Page 2 of Deviant
The back door creaks open then and boots clomp in—my younger brother, Cash, arriving from the direction of the bunkhouse out back. He’s two years my junior and carries a restless energy everywhere he goes.
“Morning!“ Cash drawls, making a beeline for the coffee pot. His red hair is mussed—a telltale sign he rolled straight out of bed and threw on yesterday’s T-shirt.
Mom arches an eyebrow at him. “Running a bit late there, aren’t you?”
Cash just flashes a grin. “Early for me.” He pours himself coffee and snags a slice of bacon from a plate on the counter. “Smells great, Ma.”
Grandpa chuckles. “If lazybones here spent less time out at parties, he’d be on time more often.”
Cash rolls his eyes. “Not my fault the party ran late.” He casts me a smirk as he leans against the counter. “Rhett wouldn’t know ... he left early with Molly.”
I feel heat climb my neck. Cash’s tone is innocently suggestive, but even that makes me feel caught out. I clear my throat, keeping my face neutral. “We left at a reasonable hour.”
“Sure, big brother,” Cash teases, giving me an exaggerated wink as he brushes past to sit at the table.
Mom interrupts by nodding toward the doorway. “Rhett, be a dear and fetch your brother from the barn. Breakfast is ready.”
“Got it.” Glad for the excuse to escape Cash’s needling, I set down my coffee and slip outside to get our youngest brother.
I inhale the cool morning air. It carries the scent of dew and sun-warmed hay, and a mockingbird’s song echoes from the pecan tree by the gate. I can see the barn in the distance and a slim figure just outside it—Dawson, already up and at it. Where I find identity in order and duty, Dawson finds it in caring for the animals.
I walk across the dewy grass toward him. Dawson is leading Daisy, our dapple gray mare, out of the barn, and a tiny, long-legged foal totters along right behind. The sight coaxes a small smile from me.
“Morning, Daws,” I call as I approach.
Dawson turns at the sound of my voice and beams. There’s a smudge of hay on his cheek and his blue eyes are bright. “Iwas just taking Daisy and the baby out for some sun.” He gently coaxes the foal forward. “Come on, Ollie.”
He’s dubbed the foal Oliver—Ollie, for short—apparently. I reach out to stroke the foal’s velvety nose as he bumps along at his mother’s side. “They look good. Were you up long?”
“Since first light. Ollie’s eating solid feed already. He’s ahead of the curve.”
I can’t help a soft chuckle at his enthusiasm. Dawson has a way with animals; he’s gentle and patient—all heart. Not like me in the slightest.
“Mom’s got breakfast waiting. Let’s get inside before Cash scarfs down all the bacon.”
Dawson nods, giving the foal a final, fond pat. He falls into step with me then, and we head back to the house.
Inside, the kitchen table is crowded. Dad has returned from his dawn rounds of checking on the cattle, and Uncle Luke is here too, leaning in the doorway with a muffin in hand. We all settle in, chairs scraping, passing plates and bowls as Mom serves up oatmeal and bacon.
Grandpa is in the middle of an old rodeo tale—something about a bull that nearly launched him to the moon back in ’75—making Dawson laugh into his milk. I watch my brothers across the table and think, not for the first time, how much our names say about this family.
Dawson for Mom’s best friend Aria Dawson, the woman who has been her person since before any of us were born.
Benjamin Cash for Grandpa, sitting right here at the head of the table, still telling the same stories he was telling when we were small enough to believe every word.
And I’m just...Rhett. Destined to make something of my own name. At least I don’t have the pressure of living up to anyone’s legacy but my own.
Dad sits quietly, arm draped across the back of Mom’s chair, a faint smile on his face at his father’s antics.
Uncle Luke discusses a fence that needs mending on his west pasture, and Cash promises to give him a hand later, around a mouthful of oatmeal.
Dad clears his throat, his gaze settling on me down the table. “Rhett, Luke mentioned he could use your help at the stock auction next week. I want you to go with him, maybe take the lead on some of the bidding. It’d be good practice for you.”
“Yes, sir.” Another responsibility, another step toward wearing the crown that’s been waiting for me.
Mom adds, “And don’t forget, I volunteered you to speak for that Founders Day video. As the next generation representative. We’ll film a short bit this week about Thornwood Ranch history, alright?”
I nod again, swallowing a bite of oatmeal that suddenly tastes like paste. Public speaking, even on camera, isn’t my favorite thing, but I’ll manage. It’s for the family.
