The airport swallowed me whole—fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the murmur of announcements, the shuffle of tired travelers. I checked in quickly, moved through security with mechanical efficiency, and found my gate.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Winnie:Already planning the victory party for when you get back. Don't screw it up.
I smiled, typing back.
Me:Wouldn't dream of it. Be good.
Winnie:Never.
Boarding started, and I settled into my window seat, the duffel stowed above me. The plane filled around me—harried business types, a familywith a fussy toddler, an elderly couple sharing headphones. Normal. Uncomplicated. The kind of life I'd left behind.
As the engines whined to life and we taxied, I pressed my forehead to the cool glass, watching the tarmac blur. Oklahoma shrank below us, a patchwork of greens and browns. The ranch was too small to see, but vivid in my mind—Winnie in the arena, curls flying; Pops clapping my shoulder.
Guilt twisted sharper. Dad. The heart scare. Z's voice on speaker in the truck—he's asking for you—had hit like a gut punch. Despite everything—the control, the expectations, the way he'd shaped my life into something that never fit—I didn't want him to die. Not like this.
But the other fear, the one that kept me staring out the window as we climbed, was Dallas itself. The pull of it. The gravity. Mom's tired voice on the phone days ago, weaving guilt and legacy into a noose.Come home.
What if two days turned into a week? What if they made me choose? What if I couldn't say no?
The flight dragged—an hour that felt like three. Turbulence bumped us once, hard enough to make the seatbelt sign ping, and I gripped the armrest, my mind flashing to Winnie's truck, the way she'd squeezed my thigh on those backroads drives.
I wanted to be back there. With her. Screw Dallas.
But then the pilot's voice crackled."Ladies and gentlemen, we'll be touching down at DFW in five minutes."
And reality crashed back.
The landing was smooth, the cabin erupting in scattered applause. I grabbed my bag, weaving through the deplaning crowd, the air thick with recycled chill and the faint tang of jet fuel. Baggage claim was a zoo, but I didn't have much to wait for. Just the duffel. Then out to arrivals, scanning the faces for—
Harrison.
He was impossible to miss. Tall, broad-shouldered, impeccably dressed in a crisp white shirt and slacks, his salt-and-pepper hair trimmed sharp as ever. Dad's driver, assistant, and right-hand man for the past fifteen years. He stood by the curb beside a gleaming black Mercedes sedan, holding a small cardboard sign with my name on it like I was some VIP client.
When his eyes locked on me, they widened—genuine surprise flickering across his usually impassive face. He straightened, lowering the sign, and for a second, he just stared.
"Beau?" He blinked, then broke into a real smile. "Damn, son. Look at you. You've... grown up."
I glanced down at myself—faded Levi's, scuffed work boots, a plain black t-shirt that hugged my shoulders a little tighter now from months of hauling feed. My skin was tanned, my jaw shadowed with stubble, the Stetson I'd grabbed at the last minute perched on my head.
"Oklahoma roughs you up a bit," I said, shaking his hand—firm, like Pops had taught me. "Good to see you, Harrison. How's Dad? Really. Is he awake? Talking?"
"He's stable. Resting. Your mother's with him now." Harrison's tone was calm, professional, but his eyes flicked over me again, appraising. "You look good, Beau. Strong. Different."
"Different how?"
He hesitated, then shrugged. "Like you've got dirt under your nails that ain't comin' off. In a good way." He opened the back door of the Mercedes, gesturing me in. "Let's get you there. Traffic's light this time of morning."
I slid into the cool leather seat, the familiar scent of leather polish and Harrison's aftershave wrapping around me like an old coat—comforting and claustrophobic all at once. The duffel went at my feet, and Harrison pulled away from the curb, merging into the flow of Dallas traffic. Skyscrapers loomed ahead, all glass and steel, reflecting the rising sun in blinding shards. Home. The word tasted sour.
"So," I said, leaning forward to catch his eye in the rearview. "How bad is it? Z said stress-related, but... what triggered it? The article? The board?"
Harrison's grip tightened on the wheel, subtle but there. "Your father's a high-strung man, Beau. The article was... a catalyst. Investors pulling out, board meetings getting heated. But he's tough. Doctor says rest, medication, and he'll be fine. Long as he listens."
"Listens to what? His heart?" I snorted, but it fell flat.
Harrison didn't laugh. "To reason, son. To family."
