Page 6 of Claimed by the Cowboy (Havenstone: Mail Order Brides #3)

Tom

Kitty watches Delaney head for the house without looking back. She bites her lip, her smile flickering like she’s not sure whether to follow or stay.

“Barn’s this way,” I say, jerking my chin toward the paddock. “If you’re up for it.”

Her smile steadies, turning radiant. “Lead the way.”

My IQ drops twenty points as I soak in that smile.

I remind myself that this is about paint colors. Nothing else.

We cut across the paddock toward the barn, passing the goat enclosure on the way. The moment Pretzel spots us, her white coat gleaming in the sun, she lets out a sharp bleat and trots right over to the fence.

“Well, hello there,” Kitty says, crouching down so she’s eye level with the goat.

Pretzel immediately presses her head through the slats, angling for attention.

I chuckle. “Careful. She’s a shameless flirt.”

Kitty strokes her between her horns, and Pretzel closes her eyes like she’s being blessed by an angel. “She’s beautiful,” Kitty murmurs, smiling as if petting the goat has made her day.

“Pretzel’s the flexible one,” I explain. “Got stuck in a hay feeder once. Still don’t know how she folded herself in half to get in there.”

Kitty laughs, the sound warm and easy, and soon Cheese Puff waddles over, looking like trouble wrapped in fur, followed by Biscuit. “Here she is,” she says, smiling at Cheese Puff. “The escape artist.”

“Yup. Houdini in goat form. And Biscuit…” I lean in conspiratorially. “Well, Bi scuit’s just here for snacks. Don’t turn your back on a sandwich around him.”

We linger a few more minutes, Kitty scratching Pretzel’s neck while Biscuit noses her pockets for treats. Cheese Puff hangs back, eyeing her like she’s plotting something. I give her a warning glare, but she turns her back and farts.

When we finally head toward the barn, Pretzel lets out a loud, plaintive bleat that sounds suspiciously like she’s jealous I’m taking Kitty away.

Kitty glances over her shoulder. “I think she likes me.”

I smirk. “Yeah, well, get in line.”

She shoots me a quick look—half surprise, half something I can’t name.

The walk to the new barn gives me a chance to study Kitty without Delaney’s watchful eyes. She moves differently here than she did when I first saw her at the bus depot—less cautious, more open. Like the space is giving her room to breathe.

“This is the new barn? To replace the one that burned down?” she asks as we approach the new timber structure.

“Yeah. Contractors had it built in time for the Veterans Day Fundraiser last month, but it still needs a coat of paint before winter.”

“Fundraiser?”

I nod. “We host it every year. Proceeds go to the Havenridge Veterans Program. We bring in former service members—guys who need a reset or a place to belong—and give them work here on the ranch. Cattle, horses, crops, you name it. They get steady pay, a bed in the bunkhouse, and a family that doesn’t quit on them. ”

Her gaze lingers on the pale wood, something soft flickering in her eyes. “That’s… incredible.”

“Dad and Sheriff Lucas served together and started it when they left the Navy,” I explain. “Beckett runs security, Daniel keeps the logistics side straight, and the rest of us pitch in where we’re needed.”

“Starting over. Having a place to heal, to belong… It’s not so different from us co ming here.” Kitty’s brown eyes shimmer as she looks out over the land. “I thought I was broken. But this ranch—it’s given me a second chance too.”

Emotion tightens my throat. “Not broken, darlin’. Just waiting for the right place to bloom.”

Her gaze holds mine, wide and luminous, and the air hums with something fierce and unspoken.

I clear my throat. “I was thinking traditional red for the barn, but...” I shrug, suddenly uncertain. “What do you think?”

She tilts her head, studying the barn with intensity. “Red would be beautiful. Classic. But have you considered sage green? Something that would complement the landscape instead of competing with it?”

The suggestion surprises me. Most people think of barns as red, period. But looking at the building through her eyes, I can see how green would blend with the surrounding pines, making it part of the natural world instead of imposed on it.

“Show me,” I say impulsively.

Her face lights up with excitement. “Really?”

“Paint samples are in the supply room. We could test a few shades, see how they look in different light.”

What follows is the best hour of my life in recent memory.

Kitty throws herself into the project with infectious enthusiasm, mixing sample colors and painting test squares on the barn's south wall. She gets paint on her nose within the first ten minutes, a smudge of sage green that makes her look like a kid who got into the finger paints.

She doesn’t even notice. Just keeps humming under her breath and stepping back to squint at the shades like she’s solving a riddle only she can see.

I lean against the fence post, watching her.

Not helping, not interrupting—just soaking her in like the sun after a long winter.

I should be focused on the practical aspects—coverage, durability, and cost. Instead, I’m memorizing the way she bites her lower lip when she concentrates, the graceful arc of her neck when she tips her head back to consider her work.

“Which do you prefer?” she asks, stepping off the ladder to survey the test patches. “The darker sage or the lighter one?”

I move to stand beside her, close enough to catch her scent—something clean and floral that makes me want to bury my face in her hair and breathe her in.

“Darker,” I say, my voice rougher than it should be. “More permanent.”

She glances up at me, and something flickers in those warm brown eyes. Awareness. Recognition of the double meaning in my words.

“Permanent is good,” she says softly.

The moment stretches between us, loaded with everything we can't say. I’m close enough to count her eyelashes, to see the faint freckles scattered across her nose like gold dust.

Close enough to kiss her.

The thought hits like lightning. All I’d have to do is lean down, cup her face in my hands, and taste those soft lips that part slightly when she’s nervous.

“You’ve got paint on your nose,” I murmur.

Her hand flies up to swipe at it, but she misses by a mile, smearing a streak of color across her cheek instead.

“Better?”

“Nope.”

“Ugh.” She laughs and tries again, making it worse.

“Hold still.”

She does.

Gently, I reach up and brush my thumb across the bridge of her nose, wiping away the paint. Her skin is warm beneath my touch, her breath hitching slightly.

“There,” I murmur. “Back to beautiful.”

She blinks up at me, eyes wide and soft. “You’re not supposed to say that. ”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re marrying my sister.”

Her words are soft-spoken but land with the weight of truth.

God, I want to claim her. Crave tasting her mouth, marking her as mine, and showing her exactly what she does to me.

I should step back. I should say something safe. Something neutral.

But I don’t move.

Neither does she.

The wind stirs her hair, blowing a loose strand across her cheek. I tuck it behind her ear instinctively, my fingers brushing the soft curve of her jaw. She leans into the touch like she can’t help herself.

“I’m not supposed to feel this way about you,” she whispers.

“Me neither,” I murmur.

That should be the end of it. This is the part where we should both walk away, pretend this moment never happened.

But when her eyes flick down to my mouth and back up again, something inside me snaps.

I close the last inch between us.

She doesn’t pull away.

Our mouths meet in a kiss that starts gentle—hesitant, questioning—but deepens almost instantly, hunger rising like a tide.

Her hands curl into my shirt, and I lose myself in the taste of her, the warmth, the softness, the ache I’ve been trying not to feel since the second I saw her.

My hands tighten on her waist. She’s so small in my arms, so perfectly made to fit against me.

The world blurs around us. The only things that exist are her and this kiss that feels like the beginning of everything and the end of any chance I had at pretending I don’t want her.

When we finally break apart, her lips are swollen, her breath coming fast. She stares up at me like I’ve just rewritten all her rules .

Silence stretches between us, crackling with what we’ve done.

But neither of us moves. Neither of us says sorry. Because we’re already in too deep.

A crash from above makes us both jump. I look up in time to see Cheese Puff's distinctive silhouette on the barn roof, directly above the paint supplies.

“Oh, shit.”

The goat—who has somehow escaped her pen (again) and climbed onto the roof—leans over the edge with obvious interest in our project.

“Cheese Puff, no!” I shout.

Too late.

The paint can Kitty left balanced on the ladder wobbles precariously, then falls.

Sage green paint cascades down like a waterfall.

I lunge toward Kitty, wrapping my arms around her and spinning us both away from the worst of it, but there’s nowhere to go.

Paint splashes over both of us, coating my shirt and her hair in thick, green streaks.

We stand there dripping, me holding her tight against my chest, both of us staring at each other in shock.

She’s pressed full against me, soft curves molded to my body, her hands fisted in my shirt. Her face is tilted up to mine, paint-streaked and beautiful, lips parted in surprise.

Then… she laughs.

Not the polite chuckle of someone trying to make the best of a bad situation. Real laughter, bright and unrestrained, bubbling up from somewhere deep inside her chest. The sound is so unexpected, so joyful, that I can’t help but join in.

“I must look like Fiona from Shrek,” she gasps, wiping paint from her cheek and only succeeding in spreading it further.

“You’re way cuter than Fiona,” I say, grinning. “But I guess that makes me a burping, farting ogre?”

Kitty snorts. “Perfect. True love’s kiss and digestive issues? Sign me up.”

A beat passes .

Her eyes go wide. “I didn’t mean sign me up, sign me up. Just… ugh. Ignore me. Paint fumes. Goat trauma. Temporary loss of brain function.”

As our eyes lock, our laughter fades, replaced by something softer, more dangerous.

I should let her go. Tell her this was a mistake.

But instead, I brush a streak of green from her temple and tuck her sticky hair behind her ear.

“You okay?” I ask softly.

She nods, but her voice is a whisper when she asks, “You?”

I gave Delaney my word, and out here, that means something. It's the difference between trust and betrayal.

Doesn’t matter that Kitty looks at me like I’ve lassoed the moon. Doesn’t matter that everything in me howled with rightness the second our lips met.

I made a promise. And I don’t break promises.

Even if keeping this one breaks me.

As if sensing my withdrawal, Kitty gestures vaguely toward the house, her face flushed pink beneath the paint.“We should...”

“Clean up. Yeah.” I run a hand through my hair. “Kitty, about what just happened?—”

“Adrenaline,” she says quickly. “It didn’t mean anything, right?”

“Right,” I say carefully, even though every fiber of my being screams otherwise. “Adrenaline.”

We walk back to the house in loaded silence, both covered in evidence of our moment of madness.

The bigger problem is what happens now. How do I sit across from Kitty at breakfast every morning, knowing exactly how she feels in my arms? How do I marry her sister when every possessive instinct I have is screaming that she’s mine?

How do I do the right thing when the right thing feels like tearing my heart out?

As we reach the house, Kitty pauses on the porch steps.

“Tom?” Her voice is so soft I almost miss it. “I lied. Adrenaline had nothing to do with it.”

Before I can respond, she disappears into the house, leaving me standing there covered in paint, drowning in want, and absolutely certain I’m falling for the wrong woman.