She’s My Kind Of Rain (Rawlings Ranch #1)

Chapter 1

1

SAWYER - MAY 3, 2004

“If I’m draggin’ ass, let me know so Richy doesn’t chew me out again,” Rhett grumbles, pouring his fourth cup of coffee today before handing the pot to Judd—another one of our crew members. “The morning drive from Brunswick is gettin’ to me, especially by the end of the shift. Wakin’ up at the asscrack of dawn to help with the horses, and then tryin’ to get here on time in all the goddamn traffic is killer, man.” He slams the remaining contents of his cup, combs his fingers through his blond hair, and places his hard hat back on his head.

Rhett joined the crew at Richard Boyd Construction a few months ago. He’s been a wise-ass from the moment we met, but there’s no denying it, the guy is funny as hell. He reminds me of Pops in some ways, blunt and always making jokes, but he’s also the type who’ll give you the shirt right off his back if you need. He’s a good guy through and through.

Something’s been a bit off with him lately though. He always seemed to have this live life in the fast lane , spontaneous lifestyle, but lately he looks run down and exhausted. When anyone asks, he pops off some smart-ass comment about one of the guy’s sisters keeping him up all night, but the jokes seem more and more hollow lately. I can tell something is off but I don’t want to make it worse by constantly bringing it up.

I consider all the space I have at my place now that I live alone. My parents were the last visitors I had nine months ago for Pops’ funeral, and the idea of having someone else around sounds nice. Before thinking too deeply about it, I blurt out, “I have an empty bunkhouse on my property if you wanna stay there to cut back on the travel.” Rhett’s expression is filled with confusion, and though there is only a moment of stilted silence that passes, I find myself wondering if the offer is a bit weird. With an uncomfortable half laugh, I add, “Judd’s sister isn’t welcome though. I don’t need him showing up to beat anyone’s ass.”

Judd rolls his eyes in the most exaggerated way he can muster. “That’s real nice of you, Sawyer, but my sister wouldn’t be caught dead with either of you dipshits. She’s got standards,” he replies sarcastically.

Rhett jumps right in to lay on an extra layer of harassment for Judd—guy can’t let any opportunity for a joke slip past, can he? “Honestly, that sounds great, man. I mean minus the part about Judd’s hot-ass sister.” The devious look in his eyes tells me that he’s aiming for a big finish. “Maybe his mom will be interested, she clearly doesn’t have any standards if Poppa Judd is anythin’ like his boy.” Before he can even get a reaction from Judd, he and I both fall into a fit of laughter.

“ Ha, Ha ,” Judd laughs sarcastically, raising his middle fingers in the air as his final farewell before we all end our break to finish out the day.

Looping his arm around Judd’s shoulder, Rhett gives him a squeeze. “Just kiddin’ Juddy. Any girl would be lucky to have ya.”

We head our separate directions, Rhett and I returning to lay a concrete stoop slab. “I just realized you moving here may help with one issue, but then creates a new issue for your dad.”

He grunts at the weight of the concrete bag, water sloshing onto my boot as he pours it into the drum.

“Oh, I ain’t worried about my dad. How much is it gonna run me?” he says as he tests the consistency of the mixture, before tipping the drum forward and pouring out its contents.

“Nothing besides whatever you want to eat and probably a tub of coffee, or ten, since I know you go through that by the gallon.” I chuckle, noting that I am probably not far off. “You can stay today if you want since Richy mentioned showing up early tomorrow for a safety meeting. That will at the very least help you get some rest for tomorrow.”

The truth is, he’d really be doing me a favor by staying at the ranch. I’ve got more than enough space, and Rhett would do the same in a heartbeat if the roles were reversed. Besides, it would be nice to have someone else there other than my horse, Wrangler, and the farm hand I hired to take care of him while I figure out what I want to do with my life.

“At the very least, I will take ya up on the offer for a break from the bullshit for tonight. Luckily, I always got a go bag for when I go out just in case I get lucky with any of the ladies,” he jests, wriggling his brow. “Mind if I ride with ya too? No sense in wastin’ the gas.” He lets out another laugh, but this time it sounds forced. He’s probably just exhausted. I decide it’s best not to question if he’s alright because if he wanted to share, I think he would.

“No problem,” I respond, continuing our work in silence.

We finish setting the slab a little later than planned and help clean up the tools before clocking out. We climb into my Pops’ Harbor Blue 1969 Ford Bronco, exhausted from the heat, and ready to be done working for the day.

Once situated, I turn up the Country station as we head toward the ranch. Neither of us particularly chatty because the entire day has been exhausting.

Letters From Home begins to play and I can’t help but quietly sing along. Captivated by how the artist pulls you in before you even realize it. I get lost in the music when I hear the sound of Rhett’s phone clack shut. He doesn’t say a single word, but I can tell his attention is focused on me. His timing is perfect because the next few lines are centered around the hilarity of a thick southern accent, so I jokingly sing the verse at him. We both laugh and I turn the radio down now that I’ve had my fun.

“With a voice like that, you’re lucky your momma loves ya. I’ve heard better singin’ at a five-year-old’s birthday party.” Rhett shakes his head at my ridiculous behavior, poking fun at me. “But really though, I think I just had my best idea yet.”

I lift one brow, silently questioning what he’s talking about then ask, “And what’s that?”

“We’re goin’ to make you famous.” He says it so nonchalantly, I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not.

I let out a belly laugh, not expecting that to be his answer. “And why are we going to do that?”

“I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, man, but you’re good,” he says, nodding to the radio. “Really fuckin’ good.”

“That lack of sleep must be catching up to you,” I joke, shocked by the idea. “I can’t imagine there aren’t hundreds of people walking around Nashville who have played their whole life and still have little to no fame to show for it. I would assume they are all really fuckin’ good too.”

“Not like you, man. And ya told me before that ya don’t know what ya wanna do. Singin’. On stage, in front of a crowd. That’s what ya should be doin’. Just think about it, Sawyer,” he says.

I turn onto a gravel road and the Rawlings Ranch sign comes into view. We drive through the gate and head down the two-track toward the house.

I ponder what he said. Something about music has always resonated with me, especially the songs that speak of challenge or love, and I often wish that I could spend more time singing and less time working. I consider the idea of performing in front of strangers. Never having done it before, anxiety builds in my gut. The moment I see Pop’s house— my house—come into view, a sense of calm returns and I table everything else when I hear Rhett whisper, “Wow.” He whistles under his breath as he leans forward to take in the scene.

After I park, we walk up the cobblestone path to the front porch. The house is rather large, with warm chestnut-toned stained wood siding and a deck that is meant for entertaining. Windows cover nearly the entire surface, allowing for the sun to light the main living spaces during the day, and a huge oak tree shades the side patio that accommodates a large exterior fireplace. Each detail is intentional and grand, just the way Pops was. The reminder of him warms my heart as we trek up the stairs and step inside.

We are met with a wide open floor plan, not common for most ranch style homes of its time. Pops was a people person, and “if we couldn’t have a bonfire outside, we sure as shit were gonna move the party inside” . His words, not mine. I silently laugh to myself, motioning Rhett toward the living room right off the kitchen.

“Holy shit, this place is nice. When ya said ya lived in an old ranch I definitely didn’t picture this. Your Pops really outdid himself.”

I nod, because he’s not wrong. The entire ranch is beautiful, including the bunkhouse and barn. Even those who aren’t into country living would be wowed by it. As grand as it is, it is still decorated in a way that feels homey. Family pictures scattered throughout, linen drapes made by hand, and rustic wood furniture made by craftsmen rather than store-bought. Everything has its place and I plan to do nothing to change that because it feels perfect the way it is.

“So, how did ya end up here?...In Nashville, I mean,” Rhett asks, examining all of the family photos lined up on the fireplace.

“Jimmy Goodall.” I say his name, remembering back seven years ago when I hit a kid who was twice my size.

He gives me a puzzled look, so I continue with my explanation. “I decked some dipshit kid named Jimmy Goodall. He used to bully me, and one day I had just had enough, and hit the fucker after he pushed me.”

Rhett laughs, his eyes widening in surprise at this little revelation about my past. Since I’m not the type to just offer up details about myself like that.

“The problem is my first hit landed Jimmy a broken nose. There weren’t a lot of school options in our area, and my parents didn’t like the idea of Jimmy being anywhere near me. Long story short, we decided collectively that living with Pops for the rest of the year made the most sense. I just ended up liking it so much that I never left.”

I think for a moment longer, considering the events that led me here. “It’s funny, most of the time you hear about situations where a kid has to move because of a bully and how it was the worst part of their life, but honestly, I’m thankful it happened. I’m thankful Jimmy never laid off on the bullshit. If he hadn’t pushed me to my limits, I never would’ve left Greenwich.”

“And the singin’? Why ain’t ya doin’ that instead of construction?”

“Singing has always been more of just a hobby. When I moved here, Pops taught me to play guitar, and then singing just came along with it.” I let out a sigh and shrug. “I think he figured it was a better outlet for me, than it was to bottle up my emotions. I’m pretty sure that’s why my parents thought I cracked that asshole in the face. Anyways, in regards to doing that instead of construction, well, I’ve always enjoyed it and wished I could do it more often, but no one has ever really pushed the idea, myself included. I just can’t help but sing along when I hear a song I like, so that’s all it’s ever been.”

“Well that explains all the damn singin’ on site. So ya ain’t ever sang live besides just at work?”

“Oh, no, I didn’t think that anyone would be a fan or that I’m anything special.” I run my fingers through my dark, curly hair.

“Half the performance is ownin’ it, Sawyer. Haven’t ya learned anythin’ from my encores at work?” We chuckle in tandem. “I ain’t got a musical bone in my body, but that ain’t for a lack of tryin’.”

“Oh, is that what you call that?” I burst out laughing, remembering him finishing out a song I had started to sing the other day at work. His country accent made him a perfect contender to fit right into the Country music world, but the man is tone deaf. That, of course, never stops him from enjoying himself though.

He surveys the area another time, his eyes landing on the corner of the living room. “That his?” He nods to my Pops d-28 Martin guitar—with far less varnish than it had when I’d first seen Pops play it—leaning on its stand in the corner.

“That’s the one, and it was his fathers before him. It’s by far the coolest thing I own, besides Pop’s old Bronco and, well, of course this entire ranch.” I chuckle, realizing that everything I own is actually pretty cool thanks to Pops.

Because feelings and personal stuff really isn’t my favorite thing to talk about, I point toward the hallway and add, “Down that hall to the right is a bathroom, if you ever need to use it. The bunk house has one too, of course, and then off the kitchen the other way is a couple of guest rooms if your parents ever wanna visit. Since we both know the only momma’s boy here is you.” I jest, raising another laugh out of the both of us.

“Alright, show me to my new bachelor pad and you weren’t serious about Judd’s sister, right?” He chuckles.

“No, you dumbshit,” I laugh out. “As long as it isn’t illegal, do whatever you want.”

“Touché,” he jests, following me out the door, toward the bunk house.

The space has been vacant for years, and unlike the main house, it needs a good cleaning. “Sorry it’s a mess in here. But as you can see it’s nothing special.” I look around and notice the ancient kitchen, so I add. “You’re welcome to use the main house kitchen. This one looks to be on its last leg—I’m not even sure if the appliances work, to be honest.”

“Do I strike ya as someone who needs somethin’ fancy? At this point I woulda been happy to sleep in the barn over drivin’ everyday.” He releases a breath. “Thanks, man. Really. This is gonna help out a lot.”

“Yeah, no problem.” I finish showing him the rest of the bunkhouse, which isn’t much other than two small bedrooms and a decent sized bathroom, before we head back outside.

Once we reach the barn, his brown eyes fill with what appears to be confusion. “Ya call this a ranch, but there ain’t any livestock or much of anythin’ beyond the gates besides the house. Shit’s pretty well kept, so either ya got a lot of time on your hands and just hate animals, or ya got somethin’ to explain.”

“Well I’ve got a horse in the barn, but that’s it,” I say with a shrug. “Billy next door does most of his care since I’m gone all week, and then I tend to the rest on the weekends. I rent out some of the fields to farmers, and Pops got rid of the cattle once he turned eighty. He said he was just too old to deal with the upkeep, and he didn’t want to leave anyone with livestock to deal with. I think he truly just thought I didn’t want to be a rancher indefinitely and didn’t want me to convince myself that I should keep this place going just because he had. Turns out, only two years after that he was gone. So now it’s just Wrangler.”

I rub the back of my neck, feeling a little stressed about the fact that I’ve yet to figure out what I want to do. “Haven’t really thought of getting anything else just yet, especially since Billy is the one taking care of him, but I’m sure he gets bored being here alone. Like I said, I just haven’t figured out what I want to do in general. Renting the land out is honestly more than enough income and I really don’t mind doing construction, but I mostly decided to do it because I like to keep busy and work with my hands. So I figured, might as well do something I enjoy while I figure shit out.” I take a breath and run a hand back through my hair, shrugging once more. “That and I thought adding animals to my ‘to do’ list would only complicate things if I decided to take a different path in life.”

“Well, how ‘bout this? Maybe I could keep my horse here too, so yours ain’t lonely, and so I don’t feel like a dick for leavin’ her back at my parents’ house. I plan to do as many ropin’ events that Nashville and the surroundin’ areas have to offer, so best to have her and my trailer with me. I’ll do the mornin’ and late night care for both the horses, and ya can cut on the cost of havin’ Billy out all the time. If ya wont take my money for rent, then at least take my labor for it.”

My head cocks to the side, a soft grin forming on my lips. “You know that ain’t a half bad idea. I always feel bad that Wrangler is here on his own. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind having a friend.”

I know I don’t.

Rhett smacks the back of my shoulder. “Yeah and if he’s anythin’ like ya, I won’t have to worry ‘bout him bein’ a ladies man.”