A quick shower washes the grit out of my eyes and the fire out of my attitude, both of which should be a good thing. Instead, as I dry off, I feel raw and sullen.
Looking at myself in the mirror, I attempt a pep talk.
Time to cowboy up, Shayanne. Find your power, step back into your role, and get done what needs gettin’ done. Take care of yourself and take care of the family.
My chest lifts with the air I force into my lungs. I hold it until it’s uncomfortable, fighting to feel, wanting to live. With a whoosh, it lets loose, and I feel somehow reinvigorated at the reminder that I have a life to live, a job to do, and I’d best get to it. Ain’t no one else gonna do it, that’s for damn sure.
We’ve all got our role to play.
I pull on jeans and a flannel shirt, rolling the sleeves up as a sign of my intention to work. Murphy whines as I make my way down the hall, and I can’t help but pause long enough to scratch behind his ears. “Sorry, boy. I’ve got to do this . . . now or never.”
I stop at the doorway to Daddy’s room, though, frozen in the empty space.
His bed is made, the navy comforter pulled up and the two pillows, one dented from his head and the other puffy from lack of use, laid neatly against the headboard. The closet door is open, showing the carefully sorted sections of dress shirts, work shirts, and pressed jeans. His cowboy hat hangs on a hook on the wall. We’d wanted to bury him in it, a true picture of how he looked every day, but it hadn’t fit right in the casket.
The thought is painful, bringing up the memory of him laid out in the satin-lined box. He’d looked peaceful, and I’d pretended he was just sleeping. I still want to pretend he’s just on an overnight trip to the casino.
But he’s not.
With shaking hands, I take the hat off the hook and settle it on my head. It’s too big, but it fits better now than the last time I wore it. I couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen then.
I’m in the passenger seat of Daddy’s old truck, the too-loud single cab with a bench seat, worn vinyl covered by a quilted moving blanket. The windows are down and the wind blows loudly, whipping my loose hair into my face, tying it in knots. Daddy takes his hat off, dropping it on my head. I give him a thankful smile, flashing teeth too big for my still-young face. I feel safe, loved, and special to get to go into town with him today while the boys work at home.
Back in the present, I run a finger along the worn rim of the felt hat. That memory had been shortly before Mom got sick and Daddy disappeared on us, not literally but figuratively.
With a bit of time and some different points of view from the funeral, I can see Daddy a little differently now. I’ve been mad for so long, frustrated and disillusioned when he fell off the pedestal I’d put him on.
But the truth is, he was just a man, with both strengths and flaws, multi-faceted and in pain over the unexpected path his life took.
Grimly, I tell the room, “I love you, Daddy.”
There’s no answering rustle of the curtains or cool breeze to let me know he heard me, and that disappoints me. He might not be here now, not in the room, not in this world, but he left me with something meaningful. Work and a work ethic, family and love.
I move to the desk where I sit and pay bills every month. This time, there’s more to be done. So much more. Mama Louise wrote me a list of how to handle someone’s estate and make sure we address everything that needs to be checked off before we see the lawyer. At least Daddy had a will. After Mom died, he made sure to take care of that for us.
I check my notebook, reading the bulleted list I wrote as Mama Louise handed out advice from her voice of experience. She’d been such a help planning Daddy’s service. I don’t know how to thank someone for that. Anything I can think of seems piddly in light of the load she helped us carry.
The next hours pass in a blur.
I log into the bank accounts on the old computer, checking and double-checking that everything’s been paid on time and the scheduled transactions are all correct. I go through old files and discover a small insurance policy I didn’t know about, so I shoot off an email to see if it’s still valid. I find an old metal box in the bottom drawer, but when I open it half-expecting to find tools, I discover a stack of old photographs.
I thumb through them, seeing pictures of Mom and Daddy, of each of us kids as babies, of animals long since gone. I wonder if Daddy flipped through these and how he selected these pictures for this box because they’re from a mish-mash of years and not in any order I can discern. Finally, I put the pictures back in the box, telling myself that I should go through those with the boys, together. With a hand laid on the closed lid, I take a steadying breath, thankful for a moment that there are no more tears left in me.
I return to my digging, checking each file folder and letting my fingers trace over the ones with Mom’s looping cursive and Daddy’s block print. Their handwriting was as different as they were, soft and sweet and hard and gruff, but they were in perfect balance.
I’m struck again by how hard it must’ve been for him to lose Mom. All of the people telling me how much I look like her come back to mind, and I wonder if I was a good reminder of her or a painful one.
* * *
Dinner is quiet and tense, the four of us taking our usual spots around the table. We’ve had dinner without Daddy sitting in his place at the head of the table countless times, but it still feels different now.
There’s a void instead of a vacancy, the distinction subtle but definite.
“I went through Daddy’s desk today, made sure everything’s on track,” I tell the boys, breaking the awkward silence of us passing serving platters of food around the table. I made another pot roast today, knowing that I’d likely be tied up all day, but I did make Brody’s favorite sourdough rolls as an olive branch. He’s got two on his plate already, so hopefully, that’s a good sign.
“I found a box of pictures I thought we could go through together,” I continue, not getting any response. “Doesn’t have to be tonight, but sometime, you know?”
Bruce lifts his eyes from his plate, looking supportive. “That’d be nice, but maybe not yet.”
It’s not a question, and his eyes flick from me to Brody and back like he’s trying to read the airwaves between us to see what’s not being said.
“Yeah, sure, of course,” I say agreeably. I turn to Brody, not letting him ride beneath the radar any longer. “I found paperwork on a safety deposit box at the bank, too. You know anything about that?”
Forced into a corner by the direct question, he grinds his jaw. “Nope.” He pops the P, dismissively ending that line of conversation, but he adds a shrug of one shoulder.
“Figured I’d go to town tomorrow and see what’s in it, but I’m betting you’ll have to go too, seeing as you’re the oldest. Think you can get away from the critters for a bit to go?”
“Guess it depends on whether I have to do your chores or not.” His voice is flat and emotionless, which hurts more than if he were yelling and stomping.
Brody isn’t the hothead people sometimes think he is. He’s just a rough old country boy. But one thing he never is is apathetic. You’d never know that right now, though, because it’s as if he’s looking straight through me and couldn’t be bothered to care.
“I said I was sorry for missing breakfast this morning. I’ll be here to make your damn biscuits and fry your bacon tomorrow.” My voice is loud, making up for Brody’s quiet.
He flinches the tiniest bit at my words but holds his eyes steady on mine as we enter some battle of wills like we’re kids again.
It’s Bobby’s choked voice that makes me lose focus. “You were gone, Shayanne. We didn’t know where you were, not really, though we guessed. But you were gone.”
And like a lightning bolt shot down through the sky to my heart, I realize something hard. We all just lost our father. I mean, I knew that, of course. But was I too tied up in my own loss to really consider theirs?
The
y lost their father too. And the first morning without parents, they woke up to find me gone, our family routine broken, our circle untied.
Guilt runs through me.
Brody has held us together so well and for so long, putting his own hopes and dreams on hold for us, and I’m sure he’s afraid I’m gonna leave him like Mom and Dad did. Bruce has this farm and his oversensitive heart that’s hidden by an exterior that scares the shit out people before he’s even said a word. And Bobby is the brother who escapes into a world of his own making, just him and a guitar, bringing the music he hears in his head to life.
They needed me. Not to make breakfast but to be there for them. To be the glue, just like Mom was. And I wasn’t.
“I’m sorry, guys,” I say softly, meeting each of their eyes. “I was selfish, didn’t think of what it would be like for you this morning. I couldn’t sleep and so I just went . . .” I glance out the window to the setting sun, the pinks and oranges painting the sky as darkness chases them down the horizon. “I should’ve told you.”
“You could’ve come to me,” Brody says. It’s a huge admission on his part, not an olive branch but a whole damn tree, tied up in a question of where my loyalties lie.
I look back to him, feeling Bruce’s and Bobby’s eyes on me, waiting to see if we’ll get this sorted out.
“Brody, you are an amazing brother and a great leader for this family,” I start.
He interrupts, his voice tight and his jaw hard. “I sense there’s a but coming.”
I smile wanly, shaking my head. “And, I have never wanted to do anything but be by your side and care for this family. Not really. I think I honestly never considered that there might be more for me, you know?”
His slow blink tells me he understands that, at least.
I know he always dreamed of taking over this farm, of being the next generation to love this land, but surely, he had other dreams too? A wife, a family, a trip around the world? But he got stuck here sure as I did, never seeing a way out or a different path. It doesn’t mean we don’t love our lives, but maybe that we can still think fondly of the other paths we might’ve taken.
“I still want this—this life, this land, this family.” I can feel the relief in the air around us, so it’s hard to continue.
“But I want something else too. Luke Bennett. And he wants me. He lets me be vulnerable, soft, a woman, I guess. But he holds me up and tells me that I can do anything. And so I pick myself right back up, dust the dirt off, and handle our shit. I need both. I can be both. But you have to let me. Please, Brody . . . let me be your sister, a part of this family, and a woman in love with the boy next door.”
It’s my line in the sand.
It has to be.
I don’t know what I’ll do if he says no. I can’t foresee losing either of them, my family or Luke. I don’t want to imagine it.
He growls, getting up from the table to pace, twisting his hat in his hands. Bruce and Bobby meet my eyes, sadness already swirling in their dark depths.
“You know what Dad said when I went back there to see him that first time?” He doesn’t wait for us to answer but continues in a ramble more similar to my chatterbox style than his own usually measured speech. “He was lucid, and he was mad as a hornet’s nest. Damn near spitting as he ranted about the Bennetts and how they were stealing you away.” He drops his voice, mimicking Dad’s. “Sneaky sons of bitches, turning my girl to their side.”
He looks me squarely in the eye and in his own baritone says, “It was damn near his deathbed wish that you never be with Luke Bennett, Shayanne.”
I gasp, the pain of that truth unexpectedly sharp. “Brody!”
His decision could be a declaration of war between us, but I can feel his hesitation, the barest hint of hope. His heart is hard and unyielding, though, at least for now as indecision pushes us to the limit. The proverbial rock and hard place have nothing on us.
His breath heaves, chest rising and falling too fast, and his shoulders are hunched up to his ears. I can see the toll this is taking on him, the weight of the world bearing down on him, and though I feel a bit guilty about it, I’m not trying to make his life harder.
I’m just trying to live mine too.
He licks his lips, the verdict on the tip of his tongue, but then he swallows and turns. The back door opens and then slams shut. Even through the solid wood, I can hear his choked, “Fuck!”
It hurts so fucking bad.
But he didn’t say no.
It’s not that I need his permission or blessing, but I can feel the fierce pulling along the seams of my heart, poison leeching into our family connection by my announcement that I want more.
But it doesn’t have to be this way.
I desperately want it to not be like this. And though it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead, I don’t feel the least bit guilty for thinking that this is all Daddy’s fault. He stirred up this hornet’s nest, created this bad blood for no good goddamn reason, and we’re the ones to pay for his stubborn as a mule, stupid pride.
I’m the one to pay.
With my heart broken either way . . . by my family or by losing Luke.
Chapter 24
Luke
“Saw your girl a few minutes ago. She said to tell you hello.”
Mama’s voice is calm and no-nonsense, coming from the doorway to my stall-turned-office. I look up to find her watching me with a steady gaze, but when I meet her eyes, she glances around.
“Haven’t been out here in awhile. Like what you’ve done with the place.”
I follow her line of sight, seeing the awards Mark nailed up on the far wall. I nod, one corner of my mouth tilting up a little. “Mark hung up ’em up. I ain’t bragging or nothing. Probably did it more to give me hell than anything.”
Her eyes snap back, shaking her head. “He’s proud of you. You might be humble, but he brags on his famous horse breeding and training brother about as much as he does his famous bull riding brother.”
I know as well as she does that Mark likes to give James as much shit as he can, but to anyone else, he only has pride for our youngest brother. That he says the same things about me is . . . something. Surprising? Reassuring? I’m not sure of the label, but it feels good. I know that, at least.
Like a true cowboy, I change the subject to avoid any emotional shit. “You say you saw Shay?”
Mama nods, knowing exactly what I’m doing but allowing it anyway. “I did. She said to tell you hello,” she repeats, but there’s a question in the tone this time.
I swallow, revealing what Mama likely already knows. “She was coming over every night after dinner and going back to make breakfast and get to work for the day. But she hasn’t come over the last couple of nights. Said she was beat after making her pies and just needed to crash.”
I’d offered to help make or deliver pies. Hell, I’d told her to cancel the orders if that’s what she needed to do. People would understand, considering the turmoil their family’s going through. But she’d said the distraction was a good thing.
And there’s been a lot of distraction needed.
Distraction from her and Brody still being at odds, dancing around each other in an awkward politeness that’s killing her.
Distraction from Brutal and Bobby stepping back and letting Brody and Shay figure out their shit. Though having Brutal on her side is a salve, at least, and Bobby is hanging out in town more than at home, Shay says.
Distraction from a stack of papers they’d found in a safe deposit box that seemed to be Paul’s ledger of wins and losses, monies collected and owed. She’d even found documents of another bank account she hadn’t known about, but with the lawyer’s help, she and Brody transferred those funds into the household account.
Distraction from the loss of her dad, the man he was and the mythical creature she still sometimes thought he was or could be.
So she’s spent the last few days in her kitchen, whipping up her smashed pumpkin pies for holiday d
eliveries, running herself ragged, and not wanting or allowing any help.
Mama’s lips purse thoughtfully. “She dropped off my holiday order, so that makes sense. Just so you know, I invited the Tannens to Thanksgiving.” She says it casually, like it’s not a damn bomb.
Meanwhile, my eyes damn near bug out of their sockets. “Not sure that’s a good idea, Mama.” Understatement of the fucking century, and I should get an award for the steadiness of my voice.
I can picture the food fight now, and I know it’d turn to blows. Three on three ain’t bad odds, except one of their three is Bruce ‘Brutal’ Tannen, who I once saw take on an entire offensive line single-handedly, so it’s more like five on three. And I’m not feeling good about that.
Mama’s eyes sparkle and an evilly sweet smile lifts her lips. It’s like a wolf’s challenge in sheep’s clothing. “Which is exactly why I didn’t ask for your opinion, nor did I need your permission. I’m simply informing you of what I’ve already done so you can plan accordingly. Understood?”
Properly put in my place, I nod. “Yes, ma’am.” After a pause to let the unspoken apology of my dropped chin and shrug sink in, I ask, “Did she say yes?”
Mama’s smile is truly kind now, and she nods. “Of course, she did! Think she’s gonna tell an old woman no? Pshaw.”
She makes a dismissive sound as if no one would consider telling her no. Funny thing is, she’s absolutely right. No one would dare to tell Louise Bennett no about a damn thing, at least not and live to tell about it.
The fight imagery is still on my mind, but I’ll admit that I like the idea of Shayanne sitting next to me at Mama’s table. We haven’t done that, and with it being a holiday, it feels even more weighted with importance.
I must smile or make some unconscious movement of excitement because Mama shoots a hard tap at my chest with the back of her hand. “This isn’t for you, Son, much as I do like to make you boys happy. This is for those kids, so you’ll be on your best behavior. For me, for Shayanne, and for her brothers. Or I’ll kick you out before you get any smashed pumpkin pie.”
Racing Hearts: Bennett Boys Ranch Page 24
