8. Reed

8

Reed

T he gray finally calmed down after a few minutes, huffing on the far side of the round pen. I hadn’t bothered looking back to watch Brandy leave, despite some deep part of me wanting to. I was half convinced she would’ve carved my eyes out with a rusty spoon if I tried.

For months now, I’d been telling her to quit working with this horse. He was dangerous, unpredictable, and anyone with half a brain could see it, but Brandy kept at it. I wasn’t sure if it was because she truly was determined or if she did it to spite me. It was probably a mix of both, with a heavy hand of the latter.

I wasn’t about to pick a bigger fight with her, so I shoved off the fence and headed for my parents’ house. I could tell Brandy had something on her mind with the set of her jaw and the stiffness in her body. I hated to admit I noticed the little shifts in her demeanor, but I did. The woman was a firecracker, but she was always relaxed in her sass. Today, it was different.

It truly wasn’t my business to ask, and I was sure if I did, she’d just tell me to fuck off. Those were her favorite words. Had to be.

Dirt fell off the soles of my boots as I walked up the porch steps. I gave them a good dusting on the boot brush nailed to the porch, then walked inside, finding my mom seated in the kitchen on her laptop.

“Busy day?” I asked as I grabbed a water from the fridge.

She finished typing, then took her glasses off, setting them beside the computer. “Just dealing with finances.”

After downing half the bottle, I leaned back against the counter, facing her. “Sounds like fun.”

“If your idea of fun is keeping track of all your transactions for the rescue, then have at it.” She gestured to the laptop.

I sucked air in through my teeth. “See, my hands are meant for tools, not a keyboard.”

She rolled her eyes as she shut the laptop. “I should probably get off of here anyway. My eyes are starting to hurt.”

“I heard some fresh air can cure that real quick, and you’re in luck. There’s an entire ranch right outside.”

“Very funny, Reed.”

I didn’t hear that very often.

I set the water bottle on the counter beside me. “Seriously, Mom. You need to go outside more.”

“A rescue doesn’t run itself, honey.”

“No, but a tired woman who balances the world on her shoulders can’t do her best job if she’s burnt out.” I didn’t miss the bags under her eyes from late nights staying up dealing with the paperwork for the ranch we ran, along with all the tasks for the rescue. Balancing both was no easy feat, and yet Mom did it flawlessly. How she raised five kids and put up with Dad was beyond me, but that’s what you did when you raised cattle, grew hay for your own livestock—and then some—and ran a horse rescue. You got up, you did the damn thing, and you didn’t complain. Ain’t nothing getting done if you’re whining about it.

“You could take one thing off my plate,” she said.

I crossed my arms. “What’s that?”

“You can help Beck settle in.”

I scoffed. “Mom, he’s twenty-seven years old.”

“And he needs his family more than ever right now. Especially his brothers.”

I silently stared at her for a few seconds before saying, “He’s got two other brothers that I’m sure would love to give him a hand.”

She cocked a brow. “And you don’t?”

“I’m a busy guy.”

“You’re standing in my kitchen talking to me, aren’t you? That’s ten minutes you could spend with Beckham.”

I frowned. “You do know he had all of five things when we moved him in, right?”

She stood from her seat, using the counter for support before scooting the stool in. “So he’s a minimalist.”

My frown deepened.

Her face fell slightly. I wasn’t trying to fight her on helping him, but I wanted to know why she was so concerned. Of course, she cared about her kids, but this felt different.

“What aren’t you telling me?” I asked.

Her heavy eyes met mine. “I just don’t want him to feel alone while he’s here.”

I inhaled deeply. She wanted me to convince him to stay. “Mom, I don’t think he’s going to leave again.”

She blinked a few times, presumably clearing away building tears. She loved her children, and we appreciated the fuck out of her for it. But the woman would worry herself to death if she kept up like this.

“He’s going to be fine, okay? I’ll check on him, stop in every now and then.”

She gave a closed-lip smile, some brightness coming back to her eyes. “That’s all I want.”

Grabbing my water, I pushed off the counter, coming around to give her a kiss on the temple. “I’ll head over there soon.”

“Thank you.” She gave my arm a quick squeeze. “Now get out of here. I have work to do.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

***

Though Beckham’s porch was small, he’d already managed to litter nearly the entire space with trash. A half-empty bottle of whiskey laid by the stairs, three red Solo cups rolled in the wind, and a paper plate sat dirty on the plastic chair. By the looks of it, he was settling in just fine only days later. Or terribly, and the result of the mess wasn’t due to some party.

Maneuvering around the trash, my knuckles rapped on the door. A minute ticked by, and no movement sounded from inside, so I knocked again. And again. After five minutes, I was done waiting.

“Alright, Beck, I’m comin’ in. Don’t shoot,” I announced, trying the handle. It opened right up, and I hesitantly stepped inside. I didn’t bother closing the door behind me as when I entered, the stench of dirty dishes filled my nose. The breeze would help clear out some of the mustiness.

Walking around the wall of the kitchen, my focus landed on Beckham passed out on the couch. His shirt was stained with what seemed to be drops of whiskey and…was that pizza sauce? His five o’clock shadow was quickly turning into a short beard, and he wasn’t wearing pants. I silently sent up a thanks for the boxers he wore.

I crossed the living room and nudged him on the shoulder. “Beck.”

He groaned, but ultimately ignored me.

“Beckham, wake the fuck up.”

“Go away,” he mumbled, burying his face deeper into the pillow.

I didn’t have fucking time for this.

I grabbed the pillow and yanked it out from under his head. His eyes shot open as he shoved up on his elbows. “What the fuck, man? I was sleeping.”

“For how many days?” He looked like shit.

“Sleep is important,” he defended.

I threw the pillow at his chest and he grabbed it, shoving himself up to a sitting position. I took the seat across from the couch, a weird crinkling sound coming from the cushion. I reached under my ass and pulled out a breakfast bar wrapper. With a slight shake of my head, I tossed it on the end table.

“You have a coming home party we weren’t invited to?” I grumbled, surveying his house. It looked like he’d been trashing it for weeks, and yet it’d only been days.

“No,” he answered groggily as he rubbed the back of his head.

“Got a headache?”

His hand moved to his now-shaggy hair, running his fingers through the messy strands. He usually kept it short, but even when he’d arrived back in Bell Buckle, it was longer than it typically was.

“Kind of,” he replied.

“Great. Stop fucking drinking and go to the ranch.”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “Why would I do that?”

I sat back, crossing my arms. “Oh, I don’t know, dipshit. Because your family lives there?”

He shook his head before leaning it back against the couch. “No shit.”

“Mom’s worried about you.”

“Tell her not to be. I’m fine.”

I scoffed. Like it was that easy. Charlotte Bronson trusted her boys, but she was a worrier. And if she saw the state of his house, hell, even just the front porch, she’d know something was up.

“Don’t look real fine, Beck. Your place is a mess.” I gestured to the clothes littering the living room floor before crossing my arms again.

“It’s laundry day,” he muttered.

“When? A week ago? Cleaning all the clothes from years of being on the road?”

He glared at me before shoving off the couch and heading for the kitchen. Rather than grabbing a cup from the cabinet—because I was sure they were all dirty or still packed—he stuck his damn head under the faucet to drink.

I stood, quickly coming up behind him and turning the water on harder so it overflowed from his mouth. He coughed, shoving me back as he turned the sink off. “What the fuck , Reed?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Did the rodeo make you a fucking animal, too?”

“Don’t make some fucking joke about me being stupid because I fell off a horse one too many times,” he said, wiping his face with the top of his shirt.

I leaned back against the counter, crossing my arms again. “At least you already know it.”

“Because you guys always make it! You want to say I’m stupid, Reed? Go right the fuck ahead, but don’t repeat it every fucking time you see me.”

“Beck, it’s a joke,” I said, my voice losing a bit of its hardness. Having so many brothers, you got used to picking on each other. It was in our DNA at this point, and Beckham was never this worked up about it. Hell, he did most of the joking around.

He opened a few cabinets, the doors slamming shut when he found each was mostly empty, before finding a bottle of pain pills and popping two. “Whatever, Reed. Is that all you came here to say?”

I dropped my arms. What the fuck was up with him?

He was in a bad mood, and I didn’t want to be the victim of his piss poor attitude.

I shoved away from the counter, heading for the front door. “Clean this mess and light a fucking candle or some shit. It stinks.”

I hated to be that guy, but if our mom showed up here to check in like she did on all her kids, she’d call an emergency family meeting and lose her shit.

Beckham was the craziest of all our siblings, always doing the most outlandish shit to get a rush, which was probably where Lettie got her love for Brandy. Because of that, Beckham and I clashed. I was more reserved, kept to myself, rarely took risks, and Beckham did it all. Rodeo unfortunately aided in egging his personality on, which was why it was such a shock when Mom told us he was coming home for the foreseeable future. He went through so much to get where he was, years and years of training on broncs, just to drop it all? It couldn’t be for no reason.

But with Beck and I having the relationship that we did, I doubted he’d open up to me about it. Callan was too busy with the baby on the way, and his girlfriend and her daughter, that he wouldn’t be of use here. Though he’d drop anything for family, my mom would have my ass if I involved him. Lennon, on the other hand, had his hands full managing Tumbleweed Feed and being with his girlfriend, Oakley, which left me with Lettie, but she was no use because she was currently knee-deep in wedding planning and, again, Mom would have my ass if I interrupted that.

Which left me to figure out what the fuck was wrong with Beckham. I didn’t do well with emotions, and if I had to guess, Beck was fucking full of them at the moment. I could clean up messes of all kinds, be a shoulder to cry on, but to try to dig deep into that brain of his, find the problem and fix it? That wasn’t in my wheelhouse.