Rough Country (Tannen Boys Book 3)

by Lauren Landish

  But basically, we all need each other to play the roles we’re assigned, and mine is as a farmhand.

  “I know. I wouldn’t ditch Brutal. We’ve got crops to check,” I tell Brody, having had zero illusions of taking the day off. That’s not what farming is about. There are no days off, only days you pay someone else to do what you were supposed to be doing in the first place.

  I take another sip of coffee, praying that increasing the amount coursing through my bloodstream will also increase its effects. “So, what’d you think?”

  He doesn’t need me to spell out the subject change. He knows I’m asking if he liked Willow. Another piece of his being the father figure for so long is that we don’t like to disappoint him. Shay and me, in particular, are sensitive to making Brody proud. Brutal does his own thing, and I don’t think he gives two rat shits about what Brody thinks, but luckily, they stand on the same side of the fence most of the time anyway.

  He looks at me through narrowed eyes, though the sun’s barely up and he’s got on his camo cow hat, like always. He hums thoughtfully. “You don’t need to know what I think. You already picked her.”

  I nod. “I know, but I trust your opinion. Always have.”

  He’s silent for a long moment, and I think he’s not going to answer, but he finally says, “I like her.”

  That’s it. Brody Tannen’s official stamp of approval.

  “Thanks.”

  He clears his throat and turns to head back into the house, leaving me alone with the early morning light. A few more sips of coffee and I’ll get going on the day. Brutal and I have two pastures to check for pests and problems, and walking their long rows sounds like a good way to think. It usually becomes slightly meditative, sometimes resulting in a song melody or lyrics and sometimes just letting me clear my head a bit.

  I already know what I’ll be thinking about today . . . Willow.

  Chapter 10

  Willow

  “Do not eat the doughnuts. Do not eat the doughnuts,” I tell myself aloud as I drive to Unc’s. “Not yet, at least.”

  I stopped by the Main Street doughnut shop, where they greeted me by name, which surprised me, considering it’s only my second time being there, but I guess word spreads fast. At least the kind lady with the big smile behind the counter had called me ‘Hank’s niece’ and not ‘Bobby Tannen’s girl’. I might be both, but one feels like family. The other feels a bit like jealousy, at least from the women in town, though Doughnut Darla, as she told me she’s known, didn’t seem like the type to fawn over Bobby at sixty-plus and white-haired beneath her hair net.

  Regardless, the sweet smell of doughnuts is calling my name from the big white box on my passenger seat. But I manage to hold strong, pulling into Unc’s driveway without so much as a crumb on my fingers or face.

  Unc’s house is a cute ranch-style home, with blue-painted brick and white shutters. The flower beds are a bit overgrown, long shoots popping up through the line of shrubs, and the scalloped concrete barriers are a bit askew, even cracked here and there. I add yardwork to my list of things to help Unc with. It’s not urgent, but I’m sure he’d appreciate it being taken care of since he’s obviously not able.

  Getting out, I balance the box of goodies in one hand so I can ring the bell.

  No answer.

  Maybe he’s still asleep? He probably keeps bartenders’ hours too, and it is early, but I wanted to stop by before opening for the lunch crowd.

  I ring the bell again and hear muffled noise from inside. I open the storm door, holding it back with my butt, and call through the door, “Unc? It’s Willow. I brought doughnuts.”

  The knob rattles as it’s unlocked, and I’m not sure if Unc is opening the door because it’s me on the other side or because of the doughnuts. Either way, I’m calling it a victory.

  “Willow? Girl, I wasn’t expecting you this morning,” Unc says. His voice sounds scratchy, like he hasn’t used it for a couple of days. I wave the doughnuts around enticingly, and he steps back with a sigh. That answers that, I guess . . . the doughnuts are my ticket inside. As long as I get one too, I can handle that.

  Inside, my eyes adjust to the dim lighting and I get a good look at Unc. He looks like he took a trip to hell, walked through fire, and came back through the grease pits. His hair is slick with oil, but not smoothed back like usual. Rather, it looks like he fixed it a couple of days ago and has slept on it against every flat surface since. His face looks more heavily lined, even from just the short time since I’ve seen him, and I realize it’s because he’s gaunt and probably dehydrated. His eyes are glassy blue and staring at me harshly. Or what should be harshly but looks tired and weak.

  Every nurturing cell in my body wants to force him to bed, tuck the blankets up under his chin, and feed him soup. If I so much as attempt to suggest that, he’ll kick me out onto my butt before I finish getting the words out. Alternate strategy time.

  “Okay, lead me to a table where I can set these down because they’ve been calling my name the whole way here.” I hold the box to my ear and sing-song, “Willow. Eat me, Willow.”

  Hank’s answering smile is tentative. “All right, girl. Come on in here. Fair warning, the maid ain’t cleaned in a while.”

  “You have a maid?” I ask, surprised.

  One of his bushy brows lifts sardonically. “You’re looking at him.”

  That makes more sense. Unc is a do-it-yourselfer if ever I’ve met one.

  I follow him into the den, then the small kitchen, where he waves a hand at the four-seater round table pressed up to the wall. I guess he only needs three chairs for poker nights. “Have a seat. I’ll grab us coffee and plates.”

  “Oh,” I say with a start toward the cabinets myself, intending to help. But at his glare, which is gaining strength by the second by the sheer force of his will, I do as ordered and sit down to let him keep his pride.

  He pours two mismatched mugs of steaming coffee and sets them on the table, then gets plates. I manage to pull two napkins from the holder on the center of the table and hand him one.

  Quietly, he opens the box and takes the first pick, putting a bear claw on his plate. Licking the glaze off his fingers, he moans, “Mmmhmm, Darla makes a damn fine doughnut.”

  I select the pink one with sprinkles that I bought hoping I could have it. I take a ginormous bite without even setting it down, open-mouth chewing as it dissolves into sugar in my mouth.

  Unc chuckles. “Guess you agree.” He makes no move to eat his bear claw, though, seemingly satisfied with a sip of coffee instead. “What brings you by so early? Everything go okay last night?”

  I swallow thickly, getting the doughnut down. “Did you hear otherwise?”

  Oh, no. Chief Gibson probably already told Unc about my late-night guest at the bar and this is his way of getting me to confess.

  Unc’s brow lifts and he stares blank-faced at me, straight as can be, with no hint of what he’s thinking.

  I finally set the doughnut down and wipe the frosting and sprinkles off on the napkin. “Chief Gibson stopped by, though I guess you already know that.” His lips quirk, confirming my suspicions. “We weren’t doing anything, just talking. And we left right after the chief.”

  Unc takes another sip of coffee. “And by ‘we’, you mean Bobby Tannen and you?”

  My eyes widen in realization. “You had no idea, did you?”

  He laughs at that, shaking his head. “Knew you two were getting friendly, but sometimes, it’s best to let the other guy show their hand first.”

  I try to be mad, really, I do, but it’s a losing battle because he’s right. I sigh, give in, and spill my guts. “The whole Tannen-Bennett family came by last night, mostly to meet me, it seems. They hung out, and I made them all drink Girly Beers.”

  Unc’s smile grows at that and he flashes me a thumbs-up. “They like it?”

  I feign outrage, giving him my best ‘offended’ face. “Of course they did. It’s delicious!”


  “If you say so.” He definitely does not agree. “Then what? Get to the good stuff, girl.”

  “Closed up shop at two, and Bobby stayed to help. He even pushed the broom and mop around. Then everyone headed home for the night, and we . . . stayed. And talked.”

  Unc’s bony fingers bend in the air like quotation marks, “Talked. Yeah, I’ve done some ‘talking’ in my day too.” He repeats the finger movement.

  “No, actually talking,” I insist, but he doesn’t look convinced. “Okay, and some ‘not talking’ too, but nothing too . . .” I search for the word I’m looking for but I can’t think of one that I’d feel comfortable telling a seventy-year-old relative, so I settle on, “Nothing that’d require a cleaning of the bar. I just sat on it.”

  He holds up a hand, palm toward me. “Say no more. And Patrick?”

  Thankful to be off that part of story, I explain the rest. “Chief saw the lights on and my car in the lot, so he checked to make sure I was okay.”

  Unc smiles slightly. “He’s a good one.” He finally picks up the bear claw and takes a small nibble off one side, but it looks like swallowing it costs him dearly as he goes a little green. Sticking to coffee, he asks, “So, what’s the story with you and Bobby? Seems like he’s taken a mighty fine shine to you. You feeling the same way?”

  Wow, direct and to the point, and staring me down with those blue eyes that dare me to lie. It’d do me no good. Unc would know it either way. “I am. It’s a lot . . . and fast . . . and intense. And not what I came for, but he’s . . . something else.”

  Unc hums like he understands my muttered answer perfectly. “He is that. Always figured he’d make it out of Great Falls. I know he wanted to in his younger days before his mom got sick. She was a sweet woman, raised those hellions up the best she could, but Paul put them through the wringer. They ended up better than I would’ve figured. Bobby especially. He always seemed a bit more even-keeled than his brothers. Don’t know if that’s true or not.” He looks off to the side like he’s remembering something from long ago, but he doesn’t share whatever he’s thinking.

  “So you think he’s a good one too?” I ask, using his words.

  He pats my hand across the table, his dry and cold against my warmth in the moment of contact. “I think you already know the answer to that question yourself and don’t need an old man’s blessing to do what you want, Willow. Especially mine, given I ain’t seen you in way too long.”

  “I know. It has been too long. I’m sorry for that—”

  “Now, don’t you be apologizing for things that ain’t no fault of yours. Harold was a son of a bitch, too big for his britches, and hell, for that matter, so was I. We didn’t appreciate what we were losing when everything blew up between us, but I sure do now.”

  He looks around the house and I follow his gaze. He’s been alone as long as I can remember. I never had an aunt, but there are touches of softness here and there, as though someone helped him make the place cozier. Patterned pillows on the couch and a crocheted throw blanket on the back of the recliner, a flyer advertising last month’s Fourth of July parade is held to the refrigerator by a pair of painted clothespins with magnets on the back, and a tray on the counter was lined with small bottles. A collection of pill bottles . . . a whole bunch of them.

  I nearly choke at how many there are and I have to fight back tears. What happened between Grandpa and Unc has had far-reaching consequences I don’t think any of us intended to pay.

  “I’m just glad I’m here now,” I tell Unc.

  “Doc stopped by yesterday,” he says, seeming to change the subject to something lighter. “Said you were doing a damn fine job at the bar without me and that I shouldn’t worry.”

  I smile, knowing there’s no way he wouldn’t. “But of course, you worry anyway.”

  “Damn straight. Built that honkytonk myself, from the ground up with these two hands, and lived most of my life in those walls. Or at least the best years. So I don’t need no city slicker coming in and mucking it up.” He’s teasing me, lights sparkling in his dull blue eyes.

  “I’m not mucking up anything. We did just fine last night, and I’m ready to open for lunch and work till close tonight. We’ll be fine. You stay home and nap, old man,” I tease, but truthfully, he looks like he could use it.

  “I’ll nap when I’m dead,” he retorts. “Until then, I’ve got shit to do. Actually, I’ll probably let you handle today,” he concedes, as though I’d thought he was going to hop up and go to the bar with me for the day. I had no illusions as such. “I’ve got some things to do around the house, but tomorrow, I’ll be there, and I’ll expect you to be off gallivanting around, doing whatever it is you young’uns do these days. Like ‘talking’ and taking pictures for your ‘blogs’.” He does air quotes around both words, which makes me laugh because he’s using them wrong, but in his mind, he’s perfectly correct.

  “You sure? We’re closed Monday, so that’s two whole days off in a row. Wouldn’t want me to get spoiled, now would you?” What I really mean is, can he handle the bar alone tomorrow?

  He grins back, nodding. “Girl, if you’d let me, I’d spoil the ever-loving shit outta ya. I missed you, Willow.”

  What started as sweet turned deeply sentimental, and I feel the hot burn of tears in the corners of my eyes again but refuse to let them fall. Unc doesn’t want me to cry over him, but it’s hard to swallow down the lost time and the fear of losing even more.

  “I missed you too, Unc. Anything you need, I’m your girl, okay? I don’t want to let years go by again and us feel like we lost something important,” I choke out.

  He pats my hand again, content in that old man way. “We won’t even let days go by this time. Sometimes, that’s as long as you get, and you gotta take advantage of every one.”

  I dip my chin, half-nodding and half-hiding the tears I blink away.

  “All right then, get on to the bar. You’ve got work to do today, girl. And I’d best not hear of Patrick having to break up any fights. Your man’s or anyone else’s.”

  I laugh lightly, hoping he’s kidding. Bobby might’ve punched that tourist the first night, but he deserved it. Bobby’s been nothing but a gentleman ever since.

  I intentionally leave the whole box of doughnuts with hopes that Unc will snack on them throughout the day and let him escort me to the door. He’s limping a bit more today, something that had been getting better since he’s been spending most shifts sitting at the beer taps. I give him a hug, feeling the bones of his lean frame beneath his loose T-shirt.

  “I love you, Unc.”

  “Aw, I love you too, Willow. Now I’d best not see you until Tuesday lunch, y’hear?”

  I do the quick mental check on that. I’m working today and he’s staying home to rest, he’s doing tomorrow’s shift, then we’re closed on Monday, so yeah, he’s right. I think I’ll make sure Doc or Richard swings by tomorrow to sit at the bar with him. He won’t suspect a thing if his friends come to visit and drink the day away before their poker game.

  Dismissed, I get in my car and head to work knowing that I’m going to do extra prep work to make sure that Unc can do as little as possible tomorrow.

  I’m waist-deep in the weeds, pulling soft drinks and beers mostly because folks don’t default to the hard stuff mid-day around here very often, and helping Olivia run food to tables. It’s just the three of us, Olivia and me up front and Ilene in the back. Daniel comes in at five for the dinner rush.

  “What do you do when you need a day off?” I ask Olivia as I fill her tray with another round of drinks. “You’re literally the only waitress who works here.”

  “Day off?” she sasses with a look of mock confusion. “What’s that?” I wish she were kidding, but I get the feeling she’s not. “Really, I work as much as I can and am happy to do it. Hannah’s working too. Owning her own shop is a twenty-four, seven gig, so we’ll see each other tonight after we get off work. On the rare occasion I really do need a day, Hank ha
s customers come to the counter to order and calls them back up when their food’s ready. Folks understand.”

  I can’t help but smile. Here, in Great Falls, they do understand and are probably happy to help a fellow resident have a day off. But in the city? No way, no how. There’d be some Karen threatening a one-star Yelp review because the service was ‘offensive’. But the sense of community here is something I hadn’t expected, and it feels . . . right. I’ve been accused of being a doormat, letting people walk all over me when all I really wanted to do was lend a hand, but here, everyone’s like that.

  “Well, just so you’re ready for it, Hank’s given me tomorrow off. I’m going to do as much prep work as I can so that all he has to do is sit on his butt and pour beer, but can you keep an eye on him? Make sure he eats and doesn’t overdo it?” I don’t add that he looked awful this morning and was well on his way to a nap just from our visit, so I’m seriously doubting his ability to work a full shift.

  Olivia’s eyes narrow and she taps the bar. “Absolutely. I got the old guy covered. If he gets too cranky, I’ll send him to his office to do paperwork and handle the bar myself. I can’t make cocktails, but alcohol’s alcohol and folks can take what they can get or go somewhere else.” She snaps her fingers and grins. “Oh, right, there’s nowhere else to go, so they can drink beer and damn well like it.”

  “Thanks,” I tell her, meaning it deeply. I think she will look out for Unc. Actually, from how quickly she suggested sending him to his office, I think she’s been looking out for him for a while.

  By mid-afternoon, I get a lull and really get to work prepping. I’ve got every lemon and lime in the fridge cut, knowing I’ll use some tonight but will still have enough for Unc tomorrow. I’ve overstocked every napkin holder, washed a whole stack of bar towels, and cleaned everything to within an inch of its life so that Unc won’t even feel the need to wipe a rag around.