The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
"Then the offer expires," Dad said quietly. "The accounts stay frozen. The trust stays locked. And Jameson Ranch continues its slow collapse toward foreclosure while you watch, knowing you could have prevented it."
It wasn't a choice. It was extortion, wrapped in paternal concern.
I looked at Z, head bowed. I looked at Mom, her concerned expression hiding the calculation. I looked at the folder full of Winnie's secrets.
"I need..." The words stuck in my throat. "I need to think."
"Of course," Dad said smoothly. "Take the weekend. But Beau... this is a limited-time offer. Decisions need to be made."
I stood there, trapped in the study of a house I'd always hated, caught between the life I'd left and the one I'd started to build.
Save the ranch. Save Winnie and Pops. Lose myself.
Or walk away and watch everything they'd worked for crumble.
The cage door was closing. And I didn't know if I had the strength to pry it open.
WINNIE
Second chance
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
14H47
"Silence isn't empty; it's full of answers you don't want to hear." – Unknown
***
Three days.
Seventy-two hours, fourteen minutes, and counting since I'd kissed Beau goodbye at Tulsa International. His Stetson had cast a shadow over those blue eyes that had looked at me like I was the only anchor he had left in a storm.
Two days, tops,he'd promised, his thumb brushing my cheek, voice rough with the kind of honesty that had started to feel like home.I'll call when I land. Then every day until I'm back.
The first call never came. Neither did the texts.
My phone screen stared back at me from the arena fence post—blank, accusatory, the battery icon mocking my dwindling hope with its full charge.
I'd been careful not to spam him. Not wanting to seem desperate, clingy, like one of those girls in Cassie's rom-coms who blow up a guy's phone until he blocks her. Just... reasonable check-ins. Gentle nudges.
Saturday, 8:32 PM:Landed safe? Hope your dad's doing better. Thinking of you.
Sunday, 7:14 PM:Quiet day here. Bandit and I ran the pattern twice—hit 16.8. Miss your commentary. Call when you can?
Monday, 6:45 AM:Weird not seeing you at breakfast. Everything okay?
Tuesday, 9:22 AM:This silence is killing me, Beau. Text back. Please.
Delivered. All of them.
No reads. No responses.
He'd turned the read receipts off, or his phone was smashed, or—worst case—he'd silenced me specifically. And Beau Sterling, with his endless Dallas connections and that fancy phone he'd probably replaced a dozen times, wasn't the type to let something like that slide. He was honest. Brutally so. He'd told me about his screwups, his family pressures, the way Dallas clawed at him like quicksand. He wouldn't ghost without a reason.
Something was wrong. Or he was gone for good.
