Page 16 of Claimed by the Cowboy (Havenstone: Mail Order Brides #3)

Kitty

“Looking good out here!”

We glance up to see Delaney approaching, carrying a tray of steaming coffee mugs. She’s transformed since we first stepped off the bus—sun-kissed skin, muscles taut from hard work, an ease in her smile that makes her look younger, freer.

“Thank you,” I say, gratefully accepting a mug and sitting back on my heels.

“Saint Delaney,” Luna sighs happily, wrapping her hands around hers. “If you keep bringing me caffeine like this, I’ll never let you leave. ”

Delaney snorts, lowering herself onto an overturned bucket. “Don’t tempt me. Between inventory lists and payroll, I barely leave the office as it is.”

“How’s the supply inventory going?” I ask.

Her eyes narrow slightly. “I swear that man could organize dust motes if you gave him a chart.”

“Sounds like someone’s thorough,” Luna says, trying—and failing—not to smirk.

“He’s obsessive,” Delaney corrects, blowing on her coffee. “I know he’s passionate about the veterans program, but does every bolt in the supply shed need classifying with a serial number? I’m expecting to find barcodes on the hay bales next.”

“Ooh, are we talking about Drill-Sergeant Daniel?” a chirpy voice asks from behind us.

We all turn as George appears, wiping grease-stained hands on a rag as she strolls over from the far barn where one of the ranch tractors sits half-dismantled. She’s wearing coveralls, a baseball cap sitting crookedly on her chestnut hair secured in a messy braid, and oil smears her cheek .

George flops down cross-legged in the grass.

“Daniel once made me re-label the entire trailer storage because my handwriting wasn’t legible enough for his system.

Stood there with his clipboard like he was mapping out a ten-thousand-head cattle drive.

Said the vets couldn’t tell if I’d written wrench or wench .

As if anyone would confuse the two. He’s lucky I didn’t throw the wrench at him. ”

“Speak of the devil,” Delaney mutters into her coffee mug.

Daniel strides into view. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, dressed down in worn jeans and a Henley rolled to the elbows. The Army Ranger is still in him—the alert way he holds himself, how he scans the horizon before focusing on us.

Delaney sits up straighter, chin tilting in that subtle way it does when she’s about to spar. “Well, if it isn’t the supply-chain dictator himself.”

Daniel’s mouth quirks. “Glad to see you’re finally admitting the system works.” His gaze flicks to the tray. “And drinking my coffee while you insult me.”

“This is ranch coffee,” Delaney fires back. “It doesn’t belong to you.”

“You’re only saying that because you didn’t brew it right,” he deadpans, a spark in his gray eyes.

Luna and I exchange a look over the rims of our mugs, biting back smiles.

George mutters, “Here we go,” under her breath.

Sure enough, the two of them fall into what has become their usual rhythm—snappy back-and-forth, sharp enough to sting. But their banter is also threaded with a warmth they’d both deny if anyone pointed it out.

“I told you,” Delaney says, exasperated. “We have plenty of rope and med kits.”

“For this month,” Daniel replies smoothly. “But the fall gather’s around the corner. And if I don’t start lining things up now, we’ll be short on supplies before the first steer hits the pens. Not to mention the spring drive. Planning starts early if you want it done right.”

Delaney throws up a hand. “It’s early August, Daniel. ”

“Exactly.” He doesn’t blink. “Which means we’re already behind.”

“Control freak,” Delaney mutters, taking a long sip of coffee.

Daniel smirks, clearly enjoying himself. Then he shifts, businesslike again. “Speaking of which, you ready to get back to it? The supply manifests aren’t going to check themselves.”

She stares at him as if she’s deciding whether to argue or dump her coffee over his head. Rising to her feet, she mumbles, “Fine, let’s get this done so I can get some peace.”

Daniel’s mouth twitches. “No peace for the wicked, Delaney.”

Delaney splutters, nearly sloshing her coffee. “Are you suggesting I’m?—”

Daniel turns and strides toward the barns before she can finish, shoulders straight, like he didn’t just drop a grenade.

Luna hides a grin behind her mug.

George snorts.

Delaney glares, her cheeks pink. “Infuriating man!”

She slams her mug onto the wooden railing before stomping after him.

Luna leans closer to me, whispering, “She’s going to murder him one of these days.”

“Or kiss him.” George smirks as she pushes to her feet. “Could go either way.”

“Talking of kissing, how are things with Beckett?” Luna asks with a knowing look.

“You know what these ex-military men are like,” George says, shaking her head.

“He still triple-checks the locks, polishes his knives like they’re museum pieces, and lectures me if I skip breakfast.” Her expression softens.

“But then he drops off a cold bottle of water when I’m working in ninety-degree heat and looks at me like I invented oxygen, and I’m a puddle of hormones. ”

I smile at the contrast—the mechanic who hides her tenderness under sarcasm but can’t disguise how much she adores Beckett.

Luna laughs. “That’s disgustingly sweet. ”

“Don’t spread it around,” George deadpans. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

Luna’s expression shifts, more serious now. “I still can’t believe Deputy Wade turned out to be such a creep. After everything…”

George’s jaw tightens. “Yeah. Corruption, bribes, tipping off traffickers—you name it, he did it. He hid behind his badge and made my dad look like a fool in his own department,” she says, referring to her father, Sheriff Lucas.

“Not to mention, he used his position to corner me into something I didn’t want. Thought I’d be too scared to say no.”

My stomach knots, but George squares her shoulders, fierce and steady. “Guys like Wade don’t win in the long run. Beckett and I are proof of that. I finally stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop and let myself be happy. Feels damn good.”

Luna reaches out and squeezes George's arm. “You deserve it. Both of you.”

“Thanks.” George grins and pats Luna’s hand. “Now, I’ve got a tractor that thinks it’s possessed, and unless one of you wants to learn how to exorcise carburetors, I better get back to work. ”

She saunters off toward the barn with her braid swinging, leaving us both laughing.

Luna and I continue to work in comfortable silence, Luna spacing the chamomile seedlings while I add compost to each little hole. It's peaceful work, the kind that lets your mind wander while your hands stay busy.

Wincing, I rub my forehead as my headache from earlier returns. Nothing dramatic—just that annoying pressure I’ve felt on and off the past couple of days.

“You okay?” Luna asks, seeing me wince.

“Just a little headache.” I reach for my water bottle, which I filled from the well earlier like I always do, and take a long drink.

By the time we finish work, the thumping in my temples gets worse. It isn’t unbearable, but it’s uncomfortable enough to make me squint against the bright Montana sunshine.

“I think I'll take a break,” I say, wiping dirt from my hands. “Maybe get some aspirin.”

“Good idea. We’ve been out here for three hours.” Luna stands, brushing soil from her knees.

We gather our tools and head toward the house, but halfway across the yard, something feels off. Not the headache—that’s still there, throbbing steadily—but something else. A strange flutter in my chest, like my heart is beating slightly out of rhythm.

I pause, pressing my hand to my sternum.

“Kitty?” Luna stops beside me. “What is it?”

I take a deep breath, but it doesn’t feel quite right. Not the sharp tightness of asthma, but as if my lungs aren’t expanding completely. “Nothing. Just... a bit breathless.”

Instinct kicks in. My hand dives into my pocket, pulling out the rescue inhaler I still carry everywhere. I shake it, bring it to my lips, and press the canister. The familiar puff fills my lungs. Relief should come within seconds.

It doesn’t.

I wait, pulse racing. Still no relief. The wrongness deepens .

“Kitty?” Luna touches my arm, her voice now edged with alarm.

“Doesn’t… feel like asthma,” I manage, tucking the inhaler back into my pocket. “It's probably nothing. Just need to sit down.”

Except it doesn't feel like nothing. It feels like something creeping through my system, subtle but wrong.The flutter in my chest increases as we climb the porch steps. And now I have a weird taste in my mouth—metallic and unpleasant.

In the kitchen, I down two aspirin with another glass of water while Luna makes sandwiches for lunch. The headache hasn't improved, and the strange taste is getting stronger.

My heart continues its irregular rhythm, and breathing is becoming more difficult by the minute.

“You know, I’m not hungry. I think I’ll lie down for a bit,” I say, rising from the table.

I make it to the living room before the dizziness hits.

It starts as a slight unsteadiness, but as I sink onto the sofa, the room tilts. Colors suddenly seem too bright, and everything goes soft at the edges.

“This is weird,” I whisper to myself, closing my eyes and trying to breathe deeply.

But breathing is getting harder. Not the familiar wheeze of asthma, but like something is coating the inside of my lungs, making it difficult for air to pass through properly.

The front door opens, and I hear Tom call out a greeting. Relief floods through me.

“Hey, darlin’,” he says, appearing in front of me with a smile that fades the moment he sees me. “You feeling worse?”

I open my mouth to reply, but forming words is too much of an effort.

He crosses to me in three quick strides, settling beside me on the sofa and pulling me against his side.

His large hand cups the back of my neck, thumb stroking the sensitive skin there in the way that usually makes me purr.

But today, even his touch can’t chase away the wrongness spreading through my system.

“You’re not running a fever,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to my forehead to check my temperature. The gesture is so perfectly Tom—practical care wrapped in affection.

“Probably… overdid it …in the garden,” I huff, leaning into his solid warmth, grateful for his presence. “I’ll… be fine.”

Tom’s arms tighten around me, and he goes very still.“Kitty.” His voice has changed, taking on the sharp edge I’ve only heard a few times. “Look at me.”

I tip my head back to meet his gaze, and his face swims slightly before coming into focus.

“Your pupils are dilated,” he says quietly, one hand coming up to cup my face. “And your lips have a blue tinge.”

“Blue?” I touch my mouth with trembling fingers. “That’s not... That doesn’t… sound good.”

Tom pulls out his phone, his voice suddenly sharp with command. “Delaney? Need you at the house. It’s Kitty.” Pause. “Dunno. Just get your ass back here.”

My sister bursts into the house less than two minutes later. She takes one look at me curled against Tom's chest and goes pale. “Kitty, you look terrible.”She kneels in front of me. “Breathe for me, sweetheart—slow if you can. Any chest pain? Nausea? Did this come on fast?”

I try to answer, but the words stumble out in gasps. “Tight chest… headache… couple weeks… inhaler didn’t help.”

“It’s not asthma,” she mutters grimly, knowing the usual signs as well as I do. “Tom, she’s in trouble.”

“I know,” he says flatly. He punches three numbers into his phone, his free hand stroking through my hair in soothing motions. “...need an ambulance at Havenridge Ranch... respiratory distress, unknown cause... yes, she's conscious...”

Ambulance? The word penetrates the growing fog in my brain with sharp clarity.

“Tom, I’m… okay,” I protest weakly, trying to sit up straighter. “I don’t need?—”

The world tilts violently, and suddenly, I can’t catch my breath at all. It’s like trying to breathe through a straw that’s getting smaller and smaller.

“Can’t”—I gasp, clutching at my throat—“breathe...”

Tom’s demeanor transforms completely. My gentle husband disappears, replaced by someone harder, more dangerous. But his hands remain infinitely tender as he positions me more upright against his chest.

“Easy, darlin’. Don’t panic. I’ve got you.” His voice is steady, but tension radiates through his powerful frame. “Focus on my voice. In and out. Match my breathing.”

But I am panicking because something is very wrong with my body, and I don’t understand what’s happening.

“My chest,” I wheeze, pressing both hands to my sternum. “Feels like... closing up.”

“I know, baby. I know.” His lips press against my temple, breath warm against my skin. “We’re going to get you help. Just stay with me. Focus on my voice. In and out. Match my breathing.”

I try, but all I can think is that my worst nightmare is coming true.

The edges of the room darken, Tom’s voice the only thing anchoring me as sirens wail faintly in the distance—coming closer, but maybe not fast enough.