Buck Wild (Bennett Boys Ranch Book 1) Read online

  OTHER TITLES BY LAUREN LANDISH

  Irresistible Bachelors Series

  Anaconda

  Mr. Fiancé

  Heartstopper

  Stud Muffin

  Mr. Fixit

  Matchmaker

  Motorhead

  Baby Daddy

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Lauren Landish

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503902886

  ISBN-10: 1503902889

  Cover design by Eileen Carey

  Cover photography by Wander Aguiar

  To my sister, who truly is a shining star. I love you, forever and always.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1 JAMES

  CHAPTER 2 SOPHIE

  CHAPTER 3 SOPHIE

  CHAPTER 4 JAMES

  CHAPTER 5 SOPHIE

  CHAPTER 6 JAMES

  CHAPTER 7 SOPHIE

  CHAPTER 8 JAMES

  CHAPTER 9 SOPHIE

  CHAPTER 10 JAMES

  CHAPTER 11 SOPHIE

  CHAPTER 12 JAMES

  CHAPTER 13 SOPHIE

  CHAPTER 14 JAMES

  CHAPTER 15 SOPHIE

  CHAPTER 16 JAMES

  CHAPTER 17 SOPHIE

  CHAPTER 18 JAMES

  CHAPTER 19 SOPHIE

  CHAPTER 20 JAMES

  CHAPTER 21 SOPHIE

  CHAPTER 22 JAMES

  CHAPTER 23 SOPHIE

  CHAPTER 24 JAMES

  CHAPTER 25 SOPHIE

  CHAPTER 26 JAMES

  CHAPTER 27 SOPHIE

  CHAPTER 28 JAMES

  EPILOGUE JAMES

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  JAMES

  With a squeeze of the snips and a twist of my pliers, I finish one more section of fence. Gazing left, then right, I can see just how much I’ve done and just how far I have left to go. The answer is the same as the last time I checked: not enough and too much.

  We need this pasture secure before we move the herd over, and that’s happening one way or another by the end of the week. Unfortunately, this fence was totally wrecked last winter, and with everything that’s happened to the family, it’s been put off until the last minute. And it seems that last minute is my new middle name.

  I know I need to hurry, but my back needs a break more. This isn’t a sprint, the eight seconds of exhilaration and adrenaline that I’m used to. There are still hours of work left, and if I’m not careful, I’ll end up useless with miles of fence to go. I stand tall to stretch, raising my arms high above me and lifting my face to the bright sun of the June day.

  Taking a deep breath, I can feel the sweat rolling down my face, so I pull off my hat and mop a rag across my brow. It’s strange, but in the barely blowing breeze, I can feel my dad’s presence, proud that I’m back here, home on the ranch, doing what he always wanted me to do. In the rush of the creek just on the other side of this rise I’m working on fencing, it almost sounds like he’s chuckling in that way he used to when he knew something would happen even if my brothers and I swore it never would.

  His passing is still so new that it sometimes doesn’t feel real. Turning to the refreshing wind at my back, I tuck my rag in my pocket and adjust the Stetson on my head. “So, you’re watching, are you? I know exactly what you’re gonna say, Pops. Fence ain’t gonna fix itself, boy. Back to work. Only way to get done what needs to be done. I know, and I’m gonna get it done.”

  Taking one last deep breath, I let the air current guide me back to the next section, ready to roll for another few hours. It’s been hours already, or maybe minutes. Shit, it’s hard to tell when the work is this repetitive. All I know is that I’m in that eternity between my quickly eaten lunch and sunset when I hear hoofbeats coming.

  I don’t even have to look to know it’s my older brother. Especially since both of my brothers are older than me and have never let me forget that I’m the baby. But right now, I know it’s my oldest brother, coming to check on me like he always does.

  Turning to face Mark, I tug the brim of my hat down to shield my eyes from the sun, which is hanging pretty low in the sky. Ah, hours then, not the minutes I’d feared. I’ve kept up a good pace; the end must be in sight.

  “Hey, Mark.” I greet him with a single lift of my chin.

  He reins in his horse, Sugarpea, his favorite gelding that he’s had since he was a teenager. “Have you been napping out here or something, James? This as far as you’ve made it? Gonna be some early mornings and late nights to get this pasture prepped in time. Guess it’s a good thing you brought the ATV; it’ll let you work after dark with those flood lamps.”

  He makes a tsking sound that both irritates me and makes me laugh. I take a closer look around. I’ve got less than a half mile to go before I reach the corner and today’s goal. “Fuck you, man. I’m working my ass off out here while you’ve been pushing papers around in the barn office. I bet I’ve earned more sweat in the past half hour than your big ass has sitting in that old swivel chair all day. But don’t you worry—I’ll be in for dinner.”

  He leans on the horn of his saddle to look down at me with a knowing grin. “Of course you will. I might be a scary fella, but none of us want Mama chasing after us. She’s the scariest son of a gun I know.”

  I twist my face into a fictitious mask of fear, staring behind him with wide eyes. “Oh, you done bought it now!”

  Mark spins to look behind him, just as I’d planned, but there’s nothing there besides the wide-open acres of golden-green land. “Shit, you had me thinking Mama was right behind me. You been taking acting lessons or something on that rodeo tour?”

  I laugh, and the gentle shake of my body and lightness in my head feel good. Laughter has been foreign lately and may be just what I need. Mark, never one to laugh, merely smiles, but for him, that’s basically the same as laughter, so I’m calling it a win. “You’ve always been easy to fool. Remember when we were kids, and I jumped from the hayloft and faked breaking my leg? You were so scared you damn near pissed your Levi’s. It don’t take being Daniel Day-Lewis to get you.”

  Mark’s mouth thins, but he nods and gives me an evil grin. “Well, I planned to help you with a length of fence, but after that stunt, I’m thinking maybe I’ll go on in and have a shower before dinner. Might even prop my feet up and watch some of Mama’s shows with her while she gets dinner ready.”

  My jaw drops; he’s so serious that when he plays it straight, it’s hard to tell if he’s joking or not. “The fuck you will! Get your ass off your high horse and help. Just because the corner’s just up ahead don’t mean the whole damn fence is done! We’ve got miles to go and not enough time to do it.”

  Mark shakes his head, looking a lot older than he really is. Sure, I’m the baby of the group, but Mark isn’t that much older. But in the afternoon light, the weight of responsibility hangs on his face so much that he looks like he’s pushing forty instead of still two-stepping with thirty. “There’s never enough time. Hasn’t been for a while now.”

  The silence stretches for a moment, both of us lost in thoughts of missing Pops. He loved this land, the land
he bought on faith back in the time when everyone was saying old-fashioned family farming and ranching were going the way of bell-bottoms and the Marlboro Man. He’d been the one who saw what this land could be: a harsh mistress that still loved us back and provided for a man who was willing to use his brains as well as his body and heart to tend it.

  He loved us boys, all three of us. He’d spent every day teaching us how to be men and how to be ranchers. He’d taught me to ride almost as soon as I could walk, to respect the value of a man’s hard work, and that sweat was sometimes more valuable than gold. And he taught us to love.

  The best example of that was how Pops loved Mama. He would often tell us about how once he saw his Louise, he knew right then and there that he was going to marry that girl. He’d been eighteen at the time.

  His passing had hit us hard, especially Mark. He’d been the one to find Pops lying just beyond the big elm tree we’ve got in the front yard, a peaceful look on his face and his hat somehow placed respectfully over his eyes like he was taking a nap.

  By everyone’s guess, Pops had realized what was coming, the years of hard work and workman’s breakfasts catching up to him, and had lain down and sent his horse back to the barn. As soon as Duster had nickered at the back door riderless, Mark had known something was wrong. It took him a while to find Pops, but it didn’t matter. He could have been faster than the Flash and he would’ve been too late. When the Reaper comes for you, there’s never enough time.

  Mark found our father lying next to the same tree that he’d proposed to Mama under thirty-two years earlier. We didn’t have the years with him we’d thought we would. I’m back home for now, but only for the long summer. When the fall circuit starts up again, my ass needs to be on the back of a fifteen hundred–pound pissed-off bull if I want to get my sponsorship checks. I’m not sure how Pops managed to time his unexpected passing with the rodeo schedule he always hated, but since he did, I’ve got a long stretch of months to stay here, to settle in with Mama and my brothers, and to make the ranch work somehow without Pops’s fiercely loving hand guiding us all.

  My eyes meet Mark’s, and he growls, swinging off Sugarpea and tying him off on the back gate of my ATV trailer before bumping my shoulder as he passes by me in a sign of brotherly love that also means Shut the fuck up. Saying nothing, he roots around in the back of the trailer and comes out with another pair of snips. “Okay, James, let’s see if we can get all the sections from here to the corner and a few beyond done before dinner. Deal?”

  I eye the length of fence, not seeing too much that needs repair. This part of the pasture is in the lee of the rise, and because of that, it doesn’t catch the driving winds that some of the other areas do. “Hell, if it’s mostly just inspection, I bet we can do five or six. Let’s hit it.”

  We get to work, side by side, the same way we did for years, words not even needed as we dance around each other, checking each level of wire and all the barbs, careful to scan and fix any weak spots.

  We complete our goal, loading up our tools in the back of the ATV just as we hear the ringing of the bell out across the flat land. Mark grins and unties Sugarpea’s lead before swinging up into the saddle easily. “Nice job.”

  I smile, hopping behind the handlebars of the ATV. “Told you we’d make it. How about I race you to the house. If I win, I get your roll. If you win, you get—”

  He interrupts me, already wheeling Sugarpea around. “I get your whole plate.”

  Before I can even register what he’s said, he’s off and running, Sugarpea tearing up great hunks of turf with every step like Mark’s racing him in the Kentucky Derby. I twist the throttle on my ATV, but I’m held back some as I can’t just floor it, or else I’ll flip the small trailer and send my tools flying everywhere.

  Still, it’s a race of one horsepower versus twenty-eight, and I’m close on Mark’s heels as we get to the barn. He unsaddles and stalls Sugarpea while I unload my tools before we both wash our hands and splash our faces with the cool water from the old-fashioned pump, then go bursting in the back door, still jockeying for position. The race is more about bragging rights than dinner, but make no mistake, Mark will totally take my plate if he wins, and I’ll damn sure enjoy that extra roll if I win, moaning about how delicious it is, just to stir the shit.

  Our roughhousing catches Mama’s attention, though, and she turns from the stove, a big wooden spoon in her hand, the same kind that she’s threatened to break over my ass if I don’t behave myself. “What the hell are you two doing? Behave yourselves in my house, or you’ll be eating on the back porch with the dogs. And they don’t get dessert.”

  We sober up, knowing that she’s dead serious, but the competitive spirit we’ve always had doesn’t just stop, so we discreetly rib each other, daring the other to make a sound and be the loser. Neither of us will ever give in, though, and ultimately, we sit at our respective spots at the table. Pops’s spot is empty. Mark’s is at his left as the eldest son, while Mama will sit at the other end of the table, nearest me. Luke used to sit on Pops’s right, but he’s adjusted; he’ll sit next to Mama.

  Mark glances over, removing his hat and hanging it off the back of his chair. “I’m getting your plate tomorrow.” He swings two fingers between his eyes and mine, indicating that he’s watching me. I grin and give him the finger. Like hell he will.

  Mama turns around in a huff, thankfully slow enough that I can hide my hand. “Mark Thompson Bennett, did you just say you were gonna eat your brother’s dinner? You know how hard he works, how hard you all work, and he needs his dinner. You’ll do no such thing.”

  Being the baby in the family is sometimes the most annoying thing in my life, but other times, like this, it’s a blessing.

  Deciding to needle Mark just a little bit, I rub my stomach, moaning a little. “I’m so fucking hungry. I worked damn hard—I’m almost halfway around the back pasture and didn’t have enough lunch because it was too far to come back to the house for a nibble. Is that my favorite pot roast?”

  Yeah, I’m laying it on thick, but the hard expression on Mark’s face is worth it. He’s spent most of my life eating the grisly end of pot roasts while I’ve been getting the nice, juicy cuts. No wonder he prefers steak or hamburgers over roast.

  Apparently, I overplayed, though, as Mama turns around, pointing her spoon at me. “Boy, do I look like a fool? I packed your lunch, and you had two big sandwiches in there, so quit needling your brother and just eat. And don’t you dare cuss at my dinner table. You might be a grown man, but you’re not too big for me to bend you over my knee and remind you of those proper manners I taught you growing up.”

  Mark smirks at me, finding the image of our petite mother, who’s barely five foot two and maybe a buck fifteen soaking wet after Thanksgiving dinner, bending my six-foot-three-inch, two-hundred-pound frame over her knee to deliver a whuppin’ quite comical.

  I duck my head, putting my hands in my lap. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  Thinking to do what she said and “just eat,” I reach for a serving dish of potatoes before feeling eyes on me. Looking up, I realize Mama’s eyes are boring into me, and I snatch my hand back so fast my knuckles rap on the edge of the table.

  “I think those rodeo folks aren’t doing you any favors, James. Bunch of wild heathens. You don’t start until everyone’s at the table.”

  I sigh, knowing that Mama’s right. There are advantages to being a professional rodeo rider, and not waiting on big brothers is one of them. “Where is Luke, anyways? He’s late.”

  Mama swats me in the back of the head before I can reach for the potatoes again, clucking her tongue. “He’ll be just a minute. He’s checking on Briarbelle.”

  Suitably chastised, I glance up as the back door swings open and slams against the frame.

  I lean back as Luke, all lanky six feet two of him, comes in, his face still streaked with dirt from the barn. “Well, speak of the devil, and he shall appear.”

  He doesn’t respond, just
turns to the big industrial sink by the back door to wash up, but I see him sneak me a middle finger, so I know he heard me. Once he sits, Mama brings the roast over and prays quickly so we can dig in, passing dishes back and forth and filling up our plates.

  Dinner is a rowdy affair, full of fast eating, belly pats, and moans of delight when Mama brings out chocolate pudding for dessert. “Now, boys, I appreciate all the hard work you’re doing . . . so there’s a little bit extra in here tonight for all three of you.”

  I don’t know how she does it, never really thought about it, I guess, but she’s been feeding the three of us and Pops for decades, and every meal is delicious and filling and worth all the hard work to earn a place at her table.

  It’s odd to have the head of the table empty now, but for the most part, our conversations about the ranch take up enough space to make it feel like Pops is still ghosting about in his vacated chair.

  “Make some headway on the fence today, James?” Luke asks.

  “If you can imagine it, Mark actually helped a little,” I admit. “We got around the far corner and six sections back the other way. It’ll be ready.”

  As we take our empty plates to the sink and rinse them off for the dishwasher just like we were taught, Luke fills us in on Briarbelle, his favorite mare. She’s old for a first-time mother, and it’s been tough on her.

  “Briarbelle is ready to foal, but she’s not handling it too well. She’s been pacing and sweating all day, and she’s already leaking milk. I’ll watch her tonight, but I went ahead and told Doc to be on alert. He plans to come out bright and early in the morning. I just don’t have a good feeling.”

  Luke is the best of any of us with the horses. There’s something about his manner, his mellow presence, that sets them at ease, so his having a bad feeling is not a good sign.

  Mark dries off his hands and leans against the big counter in the kitchen, his eyes dark with concern. “Shi—sorry to hear that,” he says, still aware of Mama’s presence as she scrubs at the roasting pan. Just because dinner is done is no reason to curse in Louise Bennett’s kitchen. Clearing his throat, Mark continues, “Need a hand tonight? I can take a shift to watch over her.”