Chapter 1 Shayanne
SHAYANNE
“Shayanne Tannen!” Willow’s voice rings out sharply. “What kind of trouble are you stirring up now?”
I haven’t been a Tannen in years, but somehow, if I get even the slightest hint of a sparkle in my eye, I’m instantly reverted to my maiden name. It’s a fair assumption, since my brothers are known troublemakers, and my married last name of Bennett belongs to the local do-gooders I call family.
Actually, these days, we’re all family. Tannens, Bennetts - all one big, mostly happy, oddly maladjusted, too rough for our own good… family.
“Me? Trouble?” I ask my sister-in-law as innocently as possible. “I just got here. How could I be stirring up anything?”
Truthfully? There are countless, innumerable, infinite ways I could cause problems by showing up at my brother’s house in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week, when I should be working.
I have at least a dozen goats that need milking, two batches of soap that need to be unmolded, and a run to the post office to make before picking up the boys at school.
And that’s before clocking in with Mama Louise to make tonight’s dinner.
Willow tilts her head, eyeballing me doubtfully.
She knows better than to believe my innocent act and is good at seeing into people’s souls.
And unfortunately for me, their intentions.
“Fine. I’m up to no good, but I’m not sharing the details yet.
” I glance around the yard like one of my brothers – or more likely, a random kid (an actual one, not a goat) – might pop out of nowhere.
“Where are the overgrown knuckleheads I call brothers?”
Most people would think I’ve lost my mind if they heard me call my brothers that, worried I’d written my own death warrant.
There are many things you could call the Tannen boys – beefy, handsome (though getting me to admit that would require CIA level interrogation tactics), and hard-working, but I think most would describe them as stubborn, scary assholes.
Mostly, they’re just rough. In all the best ways.
Built like they were carved out of prairie scrub oak with an ax and a pocket knife, with sharp edges and spots that will snag you if you’re not careful.
But I’m their little sister, and have a lifetime of dealing with them.
I know all the danger zones to sidestep and the soft spots to exploit to my own advantage.
Because the truth is… they’re anything but good for nothing. For all their reputations, which are honestly outdated at this point, my brothers are good men. That doesn’t mean I can give them an inch though. They’d take a country mile if I did.
“They’re out in the melon field this morning. I can call them on the radio?” Willow offers, pulling a walkie talkie from her right hip. She looks like a modern Wild West cowboy, only instead of six-shooters on each side, she’s got the walkie talkie on one and a baby monitor on the other.
I hold up a staying hand and then point at each device. “Make sure that’s the right one. Do not accidentally wake up Juniper on my account.”
“Girl, I would fight a mountain lion or single-handedly handle a pack of wolves before waking that baby up.” She shakes her head and I see the hint of new mom exhaustion still lurking in her eyes even though Juniper’s inching closer to being one year old than newborn.
Her mouth to the walkie, Willow presses the button, “Base to Bobby, base to Bobby.”
She waits a beat, but there’s no response.
There are easily a dozen reasons why he might not jump to answer her, so neither of us flinch a bit.
Instead, with a sly smirk, she tries again.
“Heyyy, sexy man of mine, you’d better answer me before I start announcing exactly what I need to every ranch hand on the property.
” She lets the barest hint of teasing purr enter her voice.
The best friend in me is giggling like a school girl, the sister in me is gagging because she’s talking sexy to my brother.
Holding up her fingers, she counts down… three, two, one…
“Woman, I am out here with my brothers who are now teasing me about not meeting my woman’s needs and doing weirdly disgusting moves with their hips that make me fear for Allyson and Rix.
What the hell’s going on?” In the background, I can hear Bruce and Brody making grunting noises that sound like a heifer in heat.
Willow and I meet eyes, fighting not to laugh ourselves. After clearing her throat, Willow answers, “Shay’s here looking for you boys. Want to come in for a quick lunch?”
I didn’t mean to cause that much fuss, but Willow looks a bit brighter at the possibility of seeing Bobby for a few minutes, so I’m good with it.
The last tour was hard. Bobby and Willow took toddler Aspen with them, plus Willow was seven months pregnant by the time they got home, and morning sickness on a tour bus is even less fun than it sounds, especially since my brother is a sympathy puker.
But they planned it that way so they’d be able to stay home for a long year, maybe year and half, after Juniper’s birth.
He hasn’t said so, but I think Bobby’s next tour is going to be shorter, maybe out and back trips like Luke does, so that his girls can stay home and he can come and go from here too.
“We’ll be there in ten,” Bobby says on the walkie. “Out.”
Willow waves me toward the house and we go in the side door, straight into the kitchen.
We’re quiet, fearing disturbing the sleeping beauty in the bedroom down the hall.
Sleeping Monster is more like it though.
Juniper may be the sweetest, cutest thing I’ve seen lately, especially in the floral-patterned headbands Willow likes to keep her in, but if you wake that girl up from a nap, you will regret every breath you take for the next hour until she settles.
Bobby and Willow’s house is the nicest of the ones situated around the Bennett and Tannen properties, but they’ve earned it.
Bobby’s last album went platinum, with both fans and critics calling him a modern Waylon Jennings.
Still, the house is open and warm, not fussy or pretentious, which is a good thing because we’d give Bobby all kinds of hell if he went Nashville-fancy on us.
Willow moves to the fridge, pulling out a pitcher of lemonade, and I open a cabinet for glasses.
While she’s arranging them all on a tray to go out to the porch, I start gathering sandwich stuff.
Used to me taking care of everyone and everything, she doesn’t argue about me making myself at home in her kitchen, and in fact, slowly lowers to a barstool to watch me do my thing.
While I assemble sandwiches that’d make Shaggy and Scooby drool, I ask her how she’s doing, remembering the look of tiredness that flashed through her eyes.
With a sigh, she smiles. “I’m good. Tired, but good. Did you hear that I had a series commissioned?”
I glance up. Willow is an amazing photographer, and has two specialties.
One, taking photos of my stupidly photogenic brother when he’s on tour, and two, cattle and landscape images that make you feel like you’ve stepped into the photo and become a cowboy.
But the mama bear in me is worried she’s running herself too thin at a time when she’s supposed to be recovering.
Reading my concern, she shakes her head.
“Private commission, no deadline, deposit paid in full up front. For a dozen headshots of my choice.” By headshots, she doesn’t mean people.
She did a series of extreme close-ups of some of the cattle, and people went wild for them.
She even had one licensed for a major retailer and now her photo of one of Mark’s bulls is hanging in houses all over the country.
“Congratulations,” I say proudly. I can’t help but add, “Don’t overdo it though.”
“I won’t,” she vows and I believe her. “How goes the goat business?”
“It’s becoming a goat empire at this point,” I joke.
Truth be told, I’m half-serious though. What began as a small-scale business making soap from my girl’s milk has become an entire product line.
But I keep it manageable through exclusivity because my herd is as big as I can care for.
More products and more distribution would mean more goats and less time with my actual kids, a sacrifice I’m not willing to make. “We have yoga at the resort this week.”
Willow snort-laughs, then starts coughing. I guess her sip of lemonade didn’t go down properly when she laughed and drank at the same time. “Again? I figured they’d lose your number after last time.”
I shrug. “People pay good money for a memorable experience like that.”
“Memorable is one way to describe it,” she says, quick blinking as she remembers the tale I told over dinner last month.
A local yoga studio that holds weekly classes at the resort reached out about a partnership for special goat yoga events.
Our debut last month resulted in a viral video after one of my ladies took a very unladylike whizz on a guest’s head while she was in child’s pose.
In her defense, the woman’s blonde hair was vaguely hay-like so it was an understandable misunderstanding.
Before I can defend my goats (again), a distant rumbling grabs both of our attention.
“If that man honks the horn, I will cut off his arms myself,” Willow whispers.
My eyes pop wide. Unlike me, Willow is too sweet to say things like that, so she must be exhausted and not want any chance of Juniper being woken up. “You can’t do that,” I scold. But I shoot her a wink, “I’ll do it for you if he wakes up Juni T.”
We rush the window, staring out at the incoming Gator. Best guess? Willow is hoping he doesn’t honk while I’m half-hoping he does. I have a lifetime of paybacks for my brother and not many opportunities to exact them these days.