35
Beau
Wyatt's not entirely wrong.
I had a brother who I thought was a coward, more lily-livered than what's sustainable on a working ranch like the HCC. He whined, he lied to get out of work, and he couldn't take it if anyone criticized a damn thing he did or failed to do.
I said Wyatt is like him, and it's unfortunate he overheard me. Especially because he didn't hear what I said later, once Juliette and I had gone to our bedroom. The conversation continued that night, after she kept giving me grief for not taking it easy enough after my heart attack.
She'd stood at the sink, brushing her teeth, while I showered. I told her the rest of my thoughts, finally getting out the words I found elusive earlier. "My brother wasn't all bad. Before all those qualities I hated got real bad, they started out good when they were in moderation. He liked to talk his way out of situations. He was creative, and he had a knack for seeing someone's character. More than half the damn time he'd use that insight to get people to do what he wanted." Juliette handed me a towel as I turned off the water.
"Wyatt does all that shit. But the real difference between them is that my brother lacked an ability to see beyond himself. He was as selfish as he was creative, and the ranch is a place where everyone depends on everyone else. We're all moving parts, and when one of us doesn't do our job, it has downstream effects. Wyatt might come and go as he pleases, and he damn sure doesn't put in the same amount of work as his brothers, but he does the jobs he knows he's supposed to do. That kid has never left me high and dry. Never." I finish toweling off and pull on my pajamas. "I wish he'd be up to the task of taking over the HCC, because I think he'd be damn good at it."
Juliette rubbed the last of her moisturizer across her forehead and touched my shoulder. "Look at it this way. You should be grateful our three boys aren't land grabbing this place, or they'd be fighting to the death in our front yard."
Juliette was right that night, and Wyatt is wrong now. He stood in front of me a few minutes ago, just before he flew out of here like his tail was going up in flames.
I make my way to the bar cart next to the dining room table and pour a finger of whiskey. Behind me, I hear the sounds of my dad coming down the hall. The guy never could sneak up on anybody, he's louder than a goddamn ox.
"Why are you crying in your whiskey?" he asks, peering at me when he gets close enough to actually see me.
"Family problems," I mutter, swirling the burnt amber liquid before taking a sip.
"What, I'm not family?" He points at a second rocks glass on the cart, telling me to make him one. This ought to be fun. He has very little tolerance for alcohol.
With a glass in each hand, I take a seat at the table and slide his whiskey across the wood. He settles into his seat and looks at me expectantly.
"Wyatt and I had it out."
"Finally."
I lean back in my seat and glare at my dad. "What do you mean 'finally'?"
"It's a damn good thing you're a rancher and not an English professor like Warner. The word 'finally' means—"
"Cut the shit, Dad."
He laughs, his face crinkling like balled up tissue paper. "Wyatt's feelings have been hurt for a long time. You're the only person in this house who doesn't see it. Well, you and Wes, though he's not as blind as you."
I feel like a shit parent right now. "I always thought he was spoiled. He was the baby of the family, before Jessie, and he was treated as such. I never imagined he thought—" My words fall away and I picture my son's face, eyes filling with tears, as he bared his soul. That took the kind of bravery most men don't possess, to be willing to honestly confront what has hurt you. God knows I never have, and I'll never get the chance either, because the person who hurt me is dead and can't listen to me tell him how I think what he did was bullshit.
"Thought what?" My dad cocks his head to the side, listening intently.
"He thinks I'm disappointed in him."
"Aren't you?"
"No," I say, too loudly. "No," I repeat, softer this time. "He thinks we've been disappointed in him since the day he was born. It's true we wanted a girl, but"—I shake my head and frown, feeling my own wrinkles deepen—"the first time you see your kid, it doesn't matter if they're your first or your tenth. You love them with the strength of your entire herd. Including every one of those hardheaded bulls." I motion outside to my land. "Wyatt might not understand until he has kids of his own. How can I tell him how much I love him when he's been receiving a different message his whole life?"
"Is that the message you've been sending?"
"Not on purpose."
"You ever think your feelings about your brother have clouded the way you've parented Wyatt?"
"Christ, Dad," I murmur, draining the last of my whiskey. "Good to know you're not worried about hurting my feelings."
He grumbles. "I don't have time to worry about nonsense like that. I could die in my sleep tonight."
