Wednesday morning had dawned clear and brutal—Oklahoma heat settling in early, the kind that made the air shimmer over the arena dirt. I'd pushed through chores with methodical precision: mucked stalls, hauled water to the far pasture troughs, patched a section of fence where the wire had started to sag. I kept my hands busy so my mind couldn't wander to Dallas, to hospital waiting rooms, to all the reasons Beau might've decided Oklahoma wasn't worth the fight.
By afternoon, I was in Nana's old garden plot behind the house—her sanctuary of wildflowers and stubborn tomato plants. I knelt in the dirt, yanking weeds with more force than necessary, dirt caking under my nails, sweat dripping down my spine.
Pops had mentioned fixing the irrigation pump in the south barn earlier—something about a leak he'd noticed during his morning rounds. I'd offered to help, but he'd waved me off with that trademark Jameson stubbornness.Got it handled, kiddo. You focus on regionals.
I should've pushed harder. Should've insisted.
The scream split the afternoon like lightning.
Raw, guttural, unmistakably wrong. Not a shout of frustration or a curse at stubborn equipment. Pain. Pure, unfiltered pain.
My body moved before my brain caught up. Garden tools clattered forgotten as I sprinted toward the old hay barn, boots pounding dirt, lungs burning.Pops.That was Pops.
The barn door hung open, sunlight cutting harsh angles through gaps in the weathered roof, dust motes swirling lazy and oblivious. And there, crumpled at the base of the loft ladder like a broken marionette, was my grandfather.
"Pops!"
His name tore out of me as I skidded to my knees beside him, hands hovering uselessly. He was on his side, one leg twisted at an angle that made my stomach lurch. His face was drained to an ashy gray that looked wrong, so wrong against his usual weathered tan. Sweat beaded his forehead, jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping.
"Fell." The word came out strangled, forced through shallow breaths. His fingers clawed at the concrete floor like he'd tried to lever himself up and failed. "Knee... gave out. Halfway down the ladder." His eyes—usually sharp and teasing—were glassy with shock. "Heard it pop, Win. Felt something tear. Can't... can't put weight on it."
His left leg. The one with the old surgery, the replacement he'd gotten two years ago after decades of wear, the limp he'd been hiding behind jokes about "weather in these old bones."
Blood seeped through his jeans just above the knee, a dark stain spreading like spilled ink, and the joint itself was already swelling—angry, immediate, grotesque.
"Okay. It's okay, Pops, just—don't move. Don't try to get up." My voice shook despite my desperate attempt at calm. Assess. Act. Don't panic. I fumbled my phone from my pocket, nearly dropping it, thumbs clumsy as I dialed 911.
"Winnie—" His hand shot out, gripping my wrist with surprising strength. "The pump. Still needs fixing before the cattle—"
"Fuck the pump!" The words exploded out, sharp enough to make him flinch, and I immediately hated myself for it. I never swore at Pops. Never raised my voice. But terror had claws. "You're bleeding. Your leg's—Jesus, Pops, the pump doesn't matter. You matter. Just stay still."
The line clicked.911, what's your emergency?
"My grandfather fell in our barn. He's conscious but can't stand—left leg injury, severe swelling, bleeding through his jeans. Jameson Ranch, 4782 County Road 19, Pawhuska." The words tumbled out mechanical, detached.
Ambulance dispatched. ETA ten to twelve minutes. Keep him still and warm. Any signs of shock—pale skin, rapid pulse, confusion?
I pressed my fingers to his wrist, feeling his pulse hammer erratic and too fast against my touch. His skin was clammy, cold despite the heat. "Yes. All of it."
Elevate his uninjured leg if possible, cover him to maintain body temperature, keep him talking. Help is on the way.
Ten to twelve minutes. An eternity.
I grabbed a horse blanket from the rack by the stalls, shaking off hay dust before draping it over Pops' torso. I shifted a hay bale under his right leg, elevating it slightly, my hands shaking so hard I nearly dropped it.
"Stay with me, old man." I knelt beside him again, gripping his hand—callused, familiar. "Tell me about Nana. The state finals in '78. You always said she wiped the floor with every guy there."
His lips twitched into something almost resembling a smile. "Beat 'em by... four seconds. They couldn't believe... a woman." His breath hitched, face contorting. "She was... hell on horseback. Like watching lightning... bottled."
"Yeah. She was." My throat burned, but I forced the words through. "And you taught me everything she knew. I'm gonna make her proud at regionals, Pops. Gonna run a sixteen-four. Maybe better."
"You already... did, kiddo." His eyes locked on mine—watery, fierce, full of a pride that cracked something in my chest. "Proudest day... seeing you break that record. She'd have been... screaming her fool head off."
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder. I wanted to collapse into the relief of it, but the sight of his leg—twisted, swollen, blood-soaked—kept me rigid.
The paramedics burst through the door like a SWAT team, hauling equipment with practiced efficiency. They descended on Pops with questions I barely processed. The woman—name tag readMartinez—spoke in that calm, clinical tone.
"Likely a severe ligament tear, possibly a fracture. We're transporting to Saint Francis in Tulsa—trauma center with orthopedic specialists." She looked at me. "You riding with us?"
