Racing Hearts: Bennett Boys Ranch

by Landish, Lauren

  “He did, but they’re my babies so I like to check on them too. Troll is my favorite, with his little horns and scruff.” I wiggle fingers on my head, miming horns and then beneath my chin for the beard. “I just wanted to give him some extra scratches.”

  That sounds reasonable but also silly enough that Daddy won’t question it too much.

  Which he doesn’t, but he does start up a lecture. “Shayannie, you have chores to get done and can’t be lollygagging around, petting the animals.”

  He looks around the kitchen, and I wonder what he sees. Does he remember Mom cooking here? Does he see how I follow her recipes and scrub her counters and floors until they gleam? Does he think I’m doing a good job?

  I don’t know why I care what he thinks, other than he’s my dad. I’ve fed this family, mended work shirts, patched up minor and not so minor wounds, and more. I think I’m predestined to want to please him and make him proud, even when he doesn’t make me proud very often anymore.

  He finishes his visual perusal and meets my eyes again. His voice is harsh, getting louder with every word. Once upon a time, I would’ve flinched, but now the effect of his hollering is like pebbles in a pond, a blip and ripples but no kerplunk of impact. “You made us lunches and then put a roast in the crockpot,” he says as he points to the appliance like it’s personally offended him. “Which I damn well know means you’ve had the whole day free. Even petting the goats doesn’t take all day. So what have you been doing?”

  The accusation is heavy. He doesn’t know where I’ve been, but he knows I haven’t been doing what I’m supposed to, and he expects me to pull my weight. I do, I know I do. Between the budgeting and bills, cooking and cleaning, and keeping track of my brothers and dad, I’ve got a full-time-plus job. I might not be doing the heavy lifting with the farm and animals like the boys do, but I make it so that they can do that and trust that literally everything else is taken care of.

  We balance each other. The only one not pulling his weight is Daddy.

  And that pisses me off. It has for a long time.

  How dare he sit there and lecture me about doing my share when the one day in months that he’s supposed to help the boys, he . . . what? He has some sort of spell and cuts out early? I may have taken today, and all right, a few nights out too, to hang out with Luke, but those are the exception, not the rule. I’m the literal opposite of what he does for the family.

  “I went for a walk. Is that what you want to hear?” I spit out, palms slapping the table as I push to stand up. It’s the truth, or at least as much as I’m willing to give him because I don’t want to start World War III between my family and Luke’s.

  I go over to the crockpot, yanking an oven mitt on and pulling the lid off to check the roast. The hot steam blasts me in the face as I lift the lid, but I’m even hotter inside. I’m molten with fury that he dares to call me out.

  He stands up too, but he keeps one hand planted on the table as he truly yells at me now. “No, of course that’s not what I want to hear. I want to hear that you’re handling things here at the house like you’re supposed to.” He slams his palm on the table, emphasizing his point. “What the hell’s gotten into you, girl?”

  He shakes his head like I’m the hysterical one, overreacting to nothing and flitting about like a teenaged girl, not a strong woman who runs this damn farm. Okay, I run it with my brothers, but it’s been a long time since Daddy’s run a thing besides a poker table.

  My teeth grit, and in a display of pure will, I keep my eyes on the roast. “I am taking care of literally everything, Daddy. Dinner will be ready in an hour.”

  I slam the lid back onto the crock pot and instantly feel guilty for the abuse of the appliance when it’s done nothing but what I ask of it.

  Daddy huffs, though, still looking surly. “I think I’ll eat out tonight.”

  He turns, walking through the living room and grabbing his truck keys from the bowl by the front door. Bruce whistles once, and Murphy hops up from the rug, getting out of Daddy’s way a second before he would’ve stepped on the dog’s tail.

  The screen door shuts with a slam of finality.

  “Well, that went well,” Bruce says with sarcasm dripping from every word.

  I turn to glare at him, but he’s looking at me carefully. “You know what you’re doing, Shayanne? You ready for the shit storm you’re stirring up?”

  I roll my eyes. “I just went for a walk. It’s not a big deal.”

  Drop it. Leave it. Please.

  His chuckle is rough, like he hasn’t done it in way too long, which is probably true since the barest laugh brings a tear to his eye that he swipes with a thick finger. I put my hands on my hips, cocking my head to the side. “Why are you laughing? That was some bad shit with Daddy.”

  His laughter stops abruptly, and he leans forward, putting his elbows on the table and rubbing at his jaw. His scruff is getting long, more beard than shadow these days. He looks at me like he’s seeing into my soul.

  Bruce has always been the most misunderstood of my brothers. He got the nickname ‘Brutal’ playing football in high school after sending three guys to the hospital with knock-out tackles in one game. The last one led to the winning field goal, and he got dubbed with the moniker that makes him sound like a monster.

  Part of it, I think, is that he’s quiet and reserved. He doesn’t say much, and when he does, it frustrates him that people assume he’s some sort of Neanderthal because of his hulking frame. The truth is, he’s probably the most sensitive of any of our family. He’s a watcher, and he sees people, sometimes even when they don’t want him to, and I forgot that.

  “Sit down, Shayanne,” he says, kicking the chair next to him out with his booted foot.

  I drop into the chair, petulant. “What?”

  He’s quiet for a moment, waiting expectantly, but I don’t know what for. And then he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out my little notebook, setting it on the table between us with a thick finger holding it in place.

  My heart flutters in my chest as I realize what this means. He read it. I can see it in his eyes. He read my notebook, the one full of recipes but also of my thoughts. It’s enough of a diary that Bruce knows about Luke.

  “Bruce,” I say, hoping against hope that I’m wrong.

  He smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I thought you were being weird when Brody was bitching about Luke after the clinic run-in. Now I know why.”

  Well, there goes any dream I had that maybe Bruce just found my notebook and put it aside for safekeeping.

  Shit on a shingle.

  “Please.” The word is snatched from my throat, pained because I don’t know what he’s going to do with this information. We’ve all been pretty brainwashed about the Bennetts by Daddy, and finding out I’m sneaking around with one of them isn’t likely to paint Luke in a flattering light either.

  He picks up the notebook, which looks comically tiny in his big hands, flipping through the dog-eared pages. It’s a violation of my privacy, even as close as we all are, but I don’t dare call him on it. What good would it do now, anyway, when he’s read it already?

  “What are you going to do?” I ask, my voice shaking with equal parts fear and fury.

  Not liking something he reads, his nose wrinkles and his lip curls beneath his dark moustache, and then he tosses the book to me like it’s a hissing snake. I catch it easily from years of experience playing touch football in the yard as kids.

  He leans back in his chair and sighs heavily. “Do you like him? Not the sappy, girly shit in that book, but for real.”

  I fight the urge to argue that the stuff I wrote isn’t sappy. It’s not like I’m writing out wedding fantasy scenes and dreamy sexy times like my favorite soap operas. It’s my thoughts and feelings, hopes and wishes. I refuse to be embarrassed about them. My cheeks heat just the same, not getting the memo from my brain.

  “I do,” I say simply, though the fact that my words sound like vows doesn
’t escape either of our attention.

  “And he likes you?” Bruce says. It’s a good thing he doesn’t make that sound impossible, like I’m some second-rate tomboy choice that no man would want, because if he had been that rude, I would’ve given him the rough end of the roast tonight.

  “He does.” I’m keeping with my stellar way with words.

  Bruce closes his eyes, pinching his nose between his thumb and finger. “He treat you right?” he asks, but then he opens his eyes and points at me. “Do not say a single thing about sex. I mean, does he . . . is he . . . I don’t know, nice and shit?”

  The smile breaks across my face and I can’t stop it. I bite my lip, not wanting to say things I shouldn’t, especially to my brother because of our standing agreement that talking about sex is gross when it comes to family. But my wide eyes and nod seem to be answer enough.

  Bruce crosses his arms over his thick chest, glaring at me as he thinks. The minute stretches to two, my fate in his hands. Finally, he shrugs as his head tilts to the side. “Okay, then. You do you, baby girl. But if you need me to, I’ll beat the shit out of him for any reason. Good or bad, you just say the word. I’ve got your back.”

  I’m so gobsmacked, my jaw drops. It’s too easy, too good to be true. My eyes narrow, and I lean in closer to him. “What’s the catch?”

  He smiles, and this time, his eyes sparkle. “Shayannie, the heart wants what the heart wants.”

  “That’s a load of manure and you know it. Why are you being so nice to me, Bruce? I mean, you’re always nice, but this is . . .” My voice trails off, and then I confess. “I figured if any of you found out, I’d be buried six feet under.”

  Bruce’s eyes darken, and he nods. “If Dad finds out, you will be. Make no mistake there. He’ll kill you and Luke too. But I never had the issues with the Bennetts that Dad and Brody did. I only threw punches because it was my brother. You’ll have to fight that battle when, and if, the time comes. But you won’t have to fight it today with me.”

  My eyes burn, pinpricks of hot tears that I blink back. “Thanks, Bruce.”

  He reaches for my hand, rubbing it roughly. “Don’t mention it. Literally. Do not mention it. To anyone.”

  I smile, though it’s watery, and he ruffles my hair like he did when we were kids.

  “I see what you do here, baby girl. You’re not invisible, not to me. You work damn hard and give this family your all, so if you have a chance to take a little piece of happiness for yourself, I’m not going to stand in your way. Just be smart, and be safe.”

  His words are sweet, but there’s a sad undercurrent to them. All of my brothers are alone, I’m alone, and Daddy’s alone. Together, but family is different from a partner. With Luke, I feel like I’m on the trembling edge of a completeness I’ve never felt before, and it’s an amazing feeling.

  It makes me wonder if Bruce missed a chance at taking a bit of happiness for himself.

  Reaching over, I take a risk. “I will be. Smart. Safe. Got it. You too, you know? She’s out there, the woman for you.”

  We’re breaking all kinds of unspoken rules today, I guess, because Bruce just shakes his head. “She is, but she’s not mine and never will be.”

  I’m shocked to my core. I was talking in generalized terms, but apparently, there’s a ‘she’ I never knew about. “Brutal?” I’m not sure if I’m using his nickname or commenting on his sad statement.

  He ignores my question, and I wonder. “The third step from the top squeaks when you leave at night, so skip it. And you’re less likely to be spotted if you go left out the back door, around the house, and in front of the barn before you head toward the Bennett ranch. When you turn right out the back of the house, Dad’s window looks out to the yard and there’s a greater chance he’ll see you. He’s a heavy sleeper, but you never know.”

  I let the slip of truth about his girl go, focusing on his tips and advice. “Sounds like you’ve done this before?”

  He winks, relaxing a little. “A time or two. Always got past Dad and never woke you or Brody up.” He’s bragging, proud at getting one over on us.

  “What about Bobby? He sleep through your hell raising too?” I tease.

  Bruce laughs, shrugging. “Hell, half the time, he was coming with me, and even when he stayed back, he knew when I was gone. He was my cover story and I was his.”

  I pout, crossing my arms over my chest. “I suddenly feel very left out of this brotherhood. You’ve got alliances and I’m just out here with my ass in the wind, hoping I don’t get caught the one time I do something I’m not supposed to. And I got busted anyway!”

  He gets up from the table but stops behind my chair. “First off, when we were pulling this shit off, you were too young to be doing any of it. As for now, I’ll be your alliance in this if you need me to be. I’ll even cover for you, if that’s what it takes. Just be happy, baby girl. You deserve that.”

  And with that, he’s gone. The screen door slams behind him, and the kitchen suddenly feels very hot, stifling with its quietness and what could’ve been.

  I thought any of my brothers finding out about me and Luke would be catastrophic, only bested in awfulness by Daddy discovering the truth. Bruce seemed to take it in stride, though, giving me hope that Bobby, and maybe even Brody, would be just as unconcerned.

  A girl can dream, I guess.

  Chapter 13

  Luke

  “So Brutal knows and doesn’t care?” I ask, incredulous after Shayanne tells me the story about getting caught in the kitchen after our day ride.

  Both her shoulders lift to her ears and she makes an unconcerned face. “Apparently, he’s a lover of love. Who knew?”

  She says the words airily, one hand moving through the air like she’s an orchestra conductor, but they hit something in me.

  Love. It’s the most dangerous four-letter word I know. It feels too soon for something that heavy, but I know in the spectrum between ‘yeah, she’s a friend’ and ‘ring the wedding bells,’ I’m a lot further along that arc than the ‘like’ she told her brother.

  But we don’t have to figure it out tonight. Not when the full moon is over us, round and white and bright, the crickets are chirping a song that the cows’ moos occasionally join in with, and I’ve got my woman wrapped in a blanket beside me at our tree, our spot. It feels right, like meeting her here each night is us.

  “Mmm, I like this,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “This is the best part of my day, finally getting to see you, hold you, touch you.”

  She snuggles into me, sighing happily. “Me too. I’m going to hate it when you’re gone.”

  It’s the first time we’ve talked about the fact that I travel. A lot.

  I’ve had this conversation with other women before, and it never goes well. Though usually, it’s the whole package deal—I live in the sticks, far from the closest city, I travel on a near-monthly basis, sometimes for days, sometimes for weeks, and I’m shit at calling and texting. All of which add up to a ‘See you when you get back, maybe?’ level of relationship with every woman I’ve dated. A casualness that’s always worked, for them and for me.

  But I hate the idea of leaving Shayanne here when I go. “I wish I could throw you in my truck and take you with me. You’d love it.”

  It’s not a bad idea, I think as I imagine showing her the world, introducing her to my friends across the US as my woman, and spending every night with her in my arms and on my cock. Sounds pretty fucking sweet. Business and pleasure, a perfect combination.

  “I would, but I’ve got to stay here and help out at home. I can’t just up and leave the way you can.” There’s no accusation in the words. They’re just the truth of the way our lives are set up and the different ways our families need us.

  Shayanne has to be there for her brothers and dad, day in and day out, to take care of them and run the house. Mark needs me to keep bringing in the money that my horse programs provide. I’m more valuable away than at home.
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  And I know it’s a shitty thing to do to a woman. Especially to abandon a woman like Shayanne, whose entire being is caught up in caring for others and making a homestead. I’m going to be on the road too often for it to be anything but a hard cycle.

  She’s roots, and I’m wings, which sounds sweet and poetic. But I can feel that in the long run, we might pull at each other until it hurts, her roots ripping from the ground, leaving crumbles of dirt in her wake, or my wings clipped painfully, leaving me flightless.

  It’s not right. It’s not fair. But it is what it is.

  “Tell me about it,” she says, her lips pressed to my chest for a sweet kiss. I’m thankful as fuck that I unbuttoned my shirt when I got here, wanting her on my skin, because now, she’s tracing her fingertips through the dusting of hair along my pecs, and every scratch of her nails makes goosebumps threaten to pop up with how good it feels. “Tell me about where you’re going or your favorite place to go. Tell me about what’s beyond Great Falls.”

  I swallow, thinking about everywhere I’ve gone and all that I’ve seen. What would she want to hear about? What would take her away on an adventure, if only in her mind for this moment?

  “There was this one time I went to the Grand Canyon . . .” I reply, telling her about watching the sunset dip into the red rocks and how wowed I was by nature’s majesty and how it contrasted with the ranch I was working with in Arizona that was staffed by the rowdiest old cowboys I’d ever met. “They had me mouth open to the sky in the rain, promising it was some good luck charm. And I didn’t want to be rude, you know, so I did it.” I chuckle at the silly memory. “Felt like I’d been really accepted by their little group, warm fuzzies and all, right up until they all busted up laughing. I was a good sport about it, though. Sometimes, hazing the new guy is the norm. In making fun of me, they were bringing me into their fold.”

  She laughs too, tinkles of glee in the cool night air. “More,” she whispers, doing a wiggly dance against me like she’s happy. “Best horse you’ve ever worked with?”