Wrangled By the Cowboy (Havenstone: Mail Order Brides #4)

Chapter 1

Delaney

The twenty-minute drive from Havenridge to Stoneridge feels longer when I’m replaying every infuriating thing Daniel Sutton said yesterday. Which I am. Because apparently, I’m a glutton for punishment.

Your system isn’t a system, it’s organized chaos.

Organized chaos. Like he’s one to talk. The man color-codes his color codes. He’s got a backup plan for his backup plan’s backup plan. And somehow, I’m the problem.

But I’m also the solution. Three weeks into this job, and I’ve already saved him six thousand dollars in vendor consolidation. Found a feed discrepancy that’s been bleeding money for months. Reorganized the filing system so that someone other than Daniel can actually find things.

He hates that I’m good at this. I can see it in the way his jaw ticks when I’m right.

I kind of love that I’m good at this.

I grip the steering wheel and watch the sun crawl over the eastern pastures, painting everything gold and rose like Montana’s putting on a show just for me.

The familiar ache settles behind my sternum as I leave Havenridge land. Kitty, my sister, is there. Happy. Married to Tom. Living the life she deserves.

I chose to stay. Could have left after Tom picked Kitty. Packed my bags and driven until Montana was a speck in my rearview mirror. But besides leaving my sister, where would I go? I’m not giving it up because Daniel Sutton makes me want to scream.

Amongst other things.

But mostly scream.

The dust on my windshield obscures my vision as I scale the winding road, and I make a mental note to wash the truck this weekend. Add it to the list that never ends. But it keeps my body moving and stops my brain from thinking too hard.

Gravel crunches under my tires as I turn onto Stoneridge’s main drive.

I steel myself for another day in the company of Daniel Sutton, the drill sergeant with the whiskey voice and broad shoulders.

The man is infuriating with his impossible need to control every little thing that goes on at this ranch.

He was even stupid enough to try it on me.

Not happening, cowboy.

The morning goes sideways before I even get my coffee.

I’m barely through the office door when my phone buzzes.

Dr. Blake. The vet.

“Delaney, I’m so sorry, but my daughter woke up with a fever and—”

“Strep?” I’m already pulling up the schedule on my laptop, one-handed.

“How did you—”

“It’s going around. Don’t worry about it. Can you do two o’clock instead?”

Relief floods his voice. “That would be perfect. You’re a lifesaver.”

I’m already rearranging the day in my head. Vet pushed to afternoon means the morning crew can focus on the fence repair in the north pasture. Which means I need to redirect Ethan and his team, who are currently—

My phone buzzes again. Elk Ridge Feed the one Daniel mocked last week for being “analog in a digital age.” The same Daniel who still uses a paper calendar on his wall because he doesn’t trust cloud storage.

Hypocrite.

I hang up and take a breath. Coffee. I need coffee before I can—

“The vet’s running late. He was supposed to be here at seven.”

Daniel fills the doorway—six-foot-three of broad shoulders and sharp gray eyes, his muscular arms crossed over a chest that has no business being that distracting at seven-thirty in the morning.

The office seems to shrink the moment he steps inside.

His presence gobbles up every scrap of oxygen in the room—right down to the tiny alveoli trying to do their job in my lungs.

“Dr. Blake’s daughter has strep throat. I moved him to two. The pregnant heifer isn’t going anywhere.”

“You should’ve told me.”

I grit my teeth. “I’m telling you now. You’re welcome.”

Something flickers across his face before his jaw tightens. “And the feed delivery?”

“Half today, half Thursday. I’ve already adjusted the rotation to compensate.” I flip open my notebook and show him the scribbled schedule. “Ethan’s crew can handle the north fence this morning instead of this afternoon. It works in our favor because the afternoon heat’s been brutal lately—”

“That’s not the schedule.”

“It’s the new schedule which takes reality into account instead of the previous system.”

His eyes narrow. “My schedules work.”

“Your schedules are color-coded fantasy. They only work when nothing goes wrong. Things go wrong, Daniel. That’s literally the definition of ranching.”

“If you’d just follow the protocols I set up—”

“Your protocols assume everyone else is a robot. Newsflash: they’re not. Dr. Blake has a sick kid. The feed supplier had a mix-up. It happens, but I handled it because it’s my job.”

“You were hired to coordinate with me, not around me.”

“Hard to coordinate with someone who’s never in the office.”

His shoulders tighten. The pen he always carries appears in his hand, tap-tap-tapping against his thigh in that rhythm I’ve learned means Daniel is Processing Things He Doesn’t Like.

We’re close now. Way too close. I don’t remember him moving, don’t remember myself leaning in, but here we are—breaths tangling, heat sparking.

My nipples tighten against my bra, a sharp, traitorous ache.

Heat pulses low in my core like my body has just noticed the size of him, the scent of him, the fact that his focus is locked entirely on me.

It’s absurd—this office, this argument, this full-body reaction—yet neither of us backs down. We’re squared off like boxers before a match, except I’m pretty sure the only thing I’m in danger of is throwing myself at him and calling it a tie.

“You two need a room or a referee?”

We spring apart.

Miss Maggie stands in the doorway Daniel just vacated, two mugs of coffee in her weathered hands and a knowing smirk on her face. Her white braid is pinned up in its usual crown, and she’s wearing a flannel shirt over what I’m pretty sure is a sequined tank top.

“Coffee,” she announces, like she didn’t just catch us inches from either murder or... something else.

She sets the mugs on my desk and gives us both a look that makes me feel like I’ve been busted trying to microwave a fork.

I lower my gaze. “Thanks, Miss Maggie.”

Daniel clears his throat. “I need to check on the north crew.”

He’s gone before I can respond, boots heavy on the wooden floor. I’m left standing in the office with Miss Maggie’s thoughtful gaze on me and heat crawling up my neck.

“Seems neither of you has the sense God gave a goat,” Miss Maggie says cryptically. She pats my arm. “Drink your coffee, honey. You’re gonna need it.”

I escape to the barn.

It’s not running away. It’s strategic relocation. I need to check on the supply inventory anyway, and if that happens to put two hundred feet and several walls between Daniel Sutton and me, well, that’s just efficient multitasking.

Because… what the hell was that back in the office?

I catalog the moment against my will.

His shoulder brushing mine when he leaned in.

The heat in his eyes, equal parts irritation and… something I am absolutely not naming.

The pulse between my legs that had no business showing up at that meeting.

My nipples are still tingling, for God’s sake. They’re practically doing jazz hands in my bra.

I yank open the tack-room door a little too hard. A coil of rope tumbles out and smacks me in the shin, which feels like cosmic commentary: get a grip, Delaney.

I crouch to pick it up, breathing deep—hay, leather, dust. Safe smells. Non-Daniel smells. The barn is cool and quiet, sunlight striping the floor in neat, orderly lines. Unlike my brain, which is currently a rave hosted by lust and denial.

I make a show of inspecting the feed bins, counting bags I counted yesterday, pretending I have any idea what I’m looking at. All to erase the way my body reacted to that man… and the way he looked at me like he felt it too.

“Professional,” I mutter to myself. “We keep things professional.”

I press my palms against my eyes and groan.

I’ve spent too many years not wanting things. Want leads to disappointment. Disappointment leads to that hollow feeling I can’t afford. So, I work. I survive. I refuse to want. I definitely don’t want Daniel Sutton’s hands on me. His mouth on mine. His tongue—

Nope.

No way.

My core throbs, unconvinced.

I sink onto a hay bale and breathe.

A loud squawk makes me jump.

A rooster stands two feet away, head cocked, beady eyes fixed on me as if deciding whether to peck me to death.

Ethan calls him the demon rooster.

“Be nice, Major Pecker,” I tell him, my mouth twitching with repressed humor. The rooster’s moniker is another of Tom’s deeply questionable naming choices. “I’m having a rough day.”

He ruffles his feathers and hops a step closer.

I frown. Major Pecker is the most antisocial rooster in Havenstone.

Another hop. Now he’s right next to my booted foot, close enough for me to see the iridescent sheen on his black feathers and the sharp curve of his spurs.

This is… unprecedented. Should I move? Go inside? Call for backup?

I decide to hold my ground.

He hops up onto the hay bale, settles beside my thigh, and tucks his feet under his body like a cat.

“What the hell?” I whisper.

Slowly and carefully, I reach out.

My fingers brush against warm feathers, and he leans into the touch.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I whisper.

Major Pecker lets out a low, satisfied cluck and closes one eye, like he’s decided I’m trustworthy.

“That’s it?” I murmur. “You terrorize everyone on this ranch, but I get your stamp of approval?”

He presses closer, feathers warm against my leg, utterly unbothered.

I swallow the sudden lump in my throat. “Huh.”

Somehow, being chosen by the antisocial rooster feels oddly… wonderful.

By the time I make it back to my office to grab my things that evening, the day has evened out. It didn’t start well, but I handled it. Every curveball, every moment I wanted to bolt. That counts. And as small as it sounds, it’s enough to remind me why I fought so hard to stay.

The lock—the one that’s been sticking for two weeks, the one I’ve been meaning to report but kept forgetting—turns smoothly under my hand. No resistance. No jamming.

I frown. Open the door. Close it. Try the lock again.

Smooth as silk.

I don’t remember anyone fixing it. Don’t remember putting in a work order. But someone did, because locks don’t just fix themselves.

I grab my bag and head for my truck. I survived another day—another day of proving I belong here. That I'm more than the rejected bride. More than Kitty’s caretaker. More than a woman with nowhere else to go.

The drive back to Havenridge is peaceful. I should be mentally preparing tomorrow’s schedule, the supply order that needs adjusting, the hundred small tasks that keep this ranch running.

Instead, I’m thinking about Daniel Sutton in ways I shouldn’t be. Because he’s my boss. And a pain in my ass. With big hands that promise sin and thighs that look like they’ll deliver it.

I blow out a shaky breath and turn up the radio to drown out the awareness humming under my skin.

This is fine. Nothing to worry about. Just proximity and adrenaline. My body being an idiot because I haven't been around an attractive man in… well, ever.

I grip the steering wheel and watch the road unspool ahead of me.

The way he watches me doesn’t mean anything. He’s just making sure his charity hire doesn’t screw up the ranch his family built. Now is not the time to start believing in fairy tales where the grumpy cowboy sees something in you that no one else ever has.

Because falling for Daniel Sutton isn’t part of my plan.