Pops nodded once, decisive. “Boy’s right,” he said. “World wants t’ come knockin’, fine. We just make sure they see more’n whatever bullshit they dug outta some file. They’re gonna see a Jameson. My girl. Standin’ on her own two feet.”
“And if it gets bad?” I asked, throat tight.
Beau didn’t look away. “Then it gets bad,” he said, simple. “And I stay. I’m not runnin’ back to Dallas and leavin’ you to eat this alone. He can cut me off. He can take the money. He doesn’t get to takeme.”
Pops snorted, something like pride in it. “If he tries showin’ his face out here givin’ you trouble, I’ll have a real good talk with him ‘bout that trespass law.”
Despite everything, a shaky laugh slipped out of me.
I leaned my forehead against Beau’s, breathing in sweat, soap, gun oil, and adrenaline, with the faintest whiff of coffee from Pops behind us. The world had finally found its way up our long dirt road. It knew my name now. Both of them.
But with Beau’s hands on my cheeks and Pops’ solid weight warm at my side, one thing cut through the fear:
They weren’t taking me on alone.
.
BEAU
The summer I hated
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
9:45 AM
"The tightest chains are the ones forged from love and obligation." – Unknown
***
One week had passed since the reporters invaded the ranch, and I still couldn't shake the image of Winnie's face. Terror flickering in her eyes, hands raised defensively, tears streaming down her cheeks as those vultures circled her with cameras and invasive questions.
My fault. All of it.
I'd brought this poison into her world. I had contaminated the one place she felt safe, dragged her into a spotlight she'd never asked for. And no amount of fence-mending, legal research, or middle-of-the-night promises could scrub that stain away.
I'd thrown myself into work with an intensity that bordered on obsessive. Mornings were spent alongside Pops—hauling fifty-pound feed sacks until my shoulders burned, checking cattle in the far pastures, repairing storm damage on the north fence line where lightning had split a post clean in half. The physical labor grounded me, gave my hands something productive to do while my mind spiraled through worst-case scenarios.
Afternoons, I disappeared into my room with my laptop, poring over Oklahoma trespassing laws, harassment statutes, and privacy violation precedents. I'd bookmarked cases, called Z twice for legal advice, and even reached out to a media attorney in Tulsa who specialized in defamation. Anything that might give us ammunition if those bastards came back.
And they would come back. I knew that. Dad wouldn't let this die quietly. He'd turn up the heat until I cracked.
At night, I'd stumble into Winnie's room, exhausted but too wired to sleep alone, needing to feel her solid and real beneath my hands. I needed to remind myself why I was fighting this uphill battle. She'd hold me without questions, her fingers carding through my hair, whispering reassurances I didn't deserve—It's not your fault, we'll figure it out, I'm not going anywhere. Then I'd collapse beside her, arm draped protectively over her waist even in sleep, like I could shield her from the world if I just held on tight enough.
But we hadn't talked. Not really.
Not about what the reporters had said. Not about her adoption being weaponized as tabloid bait. Not about the growing distance I could feel widening between us even when I was right beside her. I was trying to fix it—trying to be the solution instead of the problem—but I didn't know if fixing was even possible anymore.
How do you repair something you're actively breaking just by existing in it?
This morning at breakfast, I'd kissed her forehead, my hand gentle as I brushed back the curls that had escaped her ponytail, tucking them behind her ear with a tenderness that felt like an apology. She'd looked up at me with those warm brown eyes, concern etched in the fine lines around her mouth, and I'd wanted to spill everything—the fear clawing at my chest, the guilt eating me alive, the suffocating weight of knowing I was the reason her peaceful life was falling apart.
But I didn't. Instead, I'd forced what I hoped was a reassuring smile. "I'll be out in the south pasture checking on the heifers. Be back by lunch?"
"Yeah. Be careful," she'd replied, her voice soft, trusting. Like she believed I could actually protect her from what was coming.
I didn't deserve that trust.
Now, I was trudging through the south pasture, boots squelching in the damp earth from last night's rain, mud caking the soles and weighing down each step. The heifers grazed peacefully under the late morning sun, their tails swishing at flies, utterly unbothered by human drama. Their calm was a stark contrast to the storm brewing in my head.
