Racing Hearts: Bennett Boys Ranch Read online

  Except for me, maybe, I think selfishly.

  I don’t know what it is tonight, but something about Shayanne, the girl I’ve known distantly for years, seems different, and that’s a problem. A growing one in my jeans, which are getting uncomfortable as fuck.

  She swallows greedily, gulping before sighing in satisfaction. “Thanks.”

  “No problem,” I say, hoping speaking the words will make them true. Because I’m not looking to get in a fight tonight over her honor, especially considering that for all I know, she’s hoping Ballcap Boy is on his way over for round two on the floor. “I hear congrats are in order? Happy for you, Shay.”

  The nickname falls off my tongue unbidden. I don’t know this girl well enough to run around shortening her name, but I did it anyway.

  She doesn’t seem to mind, or even notice, too excited to tell me about her soaps being in the resort gift shop. And though Sophie basically just told me the same thing, I listen to the story again, happy to hear her share her excitement and wanting to hear it from her lips.

  She seems to catch her breath because I can feel her booted foot tapping beneath the table, and when the next song starts, her eyes dart to the floor.

  “All right, I’m up again. Love this song!”

  Like a flash, I can read the future for just a split second and know I’m fucked as fucked can be. She’s going to eyeball me for a dance, and I’m going to do it. Mama raised a gentleman, and if a lady asks you to dance, you’d best get off your hiney and cut a rug.

  But this is a bad idea. A really bad idea.

  For one, Ballcap Boy is still stalking around on the other side of the room last I checked, which was just a second ago. And two, her last name is Tannen and my last name is Bennett, and everyone knows that’s like playing with dynamite and fire and hoping shit doesn’t blow up. Only Sophie exists in the gray area.

  Hell, half the folks in here have probably already texted her brothers that we’re sitting together, even with James and Sophie on the other side of the table.

  But most importantly, and most dangerously, I’m finding that I quite like the idea of pulling her curvy body against mine and sharing space for a little longer.

  Before I can make an excuse to get the hell outta dodge, she turns those eyes on me. They’re hazel, not quite blue or green or brown but some amalgamation of them all, and I’m struck with an urge to map each fleck of color.

  “Come on, Luke. Scoot me around the floor,” she orders. And though she’s asking me, it feels casual, like if I say no, she’ll just hop over to the next cowboy. Like nothing ever gets her down. Like she’s not remotely affected by me the way I am by her.

  And for just a minute, I want to hold her sunshine in my arms and let it chase through me, lift me up with her exuberance. And test my limits, and maybe hers too.

  “All right, Shay,” I say, knowing it’s simultaneously the politest and stupidest thing I can do. For me, for her, and for our families.

  I can already imagine the ‘conversation’ I might have with her brothers about this.

  She has a sort of pass to be friends with Sophie, and by extension, James, but even then, they keep the family business chatter non-existent to respect the tension between our families. Tension they planted, watered, and helped foster.

  I damn sure shouldn’t be here publicly thumbing my nose at the whole thing by dancing with Paul Tannen’s youngest and only daughter.

  Yet, here I am with her in my arms as a slow country waltz plays. Luke Combs’s Beautiful Crazy plays from the jukebox, and while some couples are getting mighty cozy, I hold Shayanne a mostly respectable distance away. Not quite the hard-armed frame Mama taught us, not quite the bumping uglies grinding some other folks are doing to the sweet song, but somewhere in between.

  You can see daylight between us if you look, but there isn’t much.

  I can read that she’s about to say something, and right now, we’re not fighting like our families tend to do, so I spin her, doing a complicated switching of hands that has her grinning in surprise. Then I dip her, sweeping both of her feet off the ground for a moment.

  To her credit, she’s a great follower and goes right along as I lead her like we’ve been dancing together forever.

  When I set her back right, whatever she was going to say is wiped from her mind, and she’s laughing and breathing hard.

  “That was awesome. Luke Bennett, you can dance!” Her declaration is one of pure delight. “Where’d you learn that one move?”

  “Denver,” I say with a shrug, though I know I’m on the other side of the bell curve as far as dance partners go. I’ve spent more than my fair share of nights alone in country towns, and bar dancing is one way to make friends. I might’ve even taken a bar-session class or two after a beer, not that I’d admit to that.

  The song ends and the next one starts, a fast one, thank fuck. After a quick eyebrow lift to ask if she’s still in, we dance several more rounds, working around the floor as I show her off. She’s not my girl, but she is the prettiest girl in the bar, and I’m the lucky guy dancing with her right now.

  But her hand in mine feels nice, the curve of her lower back as I lead her is completely proper but feels naughty, and the heat from her skin singes me to the core.

  From the table, I see James lift his hand, and I pause. “Looks like James is flagging me. You want a break?”

  She pauses, her bottom lip disappearing behind her teeth, but she’s smiling like the world is her oyster. “Nah, I’ve got a couple more in these boots. But will you order me another water?”

  I nod, stuck somewhere between disappointed and relieved, and then spin her loose.

  Finally free of whatever spell she was weaving, I run my fingers through my hair. What the hell was that?

  I’ve never looked at Shayanne like that, never wanted her that way, but tonight, all I can think about is her curvy body sinking onto my cock as she rides me like a cowgirl. I don’t know what changed, but I need to stay far away from her and her witchy magic that makes me think with my dick and not my head. Because she is danger with a capital ‘chop off your D’. Her dad and brothers would happily feed my cock to their goats and leave me ball-less for daring to even fantasize about their baby girl.

  But damn, their baby girl grew up. She grew up good.

  Before I’ve taken two steps away, Ballcap Boy is catching her hand, and she flows into dancing with him like it was choreographed that way, like something out of a movie.

  Oddly, I feel torn. Part of me feels like I’m leaving her to the wolves, but it’s only a dance and I have no right to tell that guy to step off. He just rubs me the wrong way, a bit too predatory for a sweet girl like Shayanne.

  I’m still watching over my shoulder as I sit down with James and Sophie. “You didn’t have to sit out for us. I was just giving you a five-minute warning that we’re almost out. That’s what the parenting books say you’re supposed to do so the kid doesn’t throw a tantrum.”

  If glares were daggers, he’d be bleeding out right here at Hank’s. “You calling me a kid? And trying to use your kid tricks on me? Shithead.”

  There’s a beat of tension before we both laugh. “You really reading parenting books?”

  James nods, and I’m honestly not surprised. He’s full throttle—with Sophie, with their wedding, and he’ll be the same with their baby. I give that kid two years before he or she will be on a horse.

  “Yeah, I figure I had pretty good examples with Pops and Mama, but now that it’s my turn, that’s a lot of pressure to live up to. I mean, how am I gonna compete with Pops, you know? Especially with this new generation of kids?”

  He’s right. Our father was the best . . . rancher, husband, dad. He was the best man I’ve ever known, and we all miss him dearly. Hard to believe it’s been almost a year and a half since he died under the tree in the front yard, right where he proposed to Mama so many years ago.

  I tell him earnestly, “You do what you can, and when you fuck
up, Mama and Sophie will tell you. Just listen to them, say ‘yes, ma’am’, and get your shit straight.”

  He knocks my knee under the table, and I grin, knowing that I’m right. But more importantly, he knows I’m right too.

  Shayanne reappears at the table, grabbing her fresh water and chugging it like it’s a beer guzzling contest before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Damn, if I could be a glass of water right now . . .

  “James and Sophie are out for the evening,” I say instead, forcing myself to stay polite. “I probably should head home too. I’ve been on the road all day.”

  Shayanne smiles. “Oh, me too, then. This was fun. Thanks!”

  We get up, and the girls hug and make promises to talk tomorrow. James gives me a handshake, handing out advice like he’s the boss of me. My little brother . . . the boss.

  Like hell.

  “Head on home now, Luke. Drive safe.”

  I flip him off, and he grins like he never had a doubt in my ability to make appropriate decisions. Like he’s such a responsible adult now that he’s married with a baby on the way.

  Sophie hugs me too, and I swear her eyes are ticking from me to Shayanne with hope. I can almost see the heart emojis jumping out like in a cartoon.

  “Best you toss those thoughts out the way you should’ve tossed my brother before he put a baby in you,” I warn her with a deep growl just between us. “Tannen. Bennett.”

  The two words, just our names, are a reminder to us both, one I definitely need. They’re also enough to dampen Sophie’s scheming. “Yeah, yeah,” she whispers, but maybe not as resigned as I’d hoped. “Never the ‘twain shall meet. Still, can’t blame a girl for hoping for her best friend and her brother. But yeah, I kinda like you, so probably not a good idea to get yourself killed by dipping the wick so close to home.”

  Sophie. The girl who can be as prissy as a princess one minute and as crass as a ranch-raised cowboy the next.

  In the parking lot outside, I sidle up next to Shayanne. “Hey, I’m not a creeper following you, but we’re going the same way, so I’ll be on your ass the whole way home, you know?”

  She laughs like that half-assed joke was actually funny, playfully slapping my chest. I imagine for one second that she’s feeling my muscles because she actually wants to touch me, not because she’s clowning around.

  “I know, neighbor.”

  The whole way home, I follow those red, glowing taillights, knowing they should be telling me stop, stop, stop, but when I reach our ranch gate, it takes all I have to turn in and not see her the rest of the way home.

  I might be crude, a dirtier cowboy than most, but I’m still a gentleman with manners.

  Sometimes.

  I just want to make sure she gets there safe and sound. That’s all, I tell myself. But even I can’t believe my own lie.

  I see her tap her brake lights twice, a good night salute, and then she’s gone, red orbs getting further away from me.

  Probably for the best . . . but I don’t like ‘for the best’.

  Chapter 3

  Shayanne

  Our kitchen can get hot as balls. And this is one of those times. I’d love to get out of here for a little bit, cool down, and cool off.

  My lips screw up as I look around and then check the clock, wondering if I have time for a short break. It’s not like farm life is a clock in, clock out, scheduled break type of job, but it’s important to get everything done in a timely manner. Our lives and livelihood depend on it.

  Today is canning day. Well, it’s canning prep day, which is more than half the battle. If today’s prep goes right, then the actual canning can be fun . . . ish. If not, it’s the third circle of Hell.

  I’ve got dozens of jars boiled and ready for me to start the real work tomorrow, along with lids, seals . . . the whole works. I glance down at the list of recipes I’m planning, some tried and true, some new for this year. I might not have gone to a fancy culinary institute, but any country woman worth her salt has a repertoire that’ll please the hungry masses.

  And this month’s farmer’s market sales will be instrumental in getting us through the lean months of winter. Farming is feast or famine, and when times are good, you’d best put some away for a rainy day.

  Well, except that we like rain because then the fields green right up and the cows get nice and fat, but the metaphor still works.

  “Fuck it. I’m out for a bit,” I tell the empty room.

  I tend to have a foul mouth at times too. Three brothers and all.

  And yeah, I talk to myself.

  I talk to everything—people, animals, and inanimate objects. Daddy finally had to ban me from the living room during football season because I kept yelling at the TV too much.

  Mom used to say it’s because I have so many words in my head, a constant cacophony of chatter that needs an outlet.

  In hindsight, I think she was just happy for me to share the wealth with any and everything around me so that she didn’t have to listen to me wax poetic about every thought that ran through my mind. But she never made me feel like I was annoying her in any way. She happily listened to me. She was a good mother, and I miss her.

  I look over to where our only inside dog is lying on a braided rug by the front door, watching for Bruce to come home. Murphy might be a family pet in theory, but we all know his heart belongs to my brother.

  For a guy nicknamed Brutal, and rarely called by his given name of Bruce by anyone outside of family, he’s a pushover for that pooch. Only that dog, though, as anyone who’s tried to get one over on him has learned.

  I drop my voice to my adopted dog-ish gravelly sound. “You sure that’s a good idea, Miss Shayanne?” Murphy is old-school, calls me Miss like I’m a proper lady. He’s the only one that does that. I laugh at my own weirdness.

  “Yes, Murph. I’m sure, and don’t you go telling on me neither, or there will be exactly zero pumpkin puree in your dog food this week, and we both know how much you like a little fall flavor. You’re almost a basic Starbucks girl, fangirling for her Pumpkin Spice Latte.”

  Okay, that’s pushing it, and he lifts his head at the insult, huffing before his chin returns to his paws. I take that as a sign of his agreeable silence.

  I grab my notebook, part diary, part recipe book, part scrapbook, and my near-constant companion. I scratch Murphy’s head as one last bribe and hit the barn to saddle up.

  My favorite horse is a chestnut mare named Embers for her brownish-red tinted coat that’s capped with a black mane and tail. She whinnies as I come closer, as ready for a ride as I am.

  “Hey there, girl. You wanna get outta here?”

  She has a voice too, but considering my imaginary conversation with Murphy, I hold back from speaking for Embers too. I lay a blanket on her back, saddle her up, and climb aboard.

  The afternoon sun beats down on me, but the fall wind blows through my hair and over my face, refreshing and cool. The land stretches out before me, nearly flat with a few gentle rolling hills, and wide to the horizon in the distance. It’s beautiful, it’s home, but at the same time, it’s a cage.

  A pretty one, of course, with family and friends. But sometimes, I think it would’ve been nice to be one of those city kids with a mom and dad who told them they could be anything they wanted. Sure, there would’ve probably been a lot of extra baggage . . . Girl Scouts, piano lessons, primping, and SATs. But I could be anything, an astronaut or a firefighter, a ballerina or a businesswoman.

  Well, I am that last one now, a businesswoman in my own right. If I wasn’t sitting astride Ember, I’d do a happy dance at that thought, but I restrain myself, just barely, so I don’t fall off the horse like a newb.

  But I’ve also never been off this plot of land, not for long, anyway. I’ve never considered that I’d be anything other than exactly what I am.

  The stand-in for Mom, a replacement after she died.

  The glue that holds the Tannens together.

  The last
bastion of civility to keep my brothers from going feral.

  I hope I’ve done her proud, taking care of the family the way she would’ve been happy to do. I’m happy to do it too, truth be told. I do something meaningful here. It just would’ve been nice to get to choose it myself, which seems like a small but important distinction.

  Ahead, I see my destination. Far away from the house, over a hill and to the slight valley below, sits a big shade tree. It’s my refuge, my hideout where none of the boys ever look, mostly because it’s right on the line of our property and the Bennett ranch next door.

  I can already feel the long day of work drifting off my shoulders, my load lightening, and with a little encouragement from my heels, Ember stops beneath the canopy of leaves. They’re still mostly green, but the edges are turning a yellowy color that’ll darken to orange before they fall to the ground, leaving my sanctuary bare for the winter season.

  I let Ember roam freely, trusting that she won’t go too far and will answer my whistle when I’m ready to leave. I approach the tree like an old friend, placing a palm to the rough bark of the trunk.

  “Hey, there. I’ve missed you,” I tell the tree. “Mind throwing me a little shade?” I grin at the silly joke, but the tree doesn’t so much as sway. I’m weird but not crazy, and I know the tree won’t talk back. Not in words, at least.

  I slip my boots off, reach up, and grab a branch, hoisting myself into the canopy to find my favorite spot. It’s like the tree grew a chair just for me, a spot to lean back against the trunk, but with a wide enough limb that I can sit comfortably. And hidden by the leaves. I can’t see out or be seen.

  I pull out my notebook, flipping through the pages of my own penmanship as I dream of far-away places, of new scent combinations of soap, of Daddy getting his shit straight and being a stand-up guy.