Racing Hearts
Bennett Boys Ranch
Lauren Landish
Edited by
Valorie Clifton
Edited by
Staci Etheridge
Photography by
Reggie Deanching
Contents
Also by Lauren Landish
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Excerpt: Beauty and the Billionaire
About the Author
Copyright © 2019 by Lauren Landish.
All rights reserved.
Cover design © 2019 by Eileen Carey.
Photography by Reggie Deanching.
Model Michael Scanlon
Edited by Valorie Clifton & Staci Etheridge.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.
All characters are 18+ years of age and all sexual acts are consensual.
Also by Lauren Landish
Bennett Boys Ranch:
Bennett Boys Ranch:
Buck Wild || Riding Hard || Racing Hearts
Dirty Fairy Tales:
Beauty and the Billionaire || Not So Prince Charming || Happily Never After
Get Dirty:
Dirty Talk || Dirty Laundry || Dirty Deeds || Dirty Secrets
Irresistible Bachelors:
Anaconda || Mr. Fiance || Heartstopper
Stud Muffin || Mr. Fixit || Matchmaker
Motorhead || Baby Daddy || Untamed
Chapter 1
Shayanne
“You ready for this, Shayannie?” my dad asks. In his middle age, Paul Tannen, with his big personality and bigger belly paunch, is not a man I can lie to. In this case, I don’t need to.
I’m ready, though I wish he hadn’t used that nickname. I’ve hated it ever since I was about eight years old.
After all, is it still a nickname if it’s actually longer than your given name? I’m not sure on the rules of that, but it’s what he’s called me since I went through a curly hair phase as a kid, even though my light brown hair has zero red and my tanned skin has no freckles, unlike the famous orphan.
“Yes, sir. I’ve got this,” I call back confidently.
Today is a big day. I’m finalizing a deal to stock my goat milk soap line in the gift shop at the mountain resort in town. This country girl is going big time! Well, as big as I can right now, since my business is a one-woman operation run out of a farmhouse and I plan to keep it that way.
It’s my baby, and no one else’s.
Daddy eyes me critically, his judgment heavy. “Maybe I should come with you? Help smooth it over.” He pulls his hat off, running a handkerchief over his greying but still full head of hair before putting his hat back in place.
I’m rough around the edges, but I don’t need his cowboy slick style mucking up the business meeting that I set up. I know refusing is bad manners and will likely set off a domino effect I don’t want to deal with, but I’m adept in my own way, and I know my dad’s weak spot.
He doesn’t feel comfortable around ‘city’ types. He thinks it puts him at a disadvantage, and Daddy never likes being at a disadvantage . . . ever.
“Daddy, this is a done deal. I’m just going in to answer questions they might have so they can represent the brand appropriately. Do you know about goat milk benefits for skin care? What scents I create? Can you tell the cute story about the logo I drew by hand?”
I eye him back just as harshly, having learned at his knee and knowing he can’t answer any of those questions.
“Okay, Shayanne. I’m trusting you with this. We need this to go well.”
The words hit like stones, weighing me down because if anyone knows how much the family needs me to succeed with this venture, it’s me. I’m the one who does the books for the family farm, sees every penny going in and out, and has to pinch those pennies till they scream to feed my dad, three hard-working brothers, and myself.
We’ve had years where it was lean and times when it was easier, and after my mom passed seven years ago and I took over her household duties, I’ve successfully financially guided us through them all.
There was a point where Daddy’s personal issues meant we really were tight, but Daddy, bless his heart, is doing okay with the love of his family. And while things aren’t tight now, a little more income is always a welcome padding to the bottom line.
“I know, Daddy. I’ve got this.” I inject hard assurance into the words, making them a vow I can’t, and won’t, go back on.
He dips his chin once, giving a stamp of approval that I don’t need, and then spins on his booted heel to walk out the front door toward his truck.
I don’t know where he’s off to today, which is worrying because I almost always know exactly where he is and what he’s doing. Even when he’s gambling.
Yeah, that’s his demon. Cat’s out of the bag. No Schrodinger’s cat question of ‘is he or isn’t he,’ this one. Dad’s alive and therefore betting, for sure. He keeps it separate from our household budget, maybe because he’s responsible, or maybe because he doesn’t want me to see how much he’s winning and losing, but most likely, it’s a mix of both.
I watch him leave, mentally checking the family calendar, and decide he’s probably going to lunch with the boys in town since he didn’t ask for anything to eat.
From behind me, I hear heavy bootsteps. “He’s right, you know. But I trust you,” my oldest brother, Brody, says softly in his deep timbre.
“I know, Brody,” I tell him for the millionth time since I first got serious about this idea. “I’ve got this under control, just like I always do.”
He nods, then studiously ignores the fact that he’s repeating back to me damn-near verbatim what I’ve told him my plan for the day is. But I recognize that it’s more for him than for me. He’s excited, understandably so, and I am too.
“So, take the batch of soaps into the resort, double-check the order and set them up, and make sure to touch base with the manager and give them the purchase order so we get paid. If you run into any problems, call me.”
As he talks, he makes a thick sandwich with the supplies from the fridge and sits down at the kitchen table, mouth already full and sandwich already half gone. Brody has always eaten fast and hard, never sitting down for
too long unless I put my foot down about it.
I take two steps in his direction, closing the gap between us physically even as I know the other gap between us will likely never be bridged. We’re on the same team, a part of the same family, but we both know the roles we play. And they’re nowhere near equal. Placing my hand on his shoulder, I growl out, “I can handle this.”
I squeeze the thick muscle a little harder than I should, but it seems to drive home my point.
Brody has the graciousness to look the slightest bit sheepish. “I know, Shayanne. This is just a big deal, and I don’t want anything to mess it up. Especially Dad.”
This is my goat’s milk soap business.
My baby, that I started from the ground up with the help of Google, a lot of trial and error, and a small but growing herd of goats. Those first batches were barely good enough to wash our hands with before dinner, and I’d felt bad about wasting my precious goats’ milk that way, but I’d learned. And for almost a year now, I’ve been selling soap like hotcakes at the farmer’s market.
Well, Brody has been because I don’t usually go into town for that since he’s already there, selling our family farm’s produce. To his credit, Brody could answer every single one of those questions I put to Daddy without issue because he memorized all the answers I gave him and was the one listening to me ramble as I worked my way deeper into this hobby-slash-business. And now, Brody sells my soaps almost as fast as I can make them, which is why I’m expanding.
I like to picture my pretty soaps going from my little slice of dirt to the resort, to the world. Not for some global takeover, because I don’t have dreams of being a big dog in the specialty soap marketplace, but even if I’m stuck here, some little piece of me can go . . . somewhere, anywhere, everywhere.
“Brody Tannen, are you suggesting that I will mess this up? Let’s review. Who’s more likely to appropriately handle a bit of public handshaking and salesmanship? I’ll give you a hint. It sure as rain ain’t you unless grunts and dirt are the angle you think we should go for?” I challenge him. “Further, who has handled every one of our contracts and financial affairs since the day she turned thirteen? Unless you or Daddy suddenly dropped your balls in favor of ovaries, it’s been me.”
Brody winces at my crass language, but he knows I’m right. I might be trapped in this house, on this farm, looking after my daddy and three brothers, but I’m an important part in this machine we call a family. Even if they sometimes forget it and I have to get a little loud with my reminders.
Well, either that or I slip the tiniest sliver of Ex-Lax in their chocolate chip cookies. Not enough to keep them in bed the next day, but just enough to keep them regular, you know? A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do to keep her menfolk in line.
We country women have had our ways going way, way back. And Brody, once again, gives me my respect.
“Fine, I’ll leave you to it, then. But, for real, call me if you need anything, Shay.” His voice is softer, kinder this time. And there it is, the gooey heart center of my rough-and-tumble, more likely to fight than talk, eldest brother. I’m closer to him than I am to either of my other brothers, mostly because while I run the house, Brody is in charge of running the thousand acres we own.
He mostly cares for the critters, as he likes to call them. The herd of cows, the barn full of horses, my goats, a flock of chickens, a few herding dogs and mouser cats, and a partridge in a pear tree. Okay, not that last one, but I tried one Christmas when I was little. Mom had said no, and I’d pouted a good fit, but I’d gotten over it when I’d gotten a kitten instead. ‘A working animal’, my daddy had called it, but Brody and I had turned it into a lap-sitting pet with milk and catnip. Meow-ser never caught a single mouse in his too-short life.
That’s Brody, though, all venomous spikes outside and honey-flavored caramel inside. Not that he’d let anyone but me see that.
“I will, Brody. I promise. And remember, I’m hanging with Sophie tonight. Dinner’s already in the crock pot, so you boys will just have to spoon the stew into bowls when you’re ready.”
“And dessert?” he asks, his sweet tooth known far and wide. Too bad we’re on bad relations with the neighbors. Mama Louise’s desserts would be a perfect match for him.
“Cobbler in the fridge, ice cream in the freezer,” I say, mentally making sure that I’ve done my list of chores before I head out.
Bills are paid, bank statements checked, floors cleaned, bathrooms scrubbed—no small feat with four men—and dinner cooked. Check, check, and checkity-check-check. Shayanne out, finally!
“Okay, be good, girl. Or don’t get caught being bad.” He grins wolfishly, likely thinking there’s no way I’d get myself into any trouble. I’m a good girl, except for my mouth. But that’s mostly the boys’ fault, anyway. They’ve all had their hand in showing me how to curse creatively.
That’s me in a nutshell, anyway. Though I might be female, my tight circle of family is all male and has left me decidedly . . . not feminine? Like a tomboy who didn’t know how to indulge in her girly side beyond her soap operas.
Thank God for Sophie, my best friend and the girliest girl I know. Not to say that she doesn’t get down and dirty with the best of us, especially when her vet job requires it, but she’s got a fancy-schmancy spa-loving side to her, too, and I’ve been converted to the joys of foot soaks and face masks.
“As long as Daddy don’t catch me, I’ll be just fine,” I volley back, though it’s the God’s honest truth.
“Shayanne,” Brody warns.
“What? Not like I’m gonna climb on the tables at Hank’s and start shaking my moneymaker. And even if I did, whatcha gonna do about it?” I grin big and wide, hands on my hips as I give a little shimmy shake, daring him to say that he’d tattle on me because we both know he won’t.
Once upon a time, he would’ve been running to Daddy faster than a kerosene fire lighting up. Back when we’d all thought Daddy was a good man, an honorable one whom we could look up to with pride and respect.
But that changed a while back. It’s not so much the Tannens against the world, but us ‘kids’ against Daddy and the world. At this point, Brody and I mostly work together to make sure our father isn’t getting us into any financial trouble with his gambling and big mouth.
I get the irony of my saying he has a big mouth when I’m sassy as fuck, but my mouthiness is cute and crazy. Daddy’s is dangerous and daringly dumb, especially if he’s had a few beers in him.
“Maybe I need to come with you,” Brody hedges. But he’s already rising from the kitchen table, moving to put his lunch plate in the dishwasher because I trained my big brother right. Thankfully, he means to dinner, not the business meeting, since we’ve apparently moved on from that part of my plans for today.
“You ain’t coming and you dang well know I ain’t dancing on tables. So do your job and let me do mine. And we’ll both blow off some steam so we can do it all again tomorrow.” He narrows his eyes, swallowing like he’s tasting the air to see if I’m lying to him. I shove at his wide shoulders, shaking my head. “Now, get. I’ll be late. Don’t wait up.”
He grunts, which sounds like an agreement, but he’ll wait up anyway. He’s protective in a sweet and smothering way. But he goes outside, grabbing his old, oil-stained Rangers hat on the way and smashing it down on his head. I wait one beat, then two, waiting for his constant humming to start, and then I’m hustling my fine ass upstairs to get ready.
A quick brush through my hair and then I pull it into a ponytail at the nape of my neck. Looking in the mirror, I pull it tight, making it as perky as possible. Sophie calls my tone ‘bronde’, not quite blonde, not quite brown, but somewhere in between. I call it blah, but what I lack in pretty color is made up for with thick waves that, even corralled in a band, wind down my back to below my bra strap.
Some mascara that Sophie showed me how to use and some tinted lip balm, and I’m ready, or as ready as I’m going to be. I’ve got my nices
t jeans on, my freshest boots, and a button-up shirt tucked in behind my braided leather belt. In short, I look like a country girl, which is exactly what I am.
I toss a pair of denim shorts into my bag for my night at Hank’s with Sophie, and I’m out like trout. I clomp down the stairs like a herd of cattle and let the screen door slam behind me. A quick peek in the passenger seat tells me that one of the boys helpfully loaded up my boxes of soap, and I’m ready.
A cloud of dust stirs up behind me as I pull out of the grass and onto the dirt driveway to the front gate. I hold my breath, not even realizing I’m doing it until I hit asphalt and it whooshes out like freedom.
I press the gas pedal to the floor like there are demons chasing me, but it’s not Satan’s goons out. It’s responsibilities and expectations, this role I play in my family. One I’m proud to have, but one that keeps me chained to a plot of land I could ride in a day. One that doesn’t have the whimsy and unexpectedness of ‘out there’.
“Whooooo!” A hoot of exuberant joy escapes my mouth, but really, it’s from my soul as the wind rushes in through the open windows, tearing wisps of hair from my ponytail to whip them around. Each lash is a welcome reminder that I’m floating on the wind, buoyed by the sunshine, free to chase forever with home in my rearview mirror. If only for today.
Racing Hearts: Bennett Boys Ranch Page 1
