Chapter 3
Remi
“Is that Benson Harper I just saw leaving the ranch?”
I glance my mom’s way, pointedly raising an eyebrow as I wash my hands in the kitchen sink. “Are you looking for gossip?”
“Are you telling me there’s gossip to be had?” she counters, eyes gleaming.
Ash chuckles from beside me. Jackson’s boyfriend, and our ranch cook, is used to my mom’s antics at this point.
“That was him,” I confirm, hoping I can leave it at that. I’m not exactly eager to admit I dragged Benson into working with me this morning just to have an excuse to, what, dig into his personal business a little?
I try to believe that was the only reason.
My mom hums. “Well I sure hope whoever he was spending time with invited him to join us for lunch like a civilized individual, instead of sending him home hungry.”
“I did ask,” I tell her, drying my hands. “He couldn’t stay.”
“Is that so?” she says slowly. I can practically feel the curiosity pouring off her.
I shoot her a smile, not above a little teasing myself. “I don’t kiss and tell.”
My mom laughs loudly, well aware I was not, in fact, kissing Benson Harper on our ranch. The look Ash gives me, however, is entirely too knowing.
I shoot the pair of them a one-handed, ‘See you later,’ before heading for the dining room. Most of lunch is set out on the long wooden table, a couple of the ranchers taking seats. I grab a plate and a sandwich, add a few oven-baked fries, and bring my haul upstairs.
The truth is I think I overwhelmed Benson this morning.
He didn’t say as much, but by the time we were done cleaning up back at the petting farm, he’d gone mostly quiet, only answering direct questions with short, direct responses.
I wasn’t about to push him to stay for a meal with half the ranch, knowing how rowdy the bunch can be.
I understand perfectly the need for quiet time. Maybe Benson does, too.
I tug my CI off before slipping the device into my pocket.
Plate in one hand, I take the narrow curving staircase from the second floor to the attic.
Light is streaming in through the windows beneath the pitched ceiling, highlighting the easels and canvases filling the space.
My pulse mellows instantly, the smell of acrylics calming me nearly as much as the act of painting does.
Taking a seat on the floor, I pull out my phone as I dig into my lunch. There’s a text waiting from August.
Auggie: Oh joy. Guess who slipped into the shop for a sandwich without a single passing word?
Me: Santa Claus?
Auggie: You’re not funny.
Auggie: It’s like he doesn’t even care that we’re here.
I frown at that, fairly certain Benson isn’t ignoring his family because he doesn’t care.
Me: Maybe he just had a busy morning.
Auggie: Doing what? He could at least help out around the shop while he’s in town.
I wince. Louise owns a sandwich shop in Darling, which is where Auggie works, as well. I feel a little guilty that I hogged Benson for myself this morning, but, frankly, he doesn’t owe anyone his time. He’s under no more obligation to help at the shop than he is to help here.
That does bring up the question of whether or not Auggie and his mom know Benson quit, though. I start typing a message to ask before realizing I can’t. If Benson hasn’t told his family, it’s not my place to break his confidence.
I groan to myself, shoving a fry in my mouth as I think up a response.
Me: You know you could simply talk to your brother, right? Instead of assuming you know what’s going on inside his head?
I can imagine Auggie sticking his tongue out at me, the mental image so strong I chuckle.
Auggie: I don’t like when you’re reasonable. I’m trying to be a bitch here.
Me: Sweetie, you’re always a bitch.
He sends me a middle finger emoji, to which I snort.
I do understand why Auggie always seems to have his hackles up around his brother.
Apart from the fact that my friend is hot-headed on a good day, it’s clear to me he’s holding on to resentment over the fact that Benson moved to Utah.
He went to live his life, and it didn’t involve being here with Auggie and his mother.
But that’s what people do. They grow up, sometimes they go off for college, and they build a life for themself however they see fit.
Benson isn’t August’s father. Yet he’s borne the weight of that expectation, whether or not he realizes it.
Auggie’s texts stop, which tells me he’s busy at work again.
I finish my lunch before setting my plate aside and approaching a half-finished canvas.
Flowers stretch across the surface, their stems dancing in the unseen wind.
Motion in stillness. Looking at the partially formed picture, I can almost imagine it’s springtime, the breeze carding through my hair, sun kissing my cheeks.
I squeeze a selection of paints out onto a palette and do my best to bring the fantasy to life.
My watch vibrates against my wrist far too soon, the alarm a reminder so I don’t get lost too long up here.
It takes a few minutes to clean up my supplies, and then I’m donning my coat and heading back into the chill.
I’m in the horse barn, nearly done with the remainder of the stalls, when something soft bounces off the back of my head. I turn, finding a glove on the ground and my brother Colton smirking at me. When he sees the Jolly Ball in my hands, his mouth forms the word, “Shit,” and he takes off.
I laugh, grabbing his glove off the ground and leaving the horse ball behind. “You’re safe,” I voice. “I’m feeling magnanimous today.”
He appears around a corner, signing a relieved, ‘Thanks,’ as I toss the glove his way.
Out of all my brothers, Colton is the one who enjoys getting my attention in the most obnoxious of ways. Not that I don’t dish it right back.
He tucks his gloves into his pocket before lifting his hands again. ‘Noah and I are going to The Barrel tonight. Want to come?’
‘Do I want to be a third wheel spectator to my brother and his boyfriend getting progressively handsier all night while exchanging not-quite-insults as foreplay? I think I’m good.’
‘Hey, we’re not that bad.’
Colton has the gall to look put-out.
‘You are,’ I assure him. ‘It’s actually pretty cute, but no. I’ll pass.’
My brother scrunches his face, clearly more offended at being called cute than my assessment of his and Noah’s flirting tactics.
‘Why don’t you invite Law and Oakley?’ I ask him, hoping to get the heat off me. Normally, I don’t mind going out, especially to The Barrel and especially with my brothers. I’m just not feeling it tonight.
Colton purses his lips, considering it before shaking his head. ‘They’re deep in the honeymoon phase. I’m glad for Law, believe me. But those two are worse than Jackson and Ash.’
I can’t argue that point. None of us expected our eldest brother to marry his best friend less than a month ago, shortly after Oakley’s return to Darling. But Lawson and Oakley were always meant for one another. Anyone could see that.
I’m just glad they found their way back together.
I nudge Colton’s arm with my elbow. ‘You’re next.’
His eyes widen, clear alarm there, despite being ridiculously smitten with Noah. ‘What? No. No way. It’ll be Jackson. Or you.’
I huff a laugh. ‘I’m not getting hitched anytime soon. Maybe ever. Kind of need a partner for that. You see anyone lining up?’
Colton shrugs. ‘I dunno. I think when the right person finds you, it’ll be game over.’
My pulse kicks, but I smile wanly. ‘Sure. Someone who happens to know ASL.’
‘Or will learn,’ Colton replies pointedly.
I refrain from rolling my eyes. ‘And who will be happy here on the ranch with me.’
He shakes his head, befuddled. ‘Who wouldn’t be?’
Christ, my brother.
‘I appreciate your enthusiasm, Colt. But I’m happy as I am.’
‘Yeah,’ he answers, even as he appears to be picking me apart. ‘Mom said Benson was here earlier.’
Oh, Lord.
I wave my brother on. His responding motions are quick. ‘Did you talk to him? Why was he here?’
I huff a breath. ‘I’m not sure he knows,’ I tell him truthfully. ‘But yeah. We caught up a little. He mucked a couple horse stalls.’
‘Really?’ my brother asks, looking thrilled by that. ‘Maybe he’s planning on sticking around.’
I shrug noncommittally.
Colton claps my shoulder. ‘See you for dinner?’
I nod, and Colton shoots me a smile. He greets his horse Clementine before bringing Prairie, one of our family’s mares, out into the hall for new shoes.
I finish up with the horse stalls, the daily cleaning done by the time the first-shift ranchers start filing in.
I greet a few with a wave, not bothering to pull my CI out of my pocket to chat.
I can admit, inside the privacy of my own mind, that I enjoyed Benson’s company this morning, conversation included.
Most of the time, I work alone. And I like that.
The ranchers here are accustomed to the fact that sometimes I wear my CI and sometimes I don’t, and no one ever pressures me to put it on.
But wearing it for Benson was no chore.
Could that have to do with the fact that I’ve always been curious about the man? Sure. He’s lived outside Montana for almost my entire life. I do want to know more about him, most of my knowledge having been acquired through Auggie or those brief holiday visits. Of course I’m curious.
But he was also so easy to talk to. To tease just a little.
And fuck, I know I shouldn’t be doing that, but every time I got him to smile, it felt like a victory.
It’s a harmless attraction. Perfectly safe.
If only the skip in my pulse wasn’t calling me a liar.
I’m not expecting Benson to be at the ranch again the next morning. But as I walk up to the petting farm, his silhouette is there, easily identifiable even in the dark.
I’d like to say I play it cool, but instead, I find myself wearing a ridiculous smile. I click my CI on before speaking.
“You’re a masochist,” I deduce.
Benson lets out a surprised laugh. “Um. I don’t think so?”
“But you’re here to work again.”
He shifts from foot to foot. “Maybe I’m here for the sunrise.”
I have to forcibly bite back a joke about being up before the sun. “If you keep coming by, I’ll have to pay you.”
He shakes his head at that. “No, you don’t. It’s volunteer work.”
“Uh-huh. New boots?”
Benson looks down at his feet. He’s wearing heavy-duty muck boots, not the hiking boots he had on yesterday. “Figured they’d hold up better.”
The simple fact that he bought new footwear because he anticipated having a use for it has my chest bubbling in a way I know I need to tamp down. Fast.
I wave Benson toward the petting-farm barn. “Well, come on then. I’ll show you the morning feeding.”
He follows me through the few inches of snow that’s been hanging around for days now, the temperatures too cold to allow it to melt. I chide my hands for shaking with nerves as I let us inside the barn, flicking on the lights as soon as I can reach them.
“Brace yourself,” I warn Benson.
His brows quirk as I open Snickerdoodle’s stall door.
The pony, despite having seen Benson just yesterday, charges his way for an inspection.
Benson stands his ground, barely flinching as Snickerdoodle prods his stomach with her muzzle, scenting him while simultaneously demanding attention.
With the tiniest smile, he runs a gloved hand down over her head and neck.
You can tell a lot about a person from the way animals react to them. Snickerdoodle’s ease tells me multiple things. Benson likes animals. He’s unafraid of them. And he projects calm in their presence.
“Did you ever think about working with animals?” I ask him.
He shakes his head. “No, not really. Why?”
“You’re good with them.”
From the quick flex of his jaw, I get the feeling he hums. “I might like animals more than people.”
That has me laughing. “Makes two of us.”
His eyes flick to mine. “You seem like a people person.”
“I don’t mind people,” I say truthfully, heading toward the feed room. “I just like animals more.”
Benson joins me in the doorway, looking inside at the labeled bins of food, containers of vitamins and supplements, and bales of alfalfa and hay.
“There’s a chart here on the door,” I tell him, tapping the laminated sheet. “It has amounts for feeding during different seasons.”
I give Benson a minute to look it over. Snickerdoodle, predictably impatient, tries to edge into the room to snag a bite, but Benson shifts his weight to block her, one hand petting the pony’s mane as his brow furrows.
“This makes no sense,” he finally says. “Not…the chart. The…” He seems to flounder for a second before waving his hand at the room.
“What about it?” I ask, curious.
His words come out in a rush. “The alfalfa is across from the hay, not next to it. The corn isn’t near the barley and oats, even though you mix them all for both the goats and the chickens. And none of those containers on the shelves are in any sort of order.”
My smile is slow-spreading. “You want to reorganize my feed room?”
Benson looks chagrined, even as he gives a simple, “Yes. I do.”
Maybe I should be offended that Benson took one look inside this room and declared it unfit. But the truth is I find his bluntness refreshing. August calls him an asshole for it. Insensitive to people’s feelings. In the corporate world, I’m sure it made him a natural leader.
I think he’s just…honest about what he sees.
Benson looks mildly surprised when I pat his chest. I don’t let the contact linger, no matter how much I want to. “Tell you what. If you’re still here in a week and feel the same, I’ll let you reorganize the feed room.”
He gives a stiff nod. Whether or not he takes that as the challenge it’s meant to be, I’m unsure. Part of me desperately hopes he is around in another week.
The other part thinks I’m an absolute fool for crushing on a man I have no chance with. There’s a reason they call it that. A crush.
It only ever ends one way.