Deviant (Thornwood Brothers #1)

Chapter 1 Rhett

RHETT

Everyone bitches about growing up in a small town.

They say it suffocates you, boxes you in, kills all creativity.

Never allows for growth.

Cedarbrook has less than two thousand people—just a bunch of quiet streets with a handful of working red lights.

But I’ve never experienced the suffocating feeling everyone talks about.

I crave that closeness. The way eyes track you from porch swings as you drive by in your pickup truck. How everyone knows your family, accomplishments, even your scandals. You can’t vanish here. You can’t pretend to be someone you aren’t.

But when your truck dies on a country road, someone is there, pulling over before you can even dial for help. No questions asked, just some bitching at you to hold the light while they fix it.

That’s Cedarbrook.

That’s my home.

Thornwood Ranch lies at the town’s edge—acres of pastureland that have been in the family for generations. In the distance, there’s the pale outline of Cedarbrook’s water tower, with its bold white letters, and beyond it, is the faint spire from the church in a town where everyone knows everything.

I dress in the half-light, pulling on a clean white T-shirt and a plaid button-down, tucking them in tight to my jeans. Then I run a comb through my blond hair, taming it into obedient strands.

Before leaving my room, I grab my Stetson from the peg by the door and settle it on my head. The worn leather brim instantly straightens my posture. The hat belonged to Grandpa, and I rarely ever take it off.

The house is quiet, save for the faint sounds of movement in the kitchen.

Framed photographs line the staircase wall—my dad, Eli Thornwood, in his mid twenties, grinning beside Uncle Luke and Grandpa Ben decades ago.

Another one, where grandpa is shaking hands with the mayor at a town ceremony; and one of me at seventeen, holding a trophy at the baseball state championship.

In the kitchen, Mom stands at the stove in jeans and a crisp blouse, stirring a pot of oatmeal.

Her phone is in her other hand, thumb scrolling.

Grandpa sits at the table, nursing a cup of coffee, the morning newspaper lying untouched beside him.

The rich scent of coffee and nutmeg hangs in the warm summer air.

“Morning,” I greet softly, my voice still rough from sleep.

Mom turns, her face brightening. “Morning, sweetheart. Up early as usual?”

Grandpa gives an approving grunt. “Beat the sun up again, did ya?”

“Yes, sir,” I reply, grabbing a mug and pouring coffee. “Sun won’t catch me napping.”

“That’s my boy,” Grandpa says.

Mom holds up her phone, a slight crease between her brows. “Rhett, have you checked the Cedarbrook Community page this morning?”

“Not yet. Something happen?” I ask, bracing myself as I sip my coffee.

She sighs, tapping the screen. “Mrs. Potts posted photos from last night’s cookout. There’s one of you and Molly.”

She hands me the phone, and sure enough, on the screen, is a picture of me, standing beside Molly, by the fire’s glow. She’s looking up at me, smiling, and I’m … Well, I look like I’m posing for the camera, arm barely around her waist.

“You could look a little happier,” Mom says gently. “And stand closer to her, for goodness’ sake. She’s your girlfriend. People notice these things.”

I hand the phone back, forcing an apologetic half-smile. “Sorry, Mom. I was probably just tired.”

Molly Whitmore has been my girlfriend for three months now. She’s kind and pretty—exactly the kind of girl everyone expects me to date. I took her to the cookout because that’s what I’m supposed to do: show up with the sweet girl on my arm.

She leaned into me that night, head on my shoulder, as we talked to other people our age, and I stiffened up like a fence post. I tried to relax, be the boyfriend she deserves, but every nerve in my body was locked. It always happens when I get that close to her.

Mom gives a content nod, satisfied with my answer. “Alright, just keep it in mind. Girls like to feel wanted.”

“They sure do,” Grandpa interjects wryly.

The back door creaks open then and boots clomp in—my younger brother, Cash, arriving from the direction of the bunkhouse out back. He’s two years my junior and carries a restless energy everywhere he goes.

“Morning!“ Cash drawls, making a beeline for the coffee pot. His red hair is mussed—a telltale sign he rolled straight out of bed and threw on yesterday’s T-shirt.

Mom arches an eyebrow at him. “Running a bit late there, aren’t you?”

Cash just flashes a grin. “Early for me.” He pours himself coffee and snags a slice of bacon from a plate on the counter. “Smells great, Ma.”

Grandpa chuckles. “If lazybones here spent less time out at parties, he’d be on time more often.”

Cash rolls his eyes. “Not my fault the party ran late.” He casts me a smirk as he leans against the counter. “Rhett wouldn’t know ... he left early with Molly.”

I feel heat climb my neck. Cash’s tone is innocently suggestive, but even that makes me feel caught out. I clear my throat, keeping my face neutral. “We left at a reasonable hour.”

“Sure, big brother,” Cash teases, giving me an exaggerated wink as he brushes past to sit at the table.

Mom interrupts by nodding toward the doorway. “Rhett, be a dear and fetch your brother from the barn. Breakfast is ready.”

“Got it.” Glad for the excuse to escape Cash’s needling, I set down my coffee and slip outside to get our youngest brother.

I inhale the cool morning air. It carries the scent of dew and sun-warmed hay, and a mockingbird’s song echoes from the pecan tree by the gate.

I can see the barn in the distance and a slim figure just outside it—Dawson, already up and at it.

Where I find identity in order and duty, Dawson finds it in caring for the animals.

I walk across the dewy grass toward him. Dawson is leading Daisy, our dapple gray mare, out of the barn, and a tiny, long-legged foal totters along right behind. The sight coaxes a small smile from me.

“Morning, Daws,” I call as I approach.

Dawson turns at the sound of my voice and beams. There’s a smudge of hay on his cheek and his blue eyes are bright. “I was just taking Daisy and the baby out for some sun.” He gently coaxes the foal forward. “Come on, Ollie.”

He’s dubbed the foal Oliver—Ollie, for short—apparently. I reach out to stroke the foal’s velvety nose as he bumps along at his mother’s side. “They look good. Were you up long?”

“Since first light. Ollie’s eating solid feed already. He’s ahead of the curve.”

I can’t help a soft chuckle at his enthusiasm. Dawson has a way with animals; he’s gentle and patient—all heart. Not like me in the slightest.

“Mom’s got breakfast waiting. Let’s get inside before Cash scarfs down all the bacon.”

Dawson nods, giving the foal a final, fond pat. He falls into step with me then, and we head back to the house.

Inside, the kitchen table is crowded. Dad has returned from his dawn rounds of checking on the cattle, and Uncle Luke is here too, leaning in the doorway with a muffin in hand. We all settle in, chairs scraping, passing plates and bowls as Mom serves up oatmeal and bacon.

Grandpa is in the middle of an old rodeo tale—something about a bull that nearly launched him to the moon back in ’75—making Dawson laugh into his milk. I watch my brothers across the table and think, not for the first time, how much our names say about this family.

Dawson for Mom’s best friend Aria Dawson, the woman who has been her person since before any of us were born.

Benjamin Cash for Grandpa, sitting right here at the head of the table, still telling the same stories he was telling when we were small enough to believe every word.

And I’m just...Rhett. Destined to make something of my own name. At least I don’t have the pressure of living up to anyone’s legacy but my own.

Dad sits quietly, arm draped across the back of Mom’s chair, a faint smile on his face at his father’s antics.

Uncle Luke discusses a fence that needs mending on his west pasture, and Cash promises to give him a hand later, around a mouthful of oatmeal.

Dad clears his throat, his gaze settling on me down the table. “Rhett, Luke mentioned he could use your help at the stock auction next week. I want you to go with him, maybe take the lead on some of the bidding. It’d be good practice for you.”

“Yes, sir.” Another responsibility, another step toward wearing the crown that’s been waiting for me.

Mom adds, “And don’t forget, I volunteered you to speak for that Founders Day video. As the next generation representative. We’ll film a short bit this week about Thornwood Ranch history, alright?”

I nod again, swallowing a bite of oatmeal that suddenly tastes like paste. Public speaking, even on camera, isn’t my favorite thing, but I’ll manage. It’s for the family.

Dad gives me a firm nod of approval.

I should feel gratified. Instead, I feel like a horse that’s been broken so well it forgot it ever wanted to run.

Soon, breakfast wraps up. Dad and Uncle Luke head out to start the day’s work, as Grandpa retires to his armchair and the newspaper.

Dawson slips back to the barn, no doubt to check on that foal again, and Cash meanders off.

He promised to help Luke later, but knowing him, he’ll squeeze in a nap first.

I help Mom clear the table, stacking plates while she hums. As I reach for the last dish, Mom touches my shoulder lightly, a small gesture that carries love in it. “Thank you, baby.”

“No problem,” I say, and for a second, I allow myself to lean into her touch, to soak in that warmth. In moments like this—with her simple, unquestioning affection—I can almost believe the life I’m living is exactly the one I want.

But the moment passes, and Mom grabs her purse and keys, reminding me she’s off to run errands in town. So I head out the back door, ready to throw myself into the work waiting for me.

I spend the rest of the morning out on the ranch—oiling a squeaky barn door, and riding out with Dad along the east pasture to check on a limping heifer.

Work keeps me busy. More importantly, it keeps my thoughts in line.

Whenever my mind drifts—toward how forced things felt with Molly last night, or how easily Cash navigates the dating scene, or how freely Dawson loves those horses—I redirect it to the task at hand. Sweat and strain drown out any stirring of doubt or longing.

Stay busy, stay in control. It’s the only way I know to stay safe from myself.

By midday, I’m back near the barn, checking the water troughs in the paddock.

My shirt clings to me, damp with sweat and dust. I pause by the fence to catch my breath and take a long drink from my water bottle.

The cicadas have begun their droning chorus in the heat, and distant cattle low lazily from the far field.

By evening, the heat breaks just enough to breathe, and we gather on the porch like always—me, Cash, and Dawson—with cold beers pulled from the cooler, condensation slick, and welcome under my fingers.

The sky is bruising a deep purple over the pastures, and fireflies are starting their reckless flicker in the grass.

Cash sprawls out in the old rocker, legs kicked wide, bottle dangling loose between his fingers. “So, big brother, how’d you manage to look like you were kissin’ a corpse last night with Molly? Girl’s sweet as pie, and you’re out there posin’ like it’s a damn chore.”

Dawson snorts from his spot on the steps, swigging deep, eyes glinting amusement. “Leave him be, Cash. Not everyone’s gotta hump anything that moves.”

Cash laughs. “At least I get laid. You oughta try it, Daws—all that horse lovin’ bottled up. Bet your dick would explode if it ever entered a pussy.” He turns to me. “Come on, Rhett. Spill. You savin’ it for Jesus, or just scared your dick’ll fall off if you use it? She at least blow you yet?”

Heat crawls my neck as I lean against the rail, knuckles whitening around the glass in my hand. The beer bites bitter going down. “Shut your mouth,” I mutter.

“Hit a nerve? Truth hurts, huh? Everyone sees it, man. You’re wound so tight, one wrong touch and you’ll fall apart.”

Dawson tries to stop him. “Cash—”

But Cash barrels on, voice mocking. “What’s the real issue, Rhett? Too good for pussy? Or just can’t get it up for the girls Cedarbrook shoves at you?”

Fury blinds me, vision tunneling red, muscles coiling violent. I step forward, beer bottle slamming against the rail, hard. “Say it again,” I snarl.

Cash rises slowly, grin feral, meeting me inch for inch. “Seriously, Rhett. Molly’s hot. Half the town’s jealous, and here you are, actin’ like bein’ with her’s a death sentence. Loosen the fuck up.”

Dawson stands fast, hand on my arm—firm, grounding. “Enough. Both of you.”

The screen door slams open like a gunshot. Mom steps out, eyes narrowing sharp on the standoff. “Boys, I swear, if y’all are fixin’ to fight on my porch again ...”

Cash deflates theatrically, sinking back, but his smirk lingers like poison. I force even breaths, step back, then grip the rail until splinters bite into my palm, blood hot under skin.

Mom plants her hands on her hips. “Remember, there’s the yearly summer bonfire tomorrow night. Half the towns comin’—drunk, nosy, and camera-happy. Best. Behavior. Smiles, no brawls, no scandals. We’re Thornwoods. Act like it.”

Cash mocks salute. “Yes, ma’am. Golden boy’ll lead the prayer.”