"Focus, Winnie," I muttered, swinging back into the saddle.
Bandit's ears flicked toward me, patient as ever, his warm coat gleaming under the relentless Oklahoma sun. I nudged him into motion, the arena dirt kicking up in familiar clouds, but my turns were sloppy—wide on the first barrel, hesitant on the second. My mind kept drifting to the what-ifs.
What if his dad really was sick, and Beau was stuck in some sterile hospital waiting room, phone confiscated? What if the family drama escalated, pulling him back into that world of boardrooms and expectations? What if he'd looked at the skyline from DFW and realized he didn't belong in my dust anymore?
We finished the run at 17.5—garbage.
Regionals were nine days out, and I was a distracted mess, times slipping further every lap. Bandit deserved better. Hell,Ideserved better. But as I pulled him to a stop, sweat stinging my eyes, all I could think was how empty the ranch felt without Beau's laugh echoing from the barn, or his bad jokes at dinner, or the way he'd linger in the doorway after everyone else had gone to bed, just watching me like I was worth sticking around for.
The vibrations of a heavy engine rumbling up the drive snapped me out of it.
No—not Pops' Ford. The feed delivery truck, navy blue and dusty from the backroads, pulling in way earlier than scheduled. Tuesday deliveries were always afternoon.
I slid down, rubbing Bandit's neck in apology. "One more tomorrow, boy. Promise it'll be better."
The truck door creaked open, and out stepped Tyler.
Six feet of small-town familiarity, sandy hair tousled from the wind, that easy grin plastered on like it was permanent. He hefted a feed sack onto his shoulder with a grunt, the muscles in his arms flexing under his faded plaid shirt. Back in high school, that had been enough to make my heart skip. Now? It just reminded me of why we'd crashed and burned a decade ago: too young, too stubborn, too much like siblings who'd tried to force a spark. Usually, he wasn’t the one doing the feed run, but it seemed today was different.
"Winnie Jameson, as I live and breathe, good to see you again." He dropped the sack near the barn door, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Thought you might've forgotten about us supply folks with all that barrel racing glory."
"Tyler." I kept my tone neutral, leading Bandit into his stall and starting the post-run routine—water, brush, a handful of oats. "You're early compared to our usual driver. Everything okay with the order?"
"Yep. Just finished the Jenkins run quicker than expected." He leaned against the stall gate, eyes scanning the empty arena like he was cataloging the quiet. "No Beau today? Figured he'd be out here playing ranch hand by now."
My brush strokes faltered on Bandit's flank. "He's in Dallas. Family emergency. His dad had a heart thing."
Tyler's eyebrows climbed. "Heart scare? Damn. That's rough." He paused, the silence stretching awkward. "How long's he been gone?"
"Three days."
"Three days, and..." He trailed off, glancing at my phone on the fence post—still dark. "No calls? Texts?"
I shrugged, focusing on the currycomb like it held the secrets to the universe. "He's busy. Hospital stuff."
"I mean, I wouldn't let my girlfriend sit in the dark—"
"I'm not his girlfriend," I snapped, sharper than I meant to. "And I said he's busy."
"Busy enough not to shoot a quick 'hey, I'm alive'?" Tyler's voice was gentle, but there was an edge—concern, or something sharper. "Come on, Win. I know how these things go. Guy like that, from that world? Family pulls, and suddenly Oklahoma feels like a vacation that ended too soon."
"He's not like that." The words came out defensive, and I hated how they hung there, begging for rebuttal.
Tyler straightened, stepping into the barn proper, his boots echoing on the concrete floor. "Didn't mean it as an insult. Just... realistic. Remember the articles? 'Sterling Heir's Cowboy Charade' or whatever they called it? Guy flies in, plays the part—hauling hay, charming the locals—and thenpoof, back to Dallas when the novelty wears off."
He was close now, too close. His hand reached out to brush a sweat-damp curl from my forehead. The touch was familiar—comforting, once—but now it just felt intrusive.
"You deserve better than waiting around for someone who might not come back, Winnie. Someone who gets it. This life. The ranch. Us."
"Us?" I batted his hand away, stepping back until the stall door pressed against my spine. My heart hammered, not from him, but from the vulnerability cracking open—the fear that Tyler might be right. "Tyler, we've been over for years. Almost a decade. You can't just... show up with feed and nostalgia and think it'll rewind the clock."
His face softened, that old earnestness surfacing, the one that had made me say yes to prom when we were awkward kids dodging hay bales.
"I'm not trying to rewind. I'm sayingforward. With someone who's been here the whole time. I was an idiot back then. Young, scared of this place swallowing me whole. But I've grown up, Win. I get the long hours, the tight money, the way one bad storm can change everything. I'd do anything to have you back. Anything." His voice dropped, hand hovering like he wanted to touch me again. "I'd never leave. This is my world too. Our world. Remember the bonfires? The way we'd lie out under the stars and talk about making this ranch bigger than our folks ever dreamed?"
I did remember. The lazy summer nights, the laughter, the promises we'd whispered before reality tore us apart. It had been easy then. Safe.
But now? Now it felt like settling. Like erasing Beau's chaos for Tyler's predictability, and God, that terrified me more than the silence.
