Tyler
“Tyler, you’ll be manning the mechanical bull this year.”
I tip my hat at Miss Bellows as she reads off the volunteer duties for the annual Fall Fest in Grand Lake.
My father’s brewery, Slade Brewing, donates the beer tent every year for the fest, and most of us Slades spend at least a few hours volunteering. I usually drive the tractor for the hayrides, but my cousin Axle took that over this year.
“You ready to spend the day surrounded by screaming children, big brother?” Trent nudges my arm with his elbow. “Maybe it’ll finally light a fire in those Levi’s of yours and you’ll give mom and dad their first grandkid.”
He doesn’t look up from the phone he’s furiously typing on.
I chuckle and shake my head. “And why is that left to me? You’re the one with the fancy job and six-bedroom house.”
“Could’ve been your job, remember? Still can.” He smirks, his hand clapping around my shoulder before he spots our dad, Drake, and makes his way over to him to most likely talk shop.
Trent’s not wrong. His title as the CEO of Slade Brewing International could have been mine, and according to my parents, should have been mine. But the idea of being glued to my phone all day while jet-setting from one meeting to another makes my skin crawl.
As the oldest son and heir to the Slade Brewing empire, I get that I probably let a lot of people down when I took over the family ranch instead, but I don’t regret it. Over the last 20 years, the ranch has expanded to 30,000+ acres, nine cowboys, three ranch hands and hundreds of heads of cattle. Someone had to take it over, and it was the one place I always felt I could make a difference.
Financial reports and projected earnings always instantly bored me. I’m still on the board of the company and always will be, so it’s not that I don’t care about it or don’t want it to continue to be one of the most successful breweries in the world—I just don’t want the title or responsibility of CEO. Besides, Trent came out of the womb ready to take that bull by the horns.
I grab a cup of coffee from the refreshments table supplied by Violet from the Bean & Bun bakery in town and walk over to where my dad and Trent are deep in conversation. My dad has a telltale deep V between his brows as Trent gestures animatedly with both arms.
“I’m telling you, she’s an expert. She’s young, but that’s what this company needs right now, especially with the recent success of our new seltzer line.” My dad nods at Trent’s comment.
“You guys really can’t not talk business, can you?” I say, walking up beside them.
“I’m just telling dad about the new employee who’s starting on Monday. I’ll introduce her to everyone at the board meeting and she’ll introduce our new social media initiative. I’m telling you, it’s going to be a game changer. She’s fro—” The phone in his hand rings, pulling his attention away from finishing his sentence as he steps aside to answer it.
“That boy is going to have a stroke if he doesn’t relax,” my dad grumbles.
“That’s why you’ll find me out in the pasture. I’d rather herd cattle than people.”
We stand shoulder to shoulder, silence settling over us as we watch families mill about the fairgrounds. My dad smiles and waves at a few people, which is a little funny considering that before I was born, he hated this town and everyone hated him.
We’re not from Grand Lake. Virginia Dale is about three hours north, but my family’s reputation was set in stone back in the early 1900s when their land ownership was brought into question, something that’s long since been squashed thanks in part to my mom, Celeste—a bulldog of a lawyer who came to Virginia Dale as my dad’s new lawyer and never left.
“Your mother ran into Selma the other day. She was asking about you.”
I take a long sip of coffee. My dad has a knack for saying way more than he actually says. His words always carry a much deeper message, even if it’s only a sentence or two. But I’m really not in the mood to discuss Selma again.
“Well, if Selma has questions about me, she can come to me.”
“No second chances there, huh?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, son,” he says, patting my shoulder, letting me know he understands and that the conversation is over . . . or so I thought. “Just go easy on your mother if she brings it up to you. She just wants grandkids and it can make her a little shortsighted at times.”
He gives my shoulder a quick squeeze before walking over to man the beer tent.
“What doI get if I win?” The teenage boy I just explained the ride to narrows his gaze at me as I hand him the glove to ride the mechanical bull.
“Bragging rights, kid.” I step over to the controls as he hoists himself up onto the bull. I know for a fact he won’t make it eight seconds; they never do.
Sure enough, about three seconds in, he’s on his back on the cushions surrounding the bull.
“That’s not fair!” He slams his fist down before standing up and walking back to me to return the glove. “That’s so unrealistic.”