. Shay is hooked up to monitors, her vitals checked, belly examined. Henry hovers beside her, white-knuckled and quiet, brushing strands of auburn hair from her forehead while she breathes through another cramp.
The doctor comes in and listens. She asks questions. Then smiles gently and says, “Good news. The baby’s fine. Heartbeat is strong. It’s not labor—it’s Braxton Hicks. False contractions. They can occur as early as twenty weeks. But given the intensity, it could also be mild dehydration.”
The nurse gives Shay some fluids, and the doctor recommends overnight observation to be safe before she leaves.
Shay bursts into tears—not from pain, but from the release of it all. Henry pulls her into him, holding her while she laughs and cries at the same time.
By the time the room quiets and they settle in, the panic has passed. The machines beep steady and soft, and the fluorescent lights hum above as the world returns to normal speed.
“You guys head home. I’ll stay with Shay,” he says as he comforts his wife.
I nod and squeeze his shoulder on my way out, but not before glancing once more at Shay—tucked into the narrow hospital bed, IV in her arm, Henry curled up awkwardly in the visitor chair as he keeps vigil.
Outside, the night is cold and quiet. Sleet slicks the pavement. The trucks are still parked where we left them.
Dad scrubs a hand down his face. “Five months along and already keeping us on our toes.”
“Yeah. Thank God they’re both okay.” Tom says as he and Dad climb into their truck. His gaze flicks to Luna and me. “We’ll see you back at the ranch.”
I help Luna into the truck before sliding behind the wheel. I don’t start the engine right away. I place my hands and watch Dad and Tom’s taillights disappearing into the night.
Luna’s voice is soft. “That scared me.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”
A beat.
She swallows hard and looks at me. “Would you ever want that? Kids?”
It’s not a question I expected. Not tonight.
“I’ve never wanted anything I couldn’t earn. Not land, not respect, not peace. I never wanted what I didn’t work for with blood or bruises or long hours under the Montana sky.” I pause, holding her liquid brown eyes. “But a baby with you? God help me—I want that someday.”
“I want that too. Something that’s ours. That no one can take away,” Luna whispers. She drops her gaze to our joined hands. “But I don’t know if I’d be any good at it. It’s not like I had role models.”
“No, but you’ve got instincts. You helped deliver a foal. Helped keep Shay calm tonight. You show up, even when you’re scared. That’s more than half of it.” I brush a thumb across her knuckles. “And you have more heart than most people I know.”
She bites her lip, blinking fast. “You’re gonna make me cry again.”
“Then cry,” I murmur. “I’ll still be here.”
And she does. A few quiet, unashamed tears. I don’t speak. I shift the truck into gear and drive us home through the sleet-slick dark, her hand warm in mine the whole way.