"I will," I promised.
She pulled back, looking at Beau. "And you. If you break her heart, I know people. Scary people. Lawyers."
"Understood," Beau said solemnly, slipping an arm around my waist and pulling me into his side. "She's safe with me."
We watched her car kick up dust as she drove down the long driveway, disappearing over the hill. The silence settled back over the ranch, but it wasn't lonely.
"Well," Pops said, slapping his knees. "I got fence to fix on the south pasture. Beau, you coming? Or you too tired from all that... snoring?"
"I'm coming," Beau laughed. He turned to me, kissing my forehead fast and hard. "I'll find you in the arena later. Wear those tight breeches."
"Get to work, city boy," I teased, shoving him gently.
I watched them walk off toward the truck, my heart feeling lighter than it had in years. I turned on my heel, ready to head to the barn, mentally going over Bandit's training schedule. Just a normal, perfect day.
But then I heard it.
The crunch of gravel.
I frowned, turning back toward the main road. Elise had just left; she couldn't be back already.
A car crested the hill. But it wasn't Elise’s white rental.
It was a black sedan. Sleek, polished, with windows tinted so dark they looked like oil slicks. It looked alien against the rustic backdrop of the ranch—too clean, too expensive, too menacing. It moved slowly, prowling down the driveway like a shark in shallow water.
The smile slid off my face.
My stomach twisted, a sudden, cold knot of dread replacing the morning’s warmth. We didn't get cars like that out here. Not unless it was bad news.
I took a step off the porch, shielding my eyes against the sun, watching the car roll to a stop just a few yards away. The engine cut, but the doors didn't open immediately.
Who the hell were these people?
WINNIE
Sealed records
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
Morning
"I don't wanna be famous / If I can't do it with you" – Mason Ramsey
***
The sedan doors swung open before I was even halfway down the drive.
Two men spilled out like oil on clean gravel. One was wiry and twitchy in a sweat-wilted button-down, clutching a little digital recorder like a weapon. The other was bigger, already lifting a camera with a lens long enough to shoot the damn moon.
Reporters.
Cold washed through me so fast my fingers went numb. They weren’t supposed tobehere. Calls and emails were one thing—easy to hang up on. But standing in my driveway? On my dirt?
“Hey!” I called, forcing my voice to carry even though my heart was pounding. “Can I help you? This is private property.”
The wiry one turned like a shark scenting blood. His eyes lit when he clocked me. He didn’t bother with names or niceties. He just yanked out his phone and shoved it toward my face.
Blurry Spur shot. Me, pixelated, laughing, leaning into Beau. His hand on my back, unmistakable even through the grain.
