Z tried to reach me. Multiple times. Finally, I answered.
"Jesus Christ, Beau. Your dad is losing his mind. He's got lawyers looking into your trust, trying to find ways to force you back. He's threatening to—" Z stopped. "Why did you do it? Why now?"
"Because I finally figured out what I was so afraid of losing. And it wasn't the money."
Silence. Then, quieter: "The ranch girl?"
"Her name's Winnie. And yeah. Her. But also... me. The version of me I actually like."
"Your dad's going to make this hell for you."
"Let him. I'm done caring what he thinks." I paused. "Z, I know you work for him. And I'm not asking you to choose sides. But if he asks you where I'm going—"
"I don't know where you're going," Z interrupted firmly. "As far as I'm concerned, you disappeared. Took a sudden vacation. Could be anywhere."
"Thanks."
"Yeah, well. For what it's worth? I think you're either the bravest guy I know or the dumbest. Maybe both." He laughed. "Good luck, man. I hope she's worth it."
"She is."
By Thursday afternoon, a week after I'd walked out of that boardroom, I'd liquidated everything, signed the final documents, and confirmed that my $200,000 was sitting safely in an account my father couldn't touch. It wasn't millions. But it was mine. And it was enough.
I threw my single duffel bag—jeans, work shirts, the black Stetson that Winnie had given me, and nothing else that mattered—into the truck bed.
Then I pointed myself toward Oklahoma.
Toward home.
BEAU
Shotgun
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
Present Day, Thursday Afternoon, 17H00
"Coming home isn't about the place—it's about the people who make you brave enough to stay."
– Unknown
***
Standing in Winnie's living room felt surreal—like I'd stepped through a portal from one life into another, except this time I wasn't leaving. The space was exactly as I remembered, worn couch with the blanket Nana had crocheted draped over the back, family photos covering every available surface, the faint smell of coffee and leather and home that no Dallas penthouse could ever replicate. Pops was on the couch, walker positioned within reach, watching me with an expression that managed to be both welcoming and vaguely threatening—the universal grandfather look that said, I'm glad you're here but I've still got that shotgun if you mess this up.
Winnie stood five feet away, arms crossed over her chest, defensive posture that broke my heart because I'd put it there. She looked exhausted—shadows under her eyes, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, wearing an old ranch t-shirt that had a small tear near the hem. Beautiful. Guarded. Waiting for me to either save this or destroy it completely.
"So," she said, voice carefully neutral. "You drove from Dallas. In the middle of the week. With one bag." Her eyes flicked to the duffel still slung over my shoulder. "That's... unexpected."
"Yeah." I set the bag down slowly, like making sudden movements might spook her. "I know I owe you an explanation. A real one, not the half-formed mess I gave you at regionals."
"You told me you loved me." She said it flatly, like reading from a script. "Then you hesitated when I asked you to choose. Then you disappeared for two weeks. So yeah, an explanation would be great."
Pops shifted on the couch, his weathered face thoughtful. "Boy, you look like hell. When's the last time you slept?"
"Tuesday, I think? Maybe Monday." I ran a hand through my hair, aware I probably looked like I'd been living in my truck—which wasn't far from the truth. "It's been a long week."
"That makes two of us," Winnie muttered, then louder, "Why are you here, Beau? Really. Because if you came to say goodbye properly, or to tell me you took your dad's deal and just wanted to check in before you disappear into Dallas society, I'd rather you just rip the band-aid off now."
