Tucker
“Great work today, crew. Bring it in.” Several loud, tiny voices ring out as the class descends for their post-lesson high fives.
As I’m handing them out like candy, I scan over to where my brother leans against the doorframe, arms crossed.
The stoic look he wore moments ago is replaced by a smirk as he watches me with the kids.
As the last little rascal slaps his hand against mine, Rhett wanders over.
“They look far too young t’ be learnin’ rodeo,” he says gruffly.
I can’t help but let out a chuckle at that, a long-suppressed memory flitting into the forefront of my thoughts.
There’s a slight pang in my chest; he sounds just like Dad.
“Need I remind you we’d been competing for at least a year when we were their age?
” Slapping a hand on my older brother’s shoulder, I usher him toward the wayward helmets and vests the kids have left at their feet.
“For such small people, they sure know how to make a mess. You’d think a tornado ripped through here. Give us a hand, would you?”
We begin packing away all the wayward equipment.
“The Saddle Bronc kids have a far better understanding of puttin’ shit away.
Maybe it’s not a them thing so much as a you thing.
” Far faster than expected, my brother throws a helmet in my direction.
Thankfully, my reflexes kick in and I catch it before it hits me square in the chest—those bastards pack a punch when they get some speed behind them.
“That’s because you teach like a drill sergeant, old man.
I prefer to let the kids be kids.” I throw the helmet back at Rhett as I walk past him, but not fast enough—the old man comment earns me a slap over the back of the head; something my brother has done for the better part of my thirty-one years on this Earth.
“Their parents don’t pay that sort of tuition for us to let the kids be kids, Tuck. They’re expecting us to turn ‘em into junior pros. Maybe you should come observe a class or two of mine, see how champions like me are built.”
His deadpan tone catches me off guard, causing me to rear around in place and bring us almost chest to chest. Very few things bring my surly brother joy—rodeos, his own company, and the half an inch he has on me.
Right now, the latter is working overtime, allowing him the satisfaction of looking down at me.
I glare at him for a moment, trying to determine where the fuck he found the audacity, but I stop wondering when the corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk.
“You’re such an asshole, Garrett.” The smirk he wore slides onto my face instead, leaving a sour-faced Rhett in its wake.
He never goes by his full name, so it’s highly entertaining—for me—to throw it out there when he least expects it.
“Speaking of, do you have five?” I’d prefer to have this conversation with a little more prep—to go into it with not only the problem but also a solution—though it’s best to get it out sooner rather than later.
Rhett looks up at me with furrowed brows from where he’s now kneeling, stowing away the last of the equipment. “That’s an awful serious tone, Tucker. Should I be concerned?”
Despite wanting to reassure him that no, there’s nothing to be concerned about, I can’t lie to him.
“Let’s sit,” I respond instead, knowing sure as shit I’m about to be berated.
I take the stairs to my office two at a time, my nerves about this conversation pushing me forward at a faster-than-usual rate.
Office is slightly understating it though.
When Rhett and I first established the Beaumont Rodeo School, this space was merely a loft above an open-floor plan hall of sorts.
After we transformed the hall—with the help of the local construction company, because we’re cowboys, not builders—into an indoor training space equipped with dummy bulls and horses, barrels barricaded by thick gymnastics mats, and rope as far as the eye can see, we set our sights on the loft.
I had a vision, and Hayes Construction saw to it that it came to fruition.
What was once a loft has been converted to a private office space, complete with a sitting area and fireplace—Lord knows I’d freeze my balls off in here during the winter if it weren’t for that hearth.
Along the front wall there’s a large window, allowing me a full visual of the training area downstairs, surrounded by framed pictures of my siblings and I during our rodeo days.
Where mine and our baby brother, Hudson’s, stop around our respective senior years, along with our sister—Whitney—even younger, Rhett’s have him progressively aging; the most recent image being his last NPR win two years ago.
The entire Beaumont clan grew up surrounded by rodeo.
The ranch has been in the family for more generations than I can count, and each generation had at least one rodeo star—ours being Rhett.
Where Hudson and I were partial to the bulls, Rhett and Whitney were all about the horses; but we all shared the same passion for the rodeo world.
Our old man was a champion saddle bronc rider, so Rhett had followed in his footsteps from the moment he could walk.
They’d encouraged me into it as well, but from what Mom’s told me over the years, the bulls had my heart.
You couldn’t pay me to switch to horses, and believe me, Dad had tried.
Following Dad’s death, I dropped out of the circuit, instead focusing on supporting my family and the ranch. Rhett was at the start of his pro career, so we made a decision as a family to have him continue in the circuit. Between the little ones and Mom and I, we had it handled back at home.
One day, after I’d got things under control at the ranch, Rhett and I were having a beer when we came up with the idea for a rodeo school.
We knew of a few in Texas, but it was practically unheard of in Tennessee, as was the support and encouragement of Junior Rodeo.
Having experienced it ourselves, we knew that those two things were crucial to be successful, and to actually enjoy it enough to get through the Junior circuit and into Senior and Pro.
Rhett and I were lucky to come from a long line of cowboys, with the Beaumont line having been involved in rodeo for many generations.
But we always knew we were the minority—a lot of folks aren’t born into the sport, which can play a huge part in whether or not they become successful.
We slept on the idea for a couple of weeks, not too sure where to start.
But when the old barn on the edge of town went up for sale for close to pennies, we couldn’t resist. It needed a lot of work, hence the price, but we had a vision and were nothing if not ambitious in achieving it.
The main attraction of my office sits in the center of the room—my dad’s old white oak desk.
After we lost him, Mom found it easier to move on by removing many of the things that reminded her of Dad, but I insisted on keeping his desk.
We relocated it from the ranch as soon as my office was ready for furniture.
Rather than taking a seat behind my desk, I plant myself on one of the brown leather couches and throw my booted feet up on the ottoman.
I chuckle to myself when I look up and realize my brother has done the exact same thing across from me.
Like two little peas in a pod, as Mom always told us growing up.
Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past her to still say that now, despite neither of us being ‘little’ anymore.
“Enough fuckin’ around, Tuck.” Rhett crosses his arms over his chest as he readjusts his position on the couch, throwing one ankle over the other and knocking my boot in the process. “Out with it.”
The weight of his stare has a pit of dread curling in my stomach.
It forces me forward, my feet now firmly on the floor and elbows rested atop my knees.
I keep my eyes cast down as I take in a steadying breath before meeting his gaze.
“Ticket sales aren’t where we’d hoped at three months out.
” I was going to lay out the whole sordid story, starting with how I’d been looking into the numbers, analyzing our advertising efforts, the whole shebang—but Rhett’s always preferred a straight shooter.
My brother doesn’t say anything for a moment, until he just clicks his tongue.
The words hang in the air unacknowledged for far too many seconds, which only makes the dread curl tighter.
Slightly concerned by the less-than-comfortable silence, I press on.
“I know you didn’t want to take this on, but I promise, Whit and I will handle it. ”
Rhett lets out a sigh, his gaze downcast for a moment before he meets my eye again. There’s a layer of vulnerability that wasn’t there before. “You know it isn’t that simple, Tuck. It isn’t just not wanting to.”
“I know, I know,” I reply, frustrated with myself for not being clearer.
“It’s a huge responsibility, and you have a lot going on with your riding and your kids here as it is, but I really am so thankful you agreed.
I know it sounds a little bleak right now, but I promise you, we’re going to make this something Dad would be proud of. ”
He gives me a polite smile, probably more out of habit than actually meaning it. “You’ve always had passion, kid. Don’t ever let that go.”
A laugh rumbles through me. “If only passion sold tickets.”
“Any idea why the sales are so low?”
I throw my arms up and let them fall again.
“Your guess is as good as mine, brother. I did ask a couple of locals for some feedback, though, and they sorta just shrugged and said not to take it personally. Many of the local, smaller rodeos just don’t have the wow factor to draw in interest from interstate. ”
Rhett contemplates that for a moment, absentmindedly roughing a hand through his dark locks. “Maybe we need to find our wow.”
“You might be on to something there. I’ll chat with Whit. There’re still radio ads to come and plenty in the marketing budget though, and Whit’s workin’ on something for the Bureau, so not all hope is lost just yet.” The smile I flash him is met with a furrowed brow and narrowed eyes.
That sentiment appears to have missed the mark with my brother. I shouldn’t be surprised—where I see myself as a glass half full type, Rhett is decidedly the opposite. Quite the pessimist, really.
“Not all hope is lost just yet.” He attempts an awfully inaccurate imitation of me. “Really, Tuck? You sound like a fucking sorority sister with that attitude. Do you really think a few ads and an article in our small-town paper is going to fix this?”
Honestly? No. No, I don’t think for one second that those things are enough to fix the mess we’ve found ourselves in. But I’m sure as shit not admitting that to Mr. I Told You So.
“I don’t not think that,” I respond, knocking his boot back. Not exactly a helpful answer, but the mood needs a little lightening.
“You can be such an irritating bastard sometimes, y’know that?” The tiny smirk playing on his lips gives away any seriousness I might have heard in his tone.
Standing, I reach down and slap a palm onto my brother’s shoulder. “It’ll be alright, don’t you worry. We’ll fix this.”