Racing Hearts: Bennett Boys Ranch

by Landish, Lauren

  I take a sip of the beer I’m holding, not surprised to find it’s gone lukewarm in the overheated house.

  Pops, I could use a bit of guidance here. Tell me how to help her, how to help them.

  Across the room, I meet Mark’s eyes and then, next to him, James’s. I remember, and I know they do too. Funerals are always awful, but I’m sure this brings up some tough memories for them just like it does for me. It’s too close to home, too similar to Pops, too soon.

  Part of me wonders if it’ll always be too soon or if at some point, the years will make it more bearable.

  A memory works its way to the front of my mind. The night of Pops’s funeral, afterward, my brothers and I, still in our suits, headed down to the pond. We built a big campfire and sat around for hours, telling stories and reminiscing. Mama checked on us once from the porch but left us to our own little ceremony. She understood that it’d been our private way of connecting with Pops, not a public display like this.

  The Tannens need that. Maybe more than my brothers and I did. We were steady, solid as a family, and we have Mama.

  But they’ve got this wedge shoved in between them all.

  Paul is some of that wedge, the mindfuck of losing a man you loved, a man you respected but a man who frustrated and disappointed you, too, throwing everything into a giant Gordian knot. It’s hard to find that balance in the grief. Thinking ill of him in his passing feels like a betrayal, but he wasn’t perfect. No one is.

  I’m sad to say that I’m a section of that wedge too, causing strife for the brothers, but I won’t change it. I love Shayanne too much, and I’m a selfish prick who wants her at any cost. Plus, she needs me.

  I lift my chin at Mark, not willing to leave Shay’s side as I trail along with her as she works the room.

  He reads me and comes closer, and I say quietly, “Remember the night after Pops’s service?” He blinks, which I take as a yes. “Can you set that up out back somewhere?”

  His lips press into a thin line, but he nods. I think I see a flash of something in his eyes, pride, maybe, but it’s gone too fast for me to be sure.

  My brothers disappear quietly, not wanting to make a scene and knowing that the whole damn town knows about the bad blood between the Tannens and Bennetts, even if they don’t quite know why the feud exists. But we’re all being watched, gossip hanging on the vine and ready to bloom, warranted or not.

  Wakes are an odd thing. Some people feel a need to share their grief, sobbing and wailing in what seems to be almost more show than emotion. Others wish they could have some privacy or want to just pretend like nothing’s wrong. There are as many ways to grieve as there are people on Earth, none more right or wrong, just different and as individual as each person. But somehow, the support of a circle of people is supposed to lessen the pain of the process. I’m not sure if it actually works, but it’s what’s always been done, so it’s what we do.

  Finally, slowly, the house begins to clear out as people take their leave.

  Until eventually, it’s just the Tannens, me, and Mama. She’s in the kitchen, cleaning up empty glasses and putting the stacks of labeled casseroles in the freezer.

  As Mama closes the freezer for the last time, I can feel that the truce Brody and I silently adopted today is over. It’s time for me to go.

  I clear my throat, looking around at the four Tannens. “I won’t tell you that I know how you feel. Paul was your father. But in some ways, I’ve been where you are. When Pops died, it was hard.” I swallow thickly, not used to talking about emotional shit, and definitely not with people I barely know and who are eyeing me like they’d just as soon beat the shit out me as listen to me share my feelings.

  I look around the empty house, wondering momentarily what’s going to become of it. “After everyone left, we felt like we needed something more . . . personal, private to say our goodbyes.” Shayanne’s breath hitches, and I pull her to my side. “My brothers and I had a campfire, told stories about Pops, and it was hard. So fucking hard, but it was good.”

  A tear burns at my eye, not at the loss of Paul Tannen but at the pain I know they’re feeling because I felt it too. “We set up a campfire outside for y’all tonight, if you want. There’s some beer and a couple of wine coolers and some crappy snacks. I don’t know shit about your grief, but I know you need to heal, to huddle together and figure some shit out. Tell stories about your dad, get it all out, or just sit there silently and watch the flames. Whatever you need to do, just hold on to each other.”

  Brutal covers the distance between us in three strides, his jaw set and his hands clenched at his side. I’m this close to shoving Shay away in preparation for his attack when he sticks his hand out. Surprised, I shake it. “Thanks, Luke. You’ve been a big help these last few days.”

  I nod my head in appreciation, not needing accolades.

  I don’t expect Brody or Bobby to be nearly as kind in their goodbyes, so I focus on Shayanne. I hug her tightly, not giving a single fuck that her brothers can see, and then press a soft kiss to her forehead. “Anything you need, honey.”

  She nods in recognition, and I’m so damn proud of her for how fierce she is. I don’t know how I ever thought she was young. Maybe in years, but she’s the most responsible and mature person I think I know. Her exuberance is dampened in sadness right now, but she’s resilient, and I know she’ll bounce back from this.

  She’ll be sunshine again, someday. And I’ll wait for her to shine again, help her find her light if she needs me to.

  I spin her, pushing her toward Brody. Our eyes meet, my blue ones beseeching, his brown ones hard and unreadable. He licks his lips, his voice calm as the lazy creek that runs along the back stretch of our properties. “Family meeting outside.”

  Without another word, he turns and takes Shayanne with him. Brutal and Bobby follow with hollow eyes and uncertain frowns.

  I escort Mama out, helping her into my truck so we can head home ourselves.

  * * *

  Knock-knock-knock.

  I wake from a fitful sleep, tossing my thrashed blankets off as I try to decipher what woke me. There was a sound. A knock?

  I get up and quietly step to the front of the house, toward the front door. I open it a crack, not sure who in the hell is knocking on my door.

  For one, no one knocks on this door. I live in the ranch hand house, and though we don’t currently have a ranch hand hired, this house is a bit free-reign, all of us coming and going at will since we’ve all lived here at one point or another. And two, it’s the middle of the fucking night.

  The porch light is blinding, and I blink until I see Shayanne standing there, surrounded in the yellow glow like a damn angel dropped down from heaven to my porch.

  “Shay? Honey?” I stutter, not expecting to see her tonight. I figured she’d have had family time and then collapsed asleep, as exhausted as she must be.

  She’s got on pajamas, little cotton shorts with a ruffle along the hem and a sweatshirt. Her feet are hidden by fluffy Ugg boots that are stained and worn from farm life. She looks cold, from the chill in the November night air and probably from the ice inside her.

  “Get in here, woman! You’re going to freeze,” I say, pulling her inside.

  I flip on the lights to grab a blanket off the couch and wrap it around her. As the warmth of the house hits her, her teeth begin to chatter. I set her on the couch and quickly move to make her a cup of hot chocolate. I don’t usually have the childhood treat in the kitchen, but Carson, our last ranch hand, loved the stuff and left almost a full box of the instant mix in the cupboard. I send him a silent thanks on the night wind.

  She sips at the steaming sweetness gratefully, and I sit down beside her, pulling her into my lap. She lays her head on my shoulder and I can feel the stress and strain melting off her.

  “You okay, honey?” I ask finally, not wanting to pry but worried about what sent her to my doorstep tonight. I’d hoped the campfire would be a good first step toward some h
ealing, but maybe I was wrong. Regardless, she shouldn’t be out in this cold, walking acres from her door to mine. She had to have walked because I know I didn’t hear an ATV or Gator, and there are no horses outside. I would’ve heard any of those long before her quiet knock.

  Her shrug is small, her voice smaller. “Couldn’t sleep.” She’s quiet for a moment, then speaks again. “Funny thing is, I’ve never had problems sleeping when Daddy’s gone. Never thought about it one way or another, but tonight, the house felt emptier somehow. Like he’s not just gone for the weekend, but gone . . . forever.”

  Her pain kills me, sharp thorns against my skin as I curse that I can’t take the heartbreak from her. I’d gladly take every bit of it if she didn’t have to suffer.

  I trace circles along her back, soothing and comforting her as best I can, even though it feels like it’s not nearly enough. I let her decide where the conversation goes and share what she needs to.

  “The campfire was good. Thank you for that,” she says after another sip of hot chocolate.

  “I’m glad. It was good for us. I just hoped it would help y’all too.” She’s quiet, so I continue, filling the air between us with confessions that I’ve never shared with anyone.

  “We got so drunk that night, even Mark, who can drink a horse under the table. We cried until we laughed at how pitiful we were, and we laughed at stories about Pops until happy tears came pouring out again. Eventually, we were cried out and our bellies hurt from the jostling beer and laughter. We had a service for Pops with the whole town and all that pomp and circumstance rigmarole, but that night by the campfire, that was when I said my goodbyes to him. Just his boys around a fire. I think he would’ve liked that.”

  The memory feels fresh, like it just happened. I think it’s because I still feel him every day. He’s in the land I live on, in the horses I work with, in my families’ hearts, and in ways, big and small, in all the things we do. We learned this life by his side and live it in his honor with everything we do.

  “And Mama Louise?”

  I stroke her hair, shaking my head softly. “I heard crying from time to time, but Mama grieved in her own way. I do know that when she got back in the kitchen, we spent a whole week eating nothing but Pops’s favorites. It was her way, I guess.”

  I can feel Shayanne’s cheek puff up against my chest, and I realize she’s smiling. Even the smallest lift in her spirits makes me feel like a fucking hero. She needs that right now, any little sparking moment of happiness I can give her.

  Though I know her night with her brothers was just as personal and private as ours for Pops, she shares with me. “We didn’t get drunk, though I think the boys put down that whole case of Modelo, saying they’d never had fancy beer before. I’ll have to remember to thank James for that because I know it’s from his private stash.”

  I kiss her head, humming. James did pick up a few bad habits during his time on the rodeo circuit, fancy beer being one of them. “He was glad to help. We all are, honey.”

  “We talked about Daddy, though. It felt good, even though it hurt. I told them what he’d said in the hospital.” She drops her voice low like Paul’s. “’So damn proud of each of you, love you all with my whole heart, even if this ticker’s not working right.’ I think he told us all that.”

  “We mostly told stories about when we were kids, back when things were still . . .” Her voice cracks, and she swallows, not wanting to go there. “Back when Mom was still alive too.”

  She disappears into the past in her mind, though she stays in my arms, and I give her time to live in those happy memories.

  “Did you know that I was supposed to be a boy?” she asks, and I shake my head. “Brody said he remembered Mom being pregnant with me, them talking about how we were going to have a house full of boys and how proud Daddy was. And then I was born . . . not a boy.”

  I twirl a curl of her honey waves around my finger, knowing that she’s all woman even if she’s a hell of a tomboy in a lot of ways.

  “Apparently, he was stunned, but before he’d taken me and Mom home from the hospital, he’d gone full-princess-mode. I’ve seen pictures of me when I was little, always in pink and ruffles, but I figured that was Mom’s doing. Apparently not, though. I remember getting the dresses so dirty when I’d play outside, wanting to keep up with all the boys. Hell, my first rifle was even pink. I thought it was because he thought I was less than the boys, somehow not as good as them with my cutesy stuff. Seems maybe I was wrong and he was glad I was a girl. His girl.”

  Her admission that she didn’t like being called ‘girl’ seems tragically ironic now, and I know she’s seeing so many memories through a different lens with the new information she’s learned about a man she thought she knew.

  But can a child ever really know their parent? There’s always a generational difference, and any good parent protects their child as best they can, making sure they grow up healthy and happy, knowing as little pain as possible. I wonder now whether Paul stepped away from his family in an attempt to save them from his own pain as he found a way to dull the sharp edges for himself.

  Maybe my perception of Paul Tannen is askew too, colored by my own loss and his appearance when the hurt was so fresh. I know that Shayanne has so many good memories, but I was all too ready to bastardize him for the one thing he did that I disagreed with. Of course, he made the same mistake, so maybe we’re all a bit culpable in this weird and needless feud between our families.

  She starts to sob, and I take the mug from her hands, setting in on the coffee table. Gathering her close, I rock with her, cooing and whispering in her ear as she gets it out.

  “I keep feeling like at some point, I’ll be out of tears. Surely, that’s true, right?” she asks, not wanting an answer. Her eyes meet mine, her voice soft and raw. “Can I sleep here tonight? I don’t know if I can handle going home.”

  “Of course, honey,” I tell her gladly because I don’t know if I’d be strong enough to drive her home and drop her off to sleep alone, not when she sought me out and I’m all too willing to hold her. I pick her up in my arms, carrying her to my bed.

  I’ve wanted this, her in my space, in my bed. But it’s never happened, the nights outside too beautiful and the days too rushed. The barn and tree are our places. I wanted this under different circumstances, though. I’d imagined finally being able to have her in my bed without secrets, but not like this. Not with her in pain.

  I set her on the edge of my bed, adjusting the pillows for her. “Get comfortable. Let me turn off the living room lights.”

  I’m gone just an instant, but when I return, I’m struck by a powerful sight. Shayanne has pulled off her sweatshirt, leaving on the matching tank top and her shorts. She’s curled up in the center of my bed on her side, her hands folded beneath her cheek like an angel. Her waist dips down and her hip sways high, and the cheeks of her ass are peeking out of her shorts.

  It’s wrong in so many ways, but I have to adjust myself before I lie down behind her. She’s just so magnificent that even broken down like this, her strength and beauty shine through.

  “Can you keep the lamp on?” she asks softly, like she’s embarrassed by the understandable need.

  I leave it and curl up behind her, matching us along the lines of our bodies. Knees to knees, hips to hips, chest to back, and I press a kiss to the bare skin of her shoulder. She lifts her head, and I slip my arm beneath her, wrapping her in the cocoon of my embrace as she snuggles against me.

  “Thank you,” she whispers, like she doesn’t want to break the quiet of the room.

  I squeeze her in answer and she stills. I listen to her breathing, feeling each slow and steady rise and fall, waiting for her body to finally relax into sleep before I allow myself to succumb.

  “Luke?” she says on an exhale.

  “Yeah?” I rumble against her back.

  “Can you . . .” she starts and then stops. “I mean . . . never mind.”

  I open my arms, rol
ling her to her back so I can see her pretty face in the shadows of the room. “What, Shay?” I ask gently, running my thumb along her cheekbone as I cup her face. “What do you need?”

  Her eyes are glittery, tears and pain and love all mingling with the hazel swirls of green, brown, and grey. “Can you make me forget for a minute? Just take all the pain away?”

  It takes two breaths for her meaning to sink in. “Honey, are you sure? We don’t . . . I don’t think that’s—”

  She cuts me off, putting a finger to my lips. “Please.”

  Her plea is my undoing. I press the softest feather of a kiss to her mouth and she moves her lips beneath mine. She tastes salty like the tears she’s been crying. I move to lay a line of kisses along her jaw toward her ear. “Tell me if you need to stop, honey. But I’ll make you feel good. I’ll make you forget as long as I can.”

  Her sigh is one of relief and gratitude. I consider pressing her hands to the mattress and just worshipping her body, but she needs the freedom to do anything she desires. This is for her, and if she needs to touch me, I’ll happily take her fingers dancing along my skin.

  I move the tiny strap of her tank top, kissing my way down her chest, tasting and loving every inch of her as I expose more and more. Her nipple is hard, the pink areola already pulled tight to the air of the cool room. Shay moans, her hands delving into my hair and holding me to her.

  I let a hand trace down the curve of her side, squeezing the flesh at her hip in question. She bucks beneath me, seeking more. I slip into her sleep shorts and then beneath her panties, sliding my thumb along her seam. She’s not even wet yet, not like how she usually is for me, and I groan at the velvety feel of her soft skin.

  “Shay,” I growl in warning, needing to make sure she’s okay with this. Or at least as okay as she can be right now. One of her hands drops to my forearm, holding me to her, and she works her hips against me, using me to chase her own pleasure.