Page 2 of Claimed by the Cowboy (Havenstone: Mail Order Brides #3)

Kitty

The cowboy walking toward us moves like he owns the world.

Long-legged strides eat up the cracked asphalt, broad shoulders filling out his blue flannel shirt in ways that make my mouth go dry. Dark hair falls across his forehead, and when he gets close enough, I can see his eyes are the kind of blue that makes you think of summer skies and deep water.

I should not be staring at him like this. He belongs to Delaney. Not me.

I step back, bumping into the warm metal of the bus, and another wave of sneezes threatens to embarrass me further .

The cowboy stops about ten feet away, and when his gaze finds mine, heat unfurls low in my belly. He’s not simply looking at me—he’s seeing me. Like I’m worth his attention.

When was the last time a man looked at me like that?

Um, never.

“Tom Sutton?” Delaney asks again, though she already knows the answer.

He nods, then winces a little, rubbing his jaw. “Yesh,” he mumbles, his voice thick and slurred.

Delaney’s brows draw together. “Are you… drunk?”

He shakes his head quickly and gestures to his cheek. “Rooh cahnal thish morning. Mouth’sh shtill numb ash a board.”

The slurred words combined with his sheepish grin make my chest flutter. Most men would try to tough it out, pretend everything is fine. But he stands there with dental-work speech and a crooked smile that somehow makes him impossibly more attractive.

“Root canal,” she echoes, grimacing. “Ouch.”

“Tell me about it. Nothing says ‘welcome to Montana’ like greeting your bride with a facesh that won’t cooperate,” he replies, though his eyes never leave mine.

The heat in my belly intensifies.

Delaney notices me staring. Of course she does.

She shifts her stance, sliding a little in front of me, protective and steady. “This is my sister, Kitty.”

Tom’s expression changes slightly, confusion flickering in his eyes. A pause. A recalibration.

Delaney lifts her chin. I know you were only expecting me, but I couldn’t leave my sister.

I should’ve said something ahead of time, but we were in a rush to get here.

” She offers a tight smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Sorry about that. But I didn’t want to take the chance that you’d decide an extra person was too much. ”

Tom blinks, caught off guard. “She’s… stayin’?”

Delaney nods. “Yes.” Her grip tightens on the suitcase handle. “We both need a fresh start. Kitty’s not here to interfere, just to be… safe. With me. ”

My big sister is used to protecting me, to stepping in first and asking forgiveness later. Her tone dares him to argue, but beneath the bravado, I recognize the way she’s bracing for rejection.

Tom’s gaze slides back to me.

“If that’s okay,” I add softly.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Finally, he nods. “Yeah. ‘Course.”

Because it’s not okay. Not really. Not when he’s staring at me like that . Not when I feel it too—the impossible, overwhelming wish that I was the woman he was here for.

And in that instant, I know that walking off that bus didn’t just change our location.

It changed everything .

Another round of sneezes overtakes me. I give a little wave, heat climbing my neck. “Sorry about the sneezing. New place, new allergens.”

His crooked grin does strange things to my nether regions. “No pineapple this time?”

I blush. “It's ridiculous—a TikTok remedy I discovered three months ago—but it works better than explaining to strangers why I sound like a broken squeeze toy half the time.”

He holds my gaze for a beat too long before turning to Delany and holding his hand out for her to shake. “Welcome to Clover Canyon. Life on Havenridge Ranch isn’t exactly… calm, so I hope you ladies don’t shcare easy,” he says, the slur making it sound more like share easy.

“We don’t,” I say before I can stop myself, lifting my chin with more spirit than I’ve shown in months. “We’ve survived worse.”

His expression sharpens. “Have you now?”

He says it like he wants to hear the whole story, as though whatever we've survived matters to him.

He extends his hand for me to shake, and when his fingers close around mine, warmth shoots straight to my core. His hand engulfs mine, rough and strong and absolutely perfect.His thumb brushes across my knuckles, such a small touch, but enough to unnerve me .

Delaney clears her throat. “Should we head to the ranch?”

Tom blinks, seeming to remember where we are, and releases my hand with obvious reluctance. He gestures toward his truck. “Thish way.”

Tom’s truck is exactly what I'd expect—a big, sturdy Ford that's seen some miles but looks like it could eat steep terrain for breakfast.

As we follow him across the parking lot, Delaney moves close to my ear. “Do you need your medicine? You look flushed.”

“I’m fine,” I lie. What else can I say? I can’t tell her that her intended husband makes my heart race faster than a panic attack? That for thirty seconds, I forgot I was the invisible sister?

As he reaches for our luggage, I catch myself memorizing details I have no business noticing. The way his shirt pulls across his shoulders. The calluses on his hands that speak of hard work and honest living. The small scar on his jaw that makes me wonder what stories he’d tell if I asked.

Stop it, I tell myself firmly. He’s here for Delaney. You’re just the sidekick, like always.

Tom opens the passenger door.?“Ladies,” he says, but his eyes are on me as I climb into the middle seat.

The cab feels intimate with the three of us packed together. My shoulder brushes Tom’s arm every time he shifts gears, and each contact sends little shocks through my system. He’s warm and solid beside me, radiating a calm strength that draws me to his side like a cat seeking warmth.

“So, tell us about Havenridge,” Delaney says as we leave town behind.

Tom launches into what’s clearly a well-rehearsed speech about the ranch, keeping it simple with his slurred speech— five thoushand acres, Black Angush cattle, goat operation .

But I’m not listening to his words. I’m studying the way his hands grip the steering wheel, strong and capable. The way his voice carries a note of deep pride when he talks about the land. How his thigh muscles flex when he shifts gears, the denim pulling tight over powerful legs.

“Alsho run veteran program,” he adds, his tone passionate. “Dad ish a former SEAL. Help guysh transhitioning.”

“That's incredible,” I say, meaning it. “My friend Toby from the library is a vet struggling to find his place. He says most civilian jobs feel meaningless after service.”

Tom glances at me, his expression serious. “Which branch?”

I lean forward slightly, drawn by the genuine interest in his voice. “Army. Three tours in Afghanistan. He volunteers at the library now, helping kids with reading programs. Says working with children gives him purpose again.”

“Shmart man. Kidsh cut through bullshit.”

After that, conversation comes naturally. Tom points out landmarks while I pepper him with questions about everything from roadside wildflowers to the peaks towering above us.

This landscape calls to something deep in my soul. After years of cramped apartments and concrete horizons, all this space feels like a gift. The mountain air fills my lungs without the usual wheeze, and for the first time in months, I can breathe deeply without my inhaler.

“Indian paintbrush,” Tom says, noticing my fascination with a patch of brilliant red flowers. “Yellow arnica. Good for brui—” He stops, touching his jaw. “Shore musclesh.”

“You know about medicinal plants?”

“Mom did. Ruth.” His voice grows soft with memory. “Had an herb garden. Taught ush boysh the bashicsh.”

Something warm unfurls in my chest. This is a man who knows about healing plants, who learned from his mother and isn’t ashamed to admit it. “I grow herbs too. Had to get creative in our apartment—tin cans hanging from the ceiling, mason jars on every windowsill.”

“Really?” He shoots me another look, this one bright with interest.

"Basil, mint, chamomile. Whatever would grow indoors under less-than-ideal conditions.” I smile at the memory. “Our landlord said it looked like a jungle, but it was the only thing that made that place feel like home.”

“You’ll love Mom'sh herb garden. Bit wild now, but...” He shrugs.

The sadness in his voice makes me want to reach out and comfort him, but I clasp my hands in my lap instead. He’s grieving his mother, and I’m sitting here having inappropriate thoughts about his smile.

When we turn down a dirt road marked Havenridge Ranch, my breath catches.

The ranch house sprawls before us like something from a magazine—honey-colored logs and a wraparound porch with flower boxes that overflow with blooms. Beyond it, red barns and white-fenced pastures stretch toward mountains that seem to touch the sky.

A new barn rises beside them, its raw, unpainted wood pale against the older, weathered buildings.

“Oh,” I breathe, and don’t care that my voice breaks with longing.

This is what I've been searching for my whole life without knowing it. Not a place, but a feeling. The sense of roots growing deep, of belonging somewhere that matters.