If I can’t sleep, I’m going to do something productive, something to distract myself. I pull on my boots by the back door, letting my plaid flannel pajama pants puddle at the top and not caring in the least to right them. A flick of the switch on my flashlight lights my way to the barn, which I stalk to with fast strides.
I use the side door so I don’t wake the horses, leaving them in relative quiet darkness, but in my office, I turn on the overheads so I can see. Out of habit, I sit down in my chair, but then I’m stuck, not knowing what to do.
I slide my fingers through my hair, staring at the mess of papers on my desk. Right on top are the ones crinkled from Shayanne’s ass perching on them as she teased her pussy for me and watched me jack off. My hand gently splays on the papers, a connection to her I need. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
I’m so damn sorry, but I don’t know what for, exactly. The scene from today replays in my mind like a movie—perfect, frame by frame, until the end, where everything went so very wrong.
“You forget to order the hay and decide to do it in the middle of the night before anyone realized what a fuckup you are?” a familiar gruff voice asks from the doorway. He’s amused, although you’d have to have known him your entire life to recognize it.
I lift my eyes from my desk, telling the interloper, “For a big fucker, you’re damn quiet, you know that?”
Mark grunts, his lips pursing, which is basically a full-wattage smile for him. My big brother has always been the most serious and staid of the three of us, and somewhere around his early twenties, he took a serious run at the Asshole of the Decade award. Then Katelyn, his new bride, got ahold of him and quite literally forced him to speak in complete sentences, which he does more often than not these days.
It’s a good change, usually. And one that’ll come in handy when he and Katelyn get around to having their first baby. Honestly, when the time is right, he’ll be one hell of a father. So I support him as best I can.
Until he shows up in my doorway when I want to be left alone to wallow. Ignoring my huff of displeasure, he drops into the chair on the other side of my desk and puts his feet up like he owns the place.
“So, did you?” he asks from behind closed eyes as he tilts his head back and crosses his arms over his broad chest. He looks mighty comfortable in my office, especially considering he’s got on shorts, a T-shirt, and his dirtiest boots. Which, again, are on my desk like he’s got zero manners. Or more likely, like he’s trying to irritate me and doing a fine job of it.
“Did I what?” I volley, a tiny piece of me afraid that he knows what I did on this very desk today. Nerves make me shuffle the papers, stacking them neatly, and I’m struck with a bout of disappointment that I can’t see the evidence of Shay’s ass on my desk anymore.
Mark pops open one eye, suspiciously glaring at me since he has no real clue why the hell I’d be out here unless I’ve fucked up.
To be clear, I pull my weight around here. I just tend to take care of things without a lot of fanfare. Mark might have learned how to run this ranch at Pops’s side, but I was only a half-step behind him. I never wanted to step into Pops’s shoes, but I could if I needed to. I know how to run everything on this land damn near as well as Mark does.
But my dreams lay elsewhere, and what I bring to the table with horse breeding and training is so far outside of what our family ranch usually does that Mark doesn’t always get it. He doesn’t understand that putting the stallion and the mare in the stall is just the last step of a very complicated process.
No one in the family really gets it, though Pops supported my dreams and thought I could do damn near anything I set my mind to. Although Sophie sort of understands since she works with Doc. So that’s progress too.
I’ve had a way with horses since I was a boy, able to get even the wildest big animal to calm. From there, it’d been a logical step to begin training them, and I’d done so with our cattle wrangling horses since I was a young teen. In high school, I even helped the other local ranchers with their horses and word had spread. At eighteen, I started traveling and training far and wide, usually for ranches but eventually for racing.
That’s when the bug really bit me hard. Race horses are a different thing altogether, requiring finesse and study to achieve the best results. And that’s all before training begins.
It’s amazing to see a horse go from no more than an idea to a rose-wreathed winner. I’ve been able to work with everything from quarter horses to harness racers. Even the big Clydesdales.
“Order the hay. What the fuck else are we talking about?”
See, complete sentences. It’s progress.
“Of course I ordered the hay. It’ll be here in a couple of weeks, just like it’s supposed to be. You think I’m some sort of newb?”
He lifts one shoulder, not commenting either way, but the lift of his brow gives his opinion quite clearly.
“I ordered the hay, mucked the stalls, checked the lists of cattle available for the fall sale, reorganized my trip since that filly didn’t take, and sorted the vaccines for the herd. Anything else you need?” I know my tone is a little aggressive , but c’mon, I do this shit all the time and don’t need anyone checking up on me.
He opens both eyes now, looking at me reproachfully. “What crawled up your ass?”
“Nothing,” I bite out, sounding like I meant to say everything.
I can’t meet his gaze anymore and spin in my chair, opening the top drawer of the filing cabinet to lay the stack of papers inside. They’re not sorted, so I’ll have to refile them later, but it’s a good break from Mark’s X-ray eyes.
“Man, you sound grumpy as hell, and coming from me, that’s saying something. What’s got you working late if not the hay?” He sounds genuinely curious now, not like he’s giving me shit.
Oddly, I prefer the other way, because with him being nice, it’s harder to tell him to fuck off. It feels like he’s prodding at a wound that hasn’t even had a chance to scab over yet, and I’m not sure how deep it goes.
“Just couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d do some work.” It’s the truth, but not the whole truth. That’s only for me and Shayanne. A secret for us.
Mark grunts, not believing me for a second. “You getting itchy?”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but my hand naturally moves to scratch at my bare chest and his eyes light up like it’s some big tell.
“That’s what Katelyn calls it when she wants to smack someone, ‘itchy palms’. You look like you got itchy feet, like you’re ready to hit the road again. Where’re you going next and when are you leaving?”
He’s astute, though I’m gone for jobs sometimes more than I’m here, so his guess is a safe bet.
But I’m not ready to run, or at least not to hit the road like I usually do. All I’m thinking is that I could run next door in a heartbeat. But the fact that I don’t want to go anywhere that’d add more distance between me and Shayanne seems more telling than anything else.
I get up, coming around to the other side of the desk to shove Mark’s feet off with a glare. I sit where his boots just were, staking my territory. He’s got his own damn office. “No, I don’t have itchy feet, and that’s a weird saying.”
He shrugs, no skin in the game about whether it’s odd or not. And a thought occurs to me.
“What’re you doing up in the middle of the night to even come over and give me a hard time? You got something itching you too?”
He does smile at that, rubbing his hands together like they’re tickling him something fierce. It takes me a second to get his joke because his sense of humor is damn near non-existent. He’s saying his hands itch. Katelyn says that’s what happens when you want to smack someone . . . ergo, Mark wants to smack someone.
If that were it, I’d be scared my big brother was ready to roughhouse like we used to when we were kids. Or hell, like we did last week before Mama stopped us with a threat of no dessert.
But that’s not it. M
ark and Katelyn are, to put it lightly, kinky as fuck. I truly never needed to know that about my brother, but I learned the hard way, hearing and seeing shit I’ll never forget. Still, they both seem inordinately happy together so I’m not judging.
“Then go home, asshole,” I tell him, kicking at the chair and hoping he’ll be the one who leaves this time.
He answers my previous question about why he came over, moving on from the delicate conversation about him and his bride. “I was awake, out on the porch, and saw the light pop on. Thought I’d check on you is all.”
“I’m fine. Just couldn’t sleep. Everything’s all good.” It’s as much of a promise as I can give to alleviate any concerns he might have.
He dips his chin, and I can tell that though he doesn’t believe me, he’s respecting my need to keep quiet. For now.
He gets up but pauses in the doorway to look back over his shoulder.
“Luke, if there’s something going on, something that’ll take you away from us for longer than usual . . .” He pauses dramatically, saying more with the intensity in his blue eyes than his mouth. “Just let me know. I want you here, by my side and James’s side. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, us working together to carry on Pops’s legacy, and it’s finally happening. But only if it’s what you want too. When push comes to shove, if this isn’t it for you, we’d understand. But we’re always here for you. This is your home, no matter where you go or how long you’re gone.”
Having said his piece, and more words than he usually spouts off in a week, he finishes with a grunt and walks out, leaving me feeling like shit.
He thinks I’m having some existential crisis about being here on the ranch. The reality is, I love this ranch and this family. I want to see both grow. I want to become Uncle Luke in a few months. And while my work may take me all across the country, the Bennett Ranch is home.
No . . . what I’m obsessing about in actuality is the off-limits girl next door and how to get her to come back. And if I can’t do that, I’m wondering how I can sneak onto her property without getting shot in the ass by her family.
Chapter 7
Shayanne
“Bobby, watch the bows as you’re packing those!” I holler, responding to his dark glare by sticking my tongue out at him. If my hands were empty, I’d stick my thumbs in my ears and wave my fingers at him like a moose too. Yeah, I’m twenty, but sometimes, these guys make me feel half that old.
“Why the hell did you put ribbons on the jars this year, anyway?” he grumbles.
I’d give him a smart-mouthed reply, but he’s a little bit right. Usually, the jars pack into the boxes cleanly, but I’d thought an extra touch would look good.
Selling the canned goods from the farm has always just been something I did, but this year, it’d seemed more like a ‘business’ and I’d wanted to treat it as such. Hence, the cute little stickers I printed out and stuck to every lid and the ribbons I’d tied on every single jar of smashed pumpkin puree.
But Bobby doesn’t care about any of that, so I just tell him the one fact that’ll have him running for the hills. “Because I thought it was pretty,” I say in full falsetto, batting my lashes.
Nothing scares my brothers more than a reminder that I’m a woman and that as such, I sometimes like feminine things. Most of the time, I think they just pigeonhole me into some classification chart as an asexual lump. Admittedly, I do the same to them. ‘Brothers’ and ‘sex’ are two words that do not belong in the same sentence. A full-body shiver of disgust runs through me.
From the hallway, Brody appears, tall and dark-haired like all my brothers are and Daddy used to be before his hair turned into a distinguished salt-and-pepper blend. The Tannen boys are the hallmark tall, dark, and handsome in a gruff, barrel-chested, country boy sort of way. No six-pack abs in this house. I feed them too well and they work too hard to be that sort of lean. But I’d put my brothers up against any trio in the world when it comes to chucking hay bales.
“She put the damn bows on them because they cost twenty-five cents each, but she raised her prices two dollars a jar. Now shut your pie hole and get to packing.”
Brody is certainly all charm. Hashtag sarcasm.
But he’s right, quoting off the figures we discussed like he came up with them himself. In a way, I guess he gave his blessing, but it was the two of us who made the call to amp things up and treat this as an actual business, not just a hobby to pad the bottom line. My soap success is carrying over into other areas of our business.
Go, Shayanne! I cheer myself mentally, but outwardly, I realize I’m doing a happy dance when Bobby looks at me like I sprouted a second head.
He sets his box down on the stack by the door and ruffles my hair. I scoot away, trying to get out of reach, but he grabs at me, locking me in his arms and tickling the stuffing out of me as I scream and laugh. “Bobby! Stop it or I’m gonna pee on you!”
I’m not, really, but he stops near-instantly. Well, until he reaches out from a safe distance to muss up my hair one more time, grinning like a loon. He’s my closest in age brother, so we fight more than I do with the other two boys.
“Load ’em up, boys!” I singsong. “We’ve got at least fifteen deliveries each today.”
They grumble, but we get it done, half going into Brody’s truck and half going into Bruce’s so we can divide and conquer. They think I don’t notice that they’ve given me and Brody all the old folks who want to chatter the day away, but I don’t mind.
We roll out, and the automatic gate closes behind us with a push of a button. It’s one of Daddy’s additions to the farm that I was thankful for when he installed it, but now that I know it came from his gambling wins, it seems expensive and excessive. There’s nothing wrong with hopping out to swing a fence closed.
“What’s your bottom line so far this year?” Brody asks once we change from dirt to asphalt, all business as his eyes never leave the road.
“Better than last year, for sure,” I reply as I set my little notebook with my notes for the farmer’s market aside. “Orders are up, and profits are up too. All the orders from today are prepaid except for the big one for the elementary school PTA. They’ll give me a check and we can deposit it in the bank before leaving town. We need to transfer money out of the main account too.”
He nods, neither of us mentioning why we keep the farm’s primary account balance as close to zero as we can. Daddy has a separate account for his gambling, but he plays big, win or lose, and the last thing we can afford is for him to lose the farm. Literally or figuratively.
So we transfer as much as we can to our personal accounts. Makes hell on me sometimes when I have to figure things for tax purposes, but better safe than sorry.
“How’re you doing, Brody?” I ask him quietly.
His fingers tighten on the steering wheel and his jaw goes hard. He’s always been a good brother, but I see the wear and tear on him. He’s been disappearing into town more frequently, and I don’t know what he’s been up to, which makes me nervous. I’d thought maybe he finally had a girl, but Bruce said he didn’t think so, and he’d know better than I would. Again, we don’t talk relationships and sex. We stick with the farm and family.
“He’s a piece of work, you know?” It’s obvious that he’s talking about Daddy, so I nod in agreement. “Did you know he asked to borrow a hundred bucks Thursday before he left?”
My jaw drops in shock, and I turn to look him in the face. “He did not.”
Brody laughs but it’s mirthless. “Sure as shit did. He had some story about not having time to make it into town before the bank closed, but I’m guessing he’s just low on funds. I don’t know what’s worse, that he asked or that I gave it to him.”
“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” I intone.
Once upon a time, I’d quoted Daddy so often that Sophie had threatened to smack me if I said the words ‘Daddy says’ one more time. She’d even made good on the threat while I worked that bad habit out of my voc
abulary.
But honestly, back then, he’d been larger than life, and his word was like the gospel. I mean, he’s my daddy.
Now, though, I can see behind the curtain, and I’ve all but given up on his ever being that force in our family again. But Brody is stepping up, in more ways than one. “Brody, don’t let him get to you. You’re doing so much, and we need you, but don’t take on so much that you crack under the pressure. We’re a family, a team, and we’ve got your back the way you’ve got ours.”
He reaches a hand over, patting mine where it rests on the console between us. “I know, baby girl. Don’t worry. I’m fine. And as long you keep the finances in ship shape, the farm’s fine. Tannens never give in. We’re like roaches. Too tough to die.”
My nose wrinkles up at the metaphor. “That’s disgusting, Brod. How about we not talk about bugs, ’kay?”
He inches his hand up from mine, tapping fingers that make goosebumps pop out along my flesh as he threatens, “They’re gonna getcha!”
He laughs, and the smile stays on his face, but his shoulders are still an inch or two too close to his ears like he’s working hard to carry the weight of the world.
Our first five or six deliveries go off without a hitch, people oohing and ahhing in excitement for their special treat. I get a few compliments on the updated packaging, which makes me feel like the hassle of packing up the jars was worthwhile.
“Where to next?” Brody says, climbing behind the wheel as I hop in the passenger side.
I look at my notebook, following down my bulleted list. “Doc Jones’s clinic.”
“Ah,” Brody says with a smirk. “Guess I’ll get time to talk over the entire football season with Doc then . . . or just grab some lunch with him while you girl gab with Sophie.”
I roll my eyes, smirking. “Just drive, Brody.”
Racing Hearts: Bennett Boys Ranch Page 8
