Auctioned to the Cowboy Sneak Peek
Blurb
Marry by Christmas or lose it all—but he never expected his mail-order bride to steal his heart too.
Henry
I thought losing my mom before the holidays would be the hardest thing I’d ever have to face–until her will threw me a curveball: marry by Christmas, or the family ranch is gone.
I swore off marriage once before, and a wife wasn’t part of my plans for the future.
But my brothers had other ideas and bought me a bride.
Shay is everything I didn’t expect–beautiful, kind, and full of sunshine.
She needs a way out of her old life, and I need a wife.
Our agreement is simple: a marriage of convenience, no strings, no messy emotions.
But as Christmas draws near and the snow begins to fall, the lines we drew start to blur, and guarding my heart becomes the hardest job of all.
Maybe Mom knew exactly what she was doing after all, giving me a second chance to embrace love just in time for Christmas.
Sneak Peek
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.
Havenridge has always been more than a ranch.
And 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 the holy state of matrimony. 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 unwavering 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 the Veterans Day Fundraiser. 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 launched the Veterans’ Day Fundraiser with his friend, James Hayes, after they left the military. He and Dad built this program from the ground up, turning an idea into something that’s saved lives.
They go back years—brothers in arms long before James became a lawman and the sheriff of Havenstone County. They fought side by side, bled for each other, and carried the weight of war long after coming home.
But they also knew not everyone made it back the same.
That’s why they started the Veterans Day Fundraiser—to keep Havenridge Ranch running, to make sure no soldier had to fight their battles alone.
Every dollar raised tonight goes toward keeping the doors open, the beds filled, the therapy programs running. Toward making sure those who gave everything for their country have something waiting for them when they return.
Because a soldier’s fight doesn’t end because the war is over.
Which is why Mom’s will stipulation is so damn frustrating.
I run a hand through my hair, staring into the fire, letting the heat seep into my skin like it might burn away the problem. Marry or watch Havenridge Ranch turn into some twisted carnival sideshow.
It doesn’t feel real.
But the will is real. The deadline is real.
And my mother, the woman who spent her life making sure this ranch stood strong, knew exactly what she was doing.
Some even said she had a kind of foresight, not that I ever believed in that hocus-pocus nonsense.
Although, I can’t deny that her tea-leaf readings always had a way of being eerily accurate.
Not that I’d ever admit it out loud.
Mom used to sit at the kitchen table, a chipped ceramic mug in hand, swirling the last dregs of her tea like she could read the damn future in the patterns it left behind. Sometimes she’d smile knowingly, other times she’d shake her head, muttering things that didn’t make sense—until they did.
She used to glance at me over the rim of her mug, eyes twinkling with something unreadable, and say, “You’ll have to be backed into a corner before you admit what you really want, Hank.”
At the time, I rolled my eyes, brushed it off.