Page 32 of Peaches

I can do that.

It takes me fifteen minutes to eat something and another twenty to shower as I oscillate between feelings of anticipation, excitement, and nervousness. I know what Rhett meant when he wrote that note, that it had everything to do with the letter from Céline and nothing to do with him, but I don’t care. Not right now, not when bravery feels a little easier with this instead.

I dress in a light pink T-shirt and jeans, pulling on a pair of boots I wear only for concerts or the fair. I’m not really sure what to expect when I get there, but I highly doubt his days consist of lazing around inside on a couch—not with all those horses to take care of.

After swiping on just enough makeup to hide the evidence of my late night, I decide to skip jewelry. Instead, I pick up my bottle of perfume and feel a zing of surprise when my fingers brush over the label—Peach Eau de Parfum. It’s an expensive bottle my mother gifted me two Christmases ago. For the longest time, I hardly ever wore it, but in the last few weeks, I’ve been spritzing some on each morning in part of my attempt to be more adventurous.

It’s why he calls me peaches, I realize.

My lips tug, and I catch the giddy smile in my vanity mirror.

I’m pushing back out the front door thirty seconds later with a skipping pulse and a floating stomach, thoughts of Rhett’s eyes swirling around my mind.

CHAPTERTHIRTEEN

RHETT

Despite the low temperatures we’ve had over the last few days, the sun is warm today, and by mid-morning, I’m burning hot enough that I have to take my jacket off not to overheat. Beads of sweat trickle down my temples and over my jaw as I continue to work through both sides of the first barn, turning out horses to Kasey in the nearest corral so I can muck and feed each stall before the farrier gets here. The ranch feels busier than ever with almost twenty rescue horses currently on the property. There’s another half-dozen out at pasture that also need the occasional doctoring, but for the most part, they take care of themselves.

The horses housed in the two main barns are all in various stages of rehabilitation and training, and with only a few of us around to get shit done, their turnaround seems to take weeks longer than it normally would. Some of them are more difficult to move from one place to another, fearful and distrustful of halters and lead ropes and us, but if there’s one place a Bennett knows how to practice expert-level patience, it’s right here on this ranch.

Horses are a mirror into our own psyche, and I’ve learned a lot about myself growing up with them. Starting a morning irritable and frustrated only leads to trouble that could turn extremely dangerous, so as much as I love to throw a middle finger up to the world, I know my place at home with these animals. We exist to protect and honor their lives as much as we exist to protect ourselves. At its core, Bennett Ranch is a rescue ranch, and our only focus is making sure the horses that come through here leave happier and more stable than the way they came.

Still, the work is not without its bad days. It’s impossible to hustle as hard as we do and not have moments of failure. Last fall, I got too cocky with a mustang and let his training become my own physical release. I missed the signs of his fear masked by his aggression, caught up in my own internal bullshit, and pushed him too far. After we were down and I led him into his stall, he cornered me in the barn and kicked me so hard in the gut I broke three ribs.

I was lucky.

It was the reminder I needed that, regardless of the shit I put myself through, what happens on this ranch has to stay separate. But I still worry—as hard as Kasey, Wells, and I are pushing to keep up with everything, our exhaustion is bound to lead to mistakes. We have to watch each other’s backs and keep a careful eye on these horses. Especially the skittish ones.

Layla helps as much as she can when she isn’t watching the boys, but she doesn’t have the experience the rest of us do. Her instincts are strong and she’s got a knack for caring for the colts and fillies we see, but it’s not the same as having Brooks’s focus and Sawyer’s smarts.

“Yo,” Kasey calls from the open doorway. I look up to find him poking his head in. “You expecting someone?”

I frown. “No. Just the farrier.”

“Hm,” he hums, disappearing back around the corner.

Curious, I rest the shaving fork against the wall as I leave the stall and make my way outside, where a sleek gray sedan is pulling up the drive—definitely not the old two-tone Chevy Hank drives. I move to stand beside Kasey as we watch the car approach, wiping my hands on my dirty jeans. “Probably lost,” I mumble.

“Yeah,” Kasey agrees.

But then the man in a suit parks and steps out of the car, smiling so big when he looks at us it shows a majority of the white teeth in his mouth. “Good afternoon,” he calls out cheerfully, rounding the bumper toward us. He closes the distance about halfway before pausing, throwing a hand up. “Let me guess, Kasey and Rhett, right?”

What the fuck?

“Who are you?” I demand, widening my stance as my mind flips through the Rolodex of people who might try to fuck with us. Kasey straightens next to me, crossing his arms over his chest, no doubt worried about the same. Outside of family and the hands we hire on occasion, no one visits us. Wells is the only one who ever really had friends hanging around, but that shit stopped years ago.

The man somehow smiles wider. “My name is Stuart,” he says. “I just have a few questions about the ranch I’m hoping you can help answer, and then I’ll be right on my way.”

“It’s not for sale,” Kasey says flatly.

Stuart’s eyes widen. “Of course not! The ranch has been a Bennett birthright for over a hundred years. I assure you, I have no interest in seeing a change in ownership.”

How the hell does this guy know so much about our family? “What is it we can help you with, Stuart?” My tone is a little harsher than intended, but I don’t really give a shit.

“I was hoping William might be around?”

Kasey stiffens as Stuart, who has the audacity to look over my shoulder, scans the grounds for evidence of my father. I haven’t heard anyone call him William since I was a kid, and this guy sure as fuck isn’t going to find that man anywhere near the barn or horses.

---