By the end of the night, we’ve all won a few hands and lost a few. I’m thirty bucks up, but more importantly, I’m three friends richer.

  We say our good-byes, reminding Hank that it’s his turn to provide dinner next Sunday so he’d best get his order in with Ilene early, and then we head home. I let the guys take home the leftover casserole, salad, and pie, knowing that they’ll eat better tomorrow for it.

  At home, I find that the kids left the kitchen light on. But the kitchen itself is spic and span, all cleaned up after family dinner. I go over to the sink to get a glass of water to take my vitamins and see a note on the counter.

  Took dinner and pie to Allyson so she wouldn’t starve. Left you a slice in the fridge too. Hope book club was fun. - B

  With a smile, I open the fridge. Bruce did leave me a slice – a tiny sliver that’s just right for a midnight snack. All my boys and girls are caretakers. We look after each other, help each other, and we’re a team as much as a family.

  I’m a lucky woman.

  I decide to take my tiny piece of pie outside to the porch, sitting in the moonlight where I can see the tree in the front yard.

  “Hey John, you won’t believe what Ford did today. But first, you think you could do me a favor?”

  I wait a heartbeat, giving him time to quirk his brows in my mind. I can almost hear him saying, “Woman, what are you up to now?”

  “I think Aspen could use a little brother or sister, don’t you?”

  The wind blows, the tree branches swaying in answer.

  “Thanks, sweetheart.”

  And with that, I eat my slice of pie. In my head, I go over today, finding moments of joy and happiness to relive with John. He’s not here, not really, but he’s in my heart. Even after all these years. I think he’d be proud of the family men his boys have become and the way our family has grown.

  I know I am.

  I yawn once, and know that means the sun rise is going to come too soon, so I go inside and get ready for bed. I lay down on my side of the bed, on the far side, away from the door. I smile into the darkness one time – or at least I think I do, but I fall asleep so quickly, that I can’t be sure.

  But I know there will be more smiles, more little ducks lined up behind me, more boot stomping, and more love . . . tomorrow.

  I

  ROUGH REUNION

  1

  SHAYANNE

  “Shayanne Tannen!” Willow’s voice rings out sharply. “What kind of trouble are you stirring up now?”

  I haven’t been a Tannen in years, but somehow, if I get even the slightest hint of a sparkle in my eye, I’m instantly reverted to my maiden name. It’s a fair assumption, since my brothers are known troublemakers, and my married last name of Bennett belongs to the local do-gooders I call family.

  Actually, these days, we’re all family. Tannens, Bennetts - all one big, mostly happy, oddly maladjusted, too rough for our own good… family.

  “Me? Trouble?” I ask my sister-in-law as innocently as possible. “I just got here. How could I be stirring up anything?”

  Truthfully? There are countless, innumerable, infinite ways I could cause problems by showing up at my brother’s house in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week, when I should be working. I have at least a dozen goats that need milking, two batches of soap that need to be unmolded, and a run to the post office to make before picking up the boys at school. And that’s before clocking in with Mama Louise to make tonight’s dinner.

  Willow tilts her head, eyeballing me doubtfully. She knows better than to believe my innocent act and is good at seeing into people’s souls. And unfortunately for me, their intentions. “Fine. I’m up to no good, but I’m not sharing the details yet.” I glance around the yard like one of my brothers – or more likely, a random kid (an actual one, not a goat) – might pop out of nowhere. “Where are the overgrown knuckleheads I call brothers?”

  Most people would think I’ve lost my mind if they heard me call my brothers that, worried I’d written my own death warrant. There are many things you could call the Tannen boys – beefy, handsome (though getting me to admit that would require CIA level interrogation tactics), and hard-working, but I think most would describe them as stubborn, scary assholes.

  Mostly, they’re just rough. In all the best ways. Built like they were carved out of prairie scrub oak with an ax and a pocket knife, with sharp edges and spots that will snag you if you’re not careful. But I’m their little sister, and have a lifetime of dealing with them. I know all the danger zones to sidestep and the soft spots to exploit to my own advantage.

  Because the truth is… they’re anything but good for nothing. For all their reputations, which are honestly outdated at this point, my brothers are good men. That doesn’t mean I can give them an inch though. They’d take a country mile if I did.

  “They’re out in the melon field this morning. I can call them on the radio?” Willow offers, pulling a walkie talkie from her right hip. She looks like a modern Wild West cowboy, only instead of six-shooters on each side, she’s got the walkie talkie on one and a baby monitor on the other.

  I hold up a staying hand and then point at each device. “Make sure that’s the right one. Do not accidentally wake up Juniper on my account.”

  “Girl, I would fight a mountain lion or single-handedly handle a pack of wolves before waking that baby up.” She shakes her head and I see the hint of new mom exhaustion still lurking in her eyes even though Juniper’s inching closer to being one year old than newborn. Her mouth to the walkie, Willow presses the button, “Base to Bobby, base to Bobby.”

  She waits a beat, but there’s no response. There are easily a dozen reasons why he might not jump to answer her, so neither of us flinch a bit. Instead, with a sly smirk, she tries again. “Heyyy, sexy man of mine, you’d better answer me before I start announcing exactly what I need to every ranch hand on the property.” She lets the barest hint of teasing purr enter her voice. The best friend in me is giggling like a school girl, the sister in me is gagging because she’s talking sexy to my brother.

  Holding up her fingers, she counts down… three, two, one…

  “Woman, I am out here with my brothers who are now teasing me about not meeting my woman’s needs and doing weirdly disgusting moves with their hips that make me fear for Allyson and Rix. What the hell’s going on?” In the background, I can hear Bruce and Brody making grunting noises that sound like a heifer in heat.

  Willow and I meet eyes, fighting not to laugh ourselves. After clearing her throat, Willow answers, “Shay’s here looking for you boys. Want to come in for a quick lunch?”

  I didn’t mean to cause that much fuss, but Willow looks a bit brighter at the possibility of seeing Bobby for a few minutes, so I’m good with it.

  The last tour was hard. Bobby and Willow took toddler Aspen with them, plus Willow was seven months pregnant by the time they got home, and morning sickness on a tour bus is even less fun than it sounds, especially since my brother is a sympathy puker. But they planned it that way so they’d be able to stay home for a long year, maybe year and half, after Juniper’s birth. He hasn’t said so, but I think Bobby’s next tour is going to be shorter, maybe out and back trips like Luke does, so that his girls can stay home and he can come and go from here too.

  “We’ll be there in ten,” Bobby says on the walkie. “Out.”

  Willow waves me toward the house and we go in the side door, straight into the kitchen. We’re quiet, fearing disturbing the sleeping beauty in the bedroom down the hall. Sleeping Monster is more like it though. Juniper may be the sweetest, cutest thing I’ve seen lately, especially in the floral-patterned headbands Willow likes to keep her in, but if you wake that girl up from a nap, you will regret every breath you take for the next hour until she settles.

  Bobby and Willow’s house is the nicest of the ones situated around the Bennett and Tannen properties, but they’ve earned it. Bobby’s last album went platinum, with both fans and critics calling him a modern Waylon Jennings. Still, the house is open and warm, not fussy or pretentious, which is a good thing because we’d give Bobby all kinds of hell if he went Nashville-fancy on us.

  Willow moves to the fridge, pulling out a pitcher of lemonade, and I open a cabinet for glasses. While she’s arranging them all on a tray to go out to the porch, I start gathering sandwich stuff. Used to me taking care of everyone and everything, she doesn’t argue about me making myself at home in her kitchen, and in fact, slowly lowers to a barstool to watch me do my thing. While I assemble sandwiches that’d make Shaggy and Scooby drool, I ask her how she’s doing, remembering the look of tiredness that flashed through her eyes.

  With a sigh, she smiles. “I’m good. Tired, but good. Did you hear that I had a series commissioned?”

  I glance up. Willow is an amazing photographer, and has two specialties. One, taking photos of my stupidly photogenic brother when he’s on tour, and two, cattle and landscape images that make you feel like you’ve stepped into the photo and become a cowboy. But the mama bear in me is worried she’s running herself too thin at a time when she’s supposed to be recovering.

  Reading my concern, she shakes her head. “Private commission, no deadline, deposit paid in full up front. For a dozen headshots of my choice.” By headshots, she doesn’t mean people. She did a series of extreme close-ups of some of the cattle, and people went wild for them. She even had one licensed for a major retailer and now her photo of one of Mark’s bulls is hanging in houses all over the country.

  “Congratulations,” I say proudly. I can’t help but add, “Don’t overdo it though.”

  “I won’t,” she vows and I believe her. “How goes the goat business?”

  “It’s becoming a goat empire at this point,” I joke. Truth be told, I’m half-serious though. What began as a small-scale business making soap from my girl’s milk has become an entire product line. But I keep it manageable through exclusivity because my herd is as big as I can care for. More products and more distribution would mean more goats and less time with my actual kids, a sacrifice I’m not willing to make. “We have yoga at the resort this week.”

  Willow snort-laughs, then starts coughing. I guess her sip of lemonade didn’t go down properly when she laughed and drank at the same time. “Again? I figured they’d lose your number after last time.”

  I shrug. “People pay good money for a memorable experience like that.”

  “Memorable is one way to describe it,” she says, quick blinking as she remembers the tale I told over dinner last month.

  A local yoga studio that holds weekly classes at the resort reached out about a partnership for special goat yoga events. Our debut last month resulted in a viral video after one of my ladies took a very unladylike whizz on a guest’s head while she was in child’s pose. In her defense, the woman’s blonde hair was vaguely hay-like so it was an understandable misunderstanding.

  Before I can defend my goats (again), a distant rumbling grabs both of our attention.

  “If that man honks the horn, I will cut off his arms myself,” Willow whispers.

  My eyes pop wide. Unlike me, Willow is too sweet to say things like that, so she must be exhausted and not want any chance of Juniper being woken up. “You can’t do that,” I scold. But I shoot her a wink, “I’ll do it for you if he wakes up Juni T.”

  We rush the window, staring out at the incoming Gator. Best guess? Willow is hoping he doesn’t honk while I’m half-hoping he does. I have a lifetime of paybacks for my brother and not many opportunities to exact them these days.

  The Gator strains against my brothers’ combined weight, and rushing to get to his girls, Bobby sends it airborne over a hump, earning a death-glare from Bruce. Anyone who wonders why his nickname is still Brutal years after his high school football days would only need to see that look once and they’d completely understand. They hop out looking like slightly older versions of the boys I grew up with. Dusty shirts, sun beaten boots, big boned frames, and mean mugs for everyone else and the occasional shit-stirring grin for each other. The sight hits me in the heart.

  I can’t believe how far we’ve come. In spite of everything. Because of everything. Together.

  “Hey, Shay Shay,” Bobby says, pulling me into a hug. To the uninitiated, it’d seem sweet, but we both know he’s intentionally wiping sweat and dirt all over me. Touring changed him, for the better, but he’s still my annoying big brother with the additional tease of the nickname a stagehand in Dallas gave me. Then he wraps Willow up in a deeper hug that makes me miss Luke, who I haven’t had the chance to welcome home properly since he returned from his latest training trip just yesterday.

  “Everything okay?” Brody asks. His jaw is set in stone, worry already blooming in his dark eyes.

  “I’m not here for doom and gloom,” I quickly inform him. “But I am here as Mama Louise’s messenger.”

  That has all three men standing up a little straighter. Nobody messes with Mama Louise.

  “Luke is back from Washington, Bobby is home, and Mama Louise wants a full-court family dinner. Mark already has ribs headed to the smoker, so clear your Saturday.”

  “We’re in. Rix loves these things,” Brody says easily now that his fear of the worst has been assuaged.

  Bruce is less enthusiastic. “Why does this feel like a trap?” he asks, scouring my face for any tells. He won’t find one. My poker face is solid. “Is someone leaving on another trip? Or is Mark selling off cattle?” His face goes slack. “Oh shit, who’s pregnant?” He stares at me in horror.

  Swatting at his stupidly hard chest, I chide, “Do not put that on me, Brutal Tannen. Me and Luke are doner than done.” Looking up at the sky, I make sure of it. “You hear that, Universe? No more babies here. Tell those storks to migrate elsewhere.”

  “Kinda sounds like you’re tempting Mother Nature,” Bruce murmurs.

  “We’ll be there,” Willow interjects, saving me. Or maybe saving Bruce. “A day with someone else cooking and countless sets of arms to hold Juniper? Count us in.”

  “Where is my littlest girl?” Bobby asks.

  “Sleeping. And no, you can’t just ‘peek in on her’,” she tells her husband and I wonder how many times he’s done exactly that and woken the sleeping babe.

  Bobby gathers Willow into his arms once more. “I could take a peek in on my other girl,” he suggests. She giggles as she melts into him.

  Seeing that they probably could use a moment, I give Brody a pointed look. “Grab the sandwiches. Let’s take this lunch outside and give these two lovebirds some space to discuss things.”

  “Huh?”

  Bruce picks up the lemonade. “Did she stutter? Get the sandwiches.”

  As we gather up the lunch goodies, Bobby dances Willow down the hall. I think I hear him murmur something about ‘writing a song’ but either I misheard him or that’s a euphemism I don’t want to examine too closely.

  On the back porch, Bruce and Brody immediately dig into the food, but Bruce hasn’t let his wariness go. "You swear this isn't a trap? That Mama Louise didn’t send you as her flying monkey because she knows we won’t argue with you as much as we would one of the other girls?”

  “Flying monkey? Are you implying that Mama L is the Wicked Witch of the West?” Concern for my brother’s life is threaded through the question.

  That brings him up short. “I’m not saying anything of the sort,” he declares. “The rush and surprise just feels… suspect.”

  “No trap. Just good, old-fashioned family fun, some delicious ribs, plenty of laughter, and probably someone passing out in the yard.” There will be no passing out. We’ll drink some of Mama Louise’s special brand of sweet tea that could send a skunk to the drunk tank, but we know how to sip it carefully.

  “Last time we all got together like this, I ended up face down in the dirt, still holding half a pie. James wasted the damn thing trying to get it from me.” He scoffs, remembering their scuffle that did indeed make the remaining peanut butter pie inedible.

  Brody cracks up. “I ended up in the Bennett hay loft having the best night of my life.”

  “With Rix, I hope?” I tease.

  “Obviously,” he deadpans.

  Bruce sighs as he rolls his eyes. “Someone’s gonna end up pregnant. And it sure as shit won’t be Allyson.” He flashes a smirk at me, then Brody, hexing us.

  Brody shrugs, unbothered, which grabs both Bruce’s and my attention. “You ready to add another one to your line-up after Ford?”

  “If it happens, it happens.”

  Huh. That’s surprising. I didn’t know Brody and Rix wanted any more kids. Judging by the look on Bruce’s face, he didn’t either. And while the dig at their son, Ford, is a bit harsh, the kid is hell on wheels. Literally. Rix bought him one of those Power Wheels when he was two and now, he can back up a mini-four wheeler better than most grown adults and cut a corner sharper than one of Mama Louise’s kitchen knives.

  “Alright,” Bruce relents. “We’ll be there too.” Pointing a finger at me, he adds, “But no games. Just lunch and family.”

  I nod, grinning happily. Mostly because my brother doesn’t know the games have already started.

  Bless his heart…

  2

  BOBBY

  Iam proud of what I’ve accomplished over the last few years. It wasn’t that long ago that I was sweating my ass off in fields that used to be ours, but had to be sold off to the Bennetts. I used to hum under my breath to keep from cursing the man signing my paychecks, and now, I happily sit around the dinner table with Mark Bennett after getting a record deal and buying our farm back.

  Music turned my life around. Even still, it took some time to heal the hurts of those days. Mostly for Bruce and Brody, but I had a few scars of my own.