Page 3 of Brighton

My brothers say on repeat that I was born in the wrong decade. They’re right.

They’re also wrong.

I was definitely born at the right time in history. Got to play outside and have cell phones. I know how to relate to humans, have decent, meaningful conversations, but appreciate the ways technology connects us. At almost thirty, I’ve had the best of both worlds.

But the music is shit. That’s not in question.

And since I grew up listening to Willie, Hank, and Johnny, I can unequivocally say that their music is art. There was no autotune, no repetitive, uninspired songs that took eight people to write and one hundred to digitally master.

No. I need the real stuff. The oldies. I need Austin City Limits before it became Coachella. I need the Grand Ole Opry before it sold out to rock and roll. I need Don Williams and Patsy Cline. And no one can convince me otherwise.

Barbara croons, and my tires crunch as I pass my brother’s house.

Braxton runs this ranch. It all lies on his shoulders and at his feet. Or at least, he’d have you believe that. He manages a multi-million-dollar corporation that is the Ranger ranch. And he feels that burden. But we have hands. We have multiple lines of revenue—from breeding to breaking and more. He’s not alone.

And there’s me—the staff equine veterinarian. I am the medical team and the head of this business unit.

I refuse to live onsite. I won’t allow myself to get swallowed up by ranching life… Well, any more than I already have. I’m here practically seven days a week, and when I’m not, I have access to monitor it remotely.

I need my privacy. I don’t want everyone knowing when I get laid. Or how long it’s been since I’ve gotten some.

And it’s been way, way too long.

I don’t want to end up on a compound where our lives are so enmeshed, we forget to knock on doors. I don’t knock, mind you. But I’d expect others to.

And with my three brothers, it would take being busted naked for them to ever take the hint. I’m not willing to go to that extreme. Though, despite my embarrassment, it would serve them right. I’d get over it way faster than they would. They’d bitch and moan.

Softies.

So, I have my house in town. Well, out of town, technically, so I can have a little space. Luna, my yellow lab mix, is riding shotgun. She’s a farm dog. She’s a Jeep dog. She’s unequivocally the best good girl ever. That is not open for debate.

I come to a stop and park in front of the barn, hopping out and heading to the office as Luna does the same. I throw on some music over the speakers, deciding this morning it’s Clint Black. He’s a later generation, but he can kick off today’s playlist as I check on Marron.

“Good morning, Mama. How are you feeling?”

She nickers and tosses her head. She’s early on, not due until August or September. Foal is healthy and growing on schedule. It should bring a great price and the wait listers are champing at the bit to see her babe.

I give the mare a good check, rubbing my hands down her gorgeous body. Lustrous coat, solid muscle, wise eyes. “Want a treat?” I grab a carrot and an apple and give her both before leading her out of the stall and into the paddock to stretch her legs.

Me: Marron looks great. Foal does too.

Exton: Do you know what time it is?

Me: Even earlier here. Have a great day, bro.

Marron is Exton’s horse. He lives in D.C. and works for the freaking FBI. He’s crazy smart, way too serious, and would have no qualms of waking me up for any old reason. He’s definitely not somebody who sleeps in.

Exton: How’s Mom?

Me: I haven’t checked today, but she’s fighting.

Exton: Keep me posted.

Me: Of course.

I snap a picture of the sun rising over the barn and shoot it over to him. I get a thumbs up in return. He’s not chatty, so when he does say something, people listen.

He and Brax are total opposites. Brax can’t shut up.

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