Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
RHETT
I t’s been a few years since I last braved the stairs of the main house, since I’ve let myself acknowledge how small the climb still makes me feel, like I’m a man trapped inside the constraints of a boy’s fear-addled body. With every creak of the steps beneath us, deep reminders of that old panic spike as I trail behind Kasey, hell-bent to knock down whatever walls I’d planned to hide behind for this meeting.
When I was a kid, my brothers and I did what we could to avoid the second floor of our home because of who was always up here, waiting for every opportunity to cut us down so he could feel big. The main house of the ranch, big as it is, holds a total of seven bedrooms: three downstairs and four upstairs. Brooks and Kasey—as the oldest—got to choose their rooms, so both of those lucky bastards had the luxury of sleeping downstairs. The rest of us, bound to our lesser privilege dictated by the order in which we were born, were forced to keep rooms upstairs, next to our parents.
I used to fight like hell for the spare room my mother kept on the first floor for guests, knowing if I could just move down there, I’d get some relief from the anxiety of being so close to my father while I slept. As a bunch of wild and reckless boys, we spent most of our daylight hours outside playing and learning the ways of the ranch. But in the hours between dinner and bedtime, when Dad did the heaviest of his drinking, the slightest disturbance to his peace often led to terrible consequences.
Once, when Sawyer was no more than eight or nine, he’d woken in the middle of the night from a bad nightmare and came running to my room. I tried like hell to keep him quiet as he told me all the ways his little mind was playing tricks on him in the dark, and eventually I helped shuffle him back to bed. It wasn’t until he was tucked in and half asleep again that I heard movement from my parents’ room on the other side of the wall—not the gentle movements of my mother, but the rough scraping and groaning of my father.
Quickly beelining to my room on silent feet, I thought I could make it back inside and avoid any issues. Unfortunately, I wasn’t quick enough, and the firm hand that shoved me into the wall was cruel and unrelenting. I’m not sure if it was nights like those that created the specific way my father sought to terrorize me, or if that came later, after I started to get into more trouble in school. But I always had a strong suspicion that he reveled in those opportunities to get me alone so he could blow off a little steam, and I don’t think anyone else in my family knew or understood how lonely it was. Brooks and Kasey had each other, and Sawyer and Wells were almost just as close. I was the odd man out, the one with a darker mind full of secrets and pain. My brothers had their asses handed to them too, no doubt about it. But the way Dad treated me . . . it was something different. Something more rotten and cold.
When I finally got old enough to inherit a cabin, I left that childhood bedroom of mine and never once looked back at it. When Brooks eventually had the boys, Mom swapped out my old furniture for bunk beds and toys, and the room became theirs to use for sleepovers with her on nights Brooks and Melody got away for themselves. I used to worry about them being up there, but Dad’s become a recluse in the last decade and hardly comes out of his room for anything. Plus, even if he still might holler and grumble about things he doesn’t like, the wheelchair he’s in stops him from using that brute power the way he once did.
I remember how thankful I’d been when he had that rodeo accident. How terrible it felt to look at my mother’s face back then, twisted with so much despair for her husband, and still feel such relief .
My chest tightens as Kasey reaches the top of the staircase, turning left toward the one place I promised myself I would never willingly go. The sound of a TV bleeds through the door, the strongest proof of my father’s existence that I’ve seen in months. Kasey raps his knuckles against the door three times, and for a moment that seems to stretch, nothing happens. I hold my breath and silently pray that he’s not in there, even though we both know he is.
My heart sinks when the sound of the TV disappears and a rough “Come in” sounds from somewhere far behind the door.
Kasey pushes it open and there he is: Bud Bennett.
For a man somewhere in his mid-fifties, he looks at least a decade older. His once-dark hair, as dark as mine, is full of so much silver it’s shocking. He’s nestled in a heavily cushioned recliner, the fabric stretched around the armrests threadbare and shredding. A folded wheelchair is perched against the wall closest to him—hardly used these days other than to get himself to the bathroom and back. I think it’s been months since Dad’s actually left this room.
I was thirteen when he competed in his last rodeo, the one that left his body broken and shattered. Kasey had just started competing in a few youth circuits in East Texas, and I guess Dad thought he could dust off his old rodeo chaps and take a wild bronc for a spin. Back in his prime, Dad and his brothers would ride anything just to prove they could. And on that sweltering summer day in June, he’d had more than enough whiskey in his coffee to feel confident with his draw. To feel like he was capable enough of straddling the wide shoulders of the meanest horse at the event that day.
His alcoholism only got worse after the accident, and life at home was difficult for us all—especially Mom. But he’s been sober almost five years, his longest stretch yet. It does little to make up for all the years his drinking made life hell—especially since he still doesn’t do anything to help with anything around the ranch—but I guess life’s given him plenty of pain to deal with.
I can’t tear my eyes away from him now. For all of my avoiding, he still yields such power over me. I want him to see me for the man I am, for the man he forced me to become. I want him to see that he couldn’t break me like life broke him. And with the way he glares back at me, a rush of sensation up my spine says he just might fucking know it.
Kasey’s the one to finally break the silence. “Dad,” he says in a low voice, bringing his hands to his hips as he looks around the room. It’s relatively clean thanks to Mom, but even the small open window doesn’t settle the musty weight of the air around us. “How are you?”
My father’s eyes finally break from mine as he turns his focus to my brother. I can’t help the exhale that pours out of my nostrils in relief. “Dandy, son,” he answers with a smart-ass tilt of his lips. Like he’s in on some joke that we’re on the outside of. “It’s a beautiful day to be alive. Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of you two finding a reason to visit me today?”
I roll my eyes. Always with the fucking games.
Kasey, though, stays in control. “We were hoping to ask you a few questions about the ranch,” he says matter-of-factly. “About the land trust.”
This catches my father’s attention. “The trust?”
Kasey nods. “A lawyer stopped by last week looking for you. And then we got a letter in the mail. A summons.”
Dad frowns. “What’s the lawyer’s name?”
“Stuart Brown.”
“Don’t know him.” He shrugs, like that’s the extent of what he can do for us.
“What do you know about the details of the land trust?” Kasey tries.
“Not much to know,” Dad gripes. “The land is ours.”
“Cut the bullshit,” I say, a little louder than intended. Dad’s smokey eyes find mine again, and I see the welcome challenge in them. “There’s a lawyer who is looking for you about the ranch. There’s gotta be a fucking reason. Did you gamble the deed at some point? Make enemies with another ranch? What about your brothers—would they try and take it?”
A flicker of something cold registers on his face before he tries to hide it. His gaze falls to the carpet beneath his socked feet and he takes a deep breath. “My brother, Huck . . . he’s always been a jealous man. Especially when it comes to this ranch.”
“What do you mean?” Kasey asks quietly.
Dad lets out a humorless laugh. “He was always the serious one. Smart with books and money, not great with instinct or the horses. But he didn’t care much about the animals. He just wanted the business. Wanted to sell us all out and turn the ranch into some stupid tourist trap. And if he’d been born first, I’m sure that’s exactly what he would have done. Luckily for everyone, I was.”
I snort, shaking my head. It’s not news to us that the eldest Bennett of the brood inherits the bulk of the ranch and operations, something Brooks has been preparing for his whole life. The rest of us will profit from it, more so if we stay on and work with him. He doesn’t officially take over until our parents formally retire, and I’ve done nothing over the years to hide the fact I think Brooks should ask Dad to do just that.
We’ll always make sure Mom is taken care of, whether Dad’s running the ranch on paper or not. But I think Brooks has wrestled with guilt about making that move, especially with Dad’s disability. He has his own complicated relationship with Dad, since Dad had a pretty long stretch of sobriety during Brooks’s formative years. They . . . bonded , in ways I never got the chance to. Kasey benefited from those good years too, I think. It’s what makes it so hard for us to understand each other when it comes to our father.
“Huck knows I’m in a chair,” Dad says. “He’s probably looking for a way to weasel his grubby hands in.”
Kasey frowns. “But . . . Brooks is next in line to take over.”
Again, something flashes across my father’s face, and it looks a lot like fear. “Despite his inability to gain control of the ranch, Huck’s done pretty well for himself. Last I heard, he’d built a little empire out in Dallas. But he was always scheming under my nose, getting himself nice and cozy to Mayor Moore and Sheriff Jones with his dream of what this place could be and what it could do for the town.”
And he never thought to mention a threat like that? Fucking figures. “What does any of that matter if Brooks is taking over?” I demand. “I mean, there are five of us . . . there’s no shortage of successors.”
The bedroom door creaks open behind me, and I whip around to find Mom walking into the room. Her eyes bounce around at all three of us as a grim line sets in her mouth. And then she moves to stand behind my father, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You’re here about the letter?” she asks Kasey.
He nods before looking back down to where Dad sits in front of her.
Mom surprises us both when she, too, turns her attention to our father and says, “I think you need to tell them, Bud.”
My eyes snap to hers. “Tell us what?”
Dad sighs, and the sharp heat of anger coils through me like a venomous snake. “Four generations ago, there were . . . rules created around how the ranch transitions to the next generation. The oldest child has the right to it by default, as you boys know. But there are stipulations about the inheritance, old bylaws that we have to adhere to about who can rightfully take over.” He fidgets with a wrinkle in his pants, pressing the pads of his fingers over it to smooth it out. “I’m fairly certain the Bennett line has always possessed its share of recklessness, because one of those stipulations exists to make sure the one who inherits the property is supported as best as possible.”
“What does that mean ?” Kasey barks out.
Dad looks right at him when he says the word. “Marriage.”
Silence falls over us again as we consider what he means. And then Mom chimes in again. “Your great-great grandmother saw the flaws of her husband and knew, if left to his own devices, he would have run the ranch into the ground.” She gives Dad a knowing look. “She was a fierce old woman who forced few of her own opinions into the details of the inheritance trust when it was created.
“She believed that any firstborn Bennett—man or woman—who wanted to take over the deed would need the structure of a life partner to be successful with the weight of responsibility the ranch entails. Marriage, in every sense. It also ensured that new generations born into the inheritance would be raised in a nuclear family setting on this very ranch.
“Traditions were different back then. And while your father and I have never cared about what your futures look like, who you choose to love or how you choose to love them, we are bound by the rules of the trust. I personally would love to take a red pen to some of the nuances of it, but as the woman of this household and your father’s wife for almost forty years, I can understand where the old bird was coming from. How our marriage has kept the wheels on the track over the years.”
We all know what she’s not saying: when Dad was too drunk or angry or miserable to be responsible for anything, Mom kept things moving. Kept us boys on track.
Something still doesn’t make sense. “Brooks is married,” I say to no one in particular.
It’s when Mom’s eyes meet mine again that I understand.
Holy fucking shit .
“You boys best find a good lawyer,” Dad grumbles. “If your brother loses his wife, it’s possible he loses his shot at the ranch.”
“And you never thought to fucking tell us?” Kasey shouts, the sound of it startling even me. Kasey can be a mean son-of-a-bitch when he needs to be, but I’ve only heard him raise his voice on very few occasions. “You’ve known this—you both have—and you never thought to say something?”
Mom flinches, raising a hand to cover her mouth. She looks at him with the current of her own anger that’s even rarer than Kasey’s shouting. “Melody is still alive and breathing down those stairs,” she scolds. “Forgive me if I’m still holding on to hope , son, that Brooks doesn’t ever even have to know about this. That death might look at his wife and decide to move on instead of taking her. Don’t you dare think for a second that this isn’t an impossible situation for all of us, but if I’m protecting anyone’s heart right now, it’s theirs.”
I believe her. That, in due time, we would have all learned about this from her together, and then faced it together. For Brooks. So why the hell aren’t we getting that time? “How would Huck know?” I ask. “About Melody? Say you’re right—that this is about her. How would Huck even know?”
Dad’s gaze warps into something cold and menacing. “I’d wager either the mayor or the sheriff knows.”
“It doesn’t matter how they know,” Mom says softly. “Our poor girl’s dying. We’re not going to turn it into some dark secret.”
“But if someone put this family in jeopardy—” Kasey starts.
“ Enough ,” Mom interjects with a tone I haven’t heard since I was a kid. “We will not turn on each other. No one could have predicted this because none of you knew what was at stake. That’s our fault.” She wipes her hands down the front of her shirt. “Right now, our immediate focus needs to be on Brooks and his family. Do you understand me?”
“Yes ma’am,” Kasey relents.
She looks at me, and I give her a small nod. “Yes ma’am.”
“Good. Now call that bastard and push the meeting. Try to buy us as much time as possible.”
Kasey dips his head low and turns toward the bedroom door. But I look at my father. “You need to get a grip.”
He looks at me through thick, furrowed brows. “The hell you say to me, boy?”
I square my shoulders. “You need to get a grip on yourself and get the fuck out of this room. This ranch needs you. Your son needs you. It’s about time you stopped letting us fight every fucking battle that comes your way and started doing something to help.”
I’m surprised when he doesn’t say anything to argue. He doesn’t so much as show a single sign that he’s heard a word I said. I throw Mom a pleading look and then turn to follow Kasey out of the room.