“Is this you?” he snapped. “The mystery brunette with Beau Sterling?”
“I don’t—who are you?” I took a step back, hands coming up. “You can’t just show up here—”
“Naomie Jameson, right?”
The name hit like a fist.
Naomie. Hospital-band name. Court-file name. The name on the report from when somebody left a baby on a stranger’s porch and walked away. Nobody out here called me that. Not unless I was in trouble. Not unless they knew too much.
“Born at Osage County Hospital,” the wiry man rattled off, stepping closer, recorder in my face. “Abandoned at three days old. Foster system till Margaret and Dexter Jameson took you in. Hell of a story, huh? From unwanted newborn to billionaire’s… what, exactly? Side piece? Rehab project?”
My mouth went dry. “How do you know that?” My voice shook. “Those records are sealed. That’s not—” I swallowed. “That’s not public.”
“Did Beau promise you a payout?” He barreled on, eyes bright with mean curiosity. “Is this your exit plan? How much is he paying you to play wholesome ranch girl for the cameras?”
He flicked his gaze around—house, barn, pastures—with obvious disdain, like my whole life was some set dressing.
“Get away from me,” I said, but it came out thin.
The cameraman stepped in, shutter already firing. Click click click, flash-flash—each burst like a slap. “Naomie, over here! Can you confirm you grew up poor? Did you hide your past from him? Does being abandoned make it easier to latch onto rich men?”
“Stop!” I threw my hands up, backing toward the porch steps, heel catching the bottom one. “I said stop!”
They kept coming, orbit tightening. Panic clawed up my throat.
“POPS!” The word ripped out of me. “BEAU!”
The wiry guy put a foot on the stair. “Just one comment, Naomie—”
A streak of red and orange exploded out from under the porch.
Pickles.
He didn’t cluck. Hescreamed—full-on dinosaur screech—and launched himself straight at the camera guy’s chest, wings flapping, spurs out.
“What the—fuck!” the man yelped, stumbling back as Pickles went for his face, then attack his ankles like a tiny feathered chainsaw. The rooster had fought coyotes; a dude in loafers didn’t stand a chance.
“Get it off! Get this fucking chicken off me!”
The screen door banged open so hard the frame rattled.
Pops stepped out first, lever-action shotgun in his hands. He didn’t yell. He didn’t posture. He just racked the slide.
KA-CHUNK.
The sound rolled across the yard, sharp and absolute.
“Trespassers,” Pops said, voice slow and deadly calm, Southern drawl thick as molasses, “get shot. That’s the law in this county.”
The reporters froze. The wiry one’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he looked from the barrel to Pops’ face.
“Sir, we’re press, we have a right—”
“You got the right t’ back your sorry asses off my porch,” Pops cut in. “You’re on private land harassin’ my girl. You don’t move, I call the sheriff an’ the coroner, same time. Your pick.”
Then Beau shouldered past him.
If Pops was fire, Beau was ice. No raised voice. No flailing. Just focused, terrifying rage.
