"I think I get it," I said, wiping grease from my fingers.
"Get what?"
"Why you love it here. It's not just the ranch. It's this. The people. The connections. The way everyone knows everyone."
She looked at me like she was seeing me for the first time. Really seeing me. "Yeah. That's exactly it."
"I've never had that. The connections I have are all... transactional. Business. Social climbing. There's nothing real about it."
"Well," she said, taking a sip of her tea, "you got time to figure out what real looks like. You're stuck here all summer."
"Yeah," I said, and realized I was smiling. "I am."
As we finished lunch and headed back to the truck—with approximately six more people stopping to say hello and introduce themselves—I caught my reflection in a store window. Pearl snap shirt. Wranglers. Boots that were made for walking, not posing. Cowboy hat tipped just right.
I looked like I belonged.
And for the first time in my life, I actually felt like maybe I could.
WINNIE
The Hendersons Brothers can suck it
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
20H30
Yeah, we got our own little world / And it's everything I need / Yeah, this small town small is just right for me"
– Jason Aldean
***
I was putting on makeup for the first time in three weeks, and it felt weird as hell.
Not bad-weird. Just... foreign. Like I was rediscovering a lost civilization on my own face. I’d gotten so used to my usual ranch routine—ponytail, chapstick, maybe some mascara if I was feeling particularly fancy or expecting a feed delivery—that actually doing a full face felt like playing dress-up.
But Cassie had texted me approximately seventeen times about trivia night, culminating in a final threat: "WEAR SOMETHING CUTE OR I'M DISOWNING YOU AND TELLING EVERYONE ABOUT YOUR EMO PHASE."
So here I was, standing in front of my bathroom mirror at 6 PM on a Thursday, applying eyeliner with a hand that was steadier with a branding iron than a liquid liner wand.
I finished my makeup—mascara, a bit of blush to hide the exhaustion, and a neutral lipstick that Cassie had bought me last Christmas—and assessed the damage. Not bad. I actually looked like I’d made an effort instead of just rolling out of a hayloft.
My closet was about ninety percent work clothes and one percent "things Cassie forced me to buy against my will." I pushed past theflannel shirts and grabbed a denim dress I’d forgotten I owned—fitted, hitting mid-thigh, with a belt that cinched my waist. I threw on my good boots (the ones without mud permanently caked into the seams) and my brown leather jacket.
One last look in the mirror. Hair down in natural curls, actual makeup, a dress that proved I possessed legs.
Cassie was going to lose her mind.
I heard a knock downstairs—Beau’s room door opening—and his footsteps heading down the hall. I grabbed my bag, took a breath to center myself, and headed down after him.
He was in the kitchen with Pops, wearing dark jeans, a green pearl snap shirt, and that damn black cowboy hat. He’d actually started to tan from all the outdoor work, and the slight sunburn across his nose had faded into something that looked intentional instead of accidental.
He looked up when I came in, and his eyes went wide. His mouth opened, then closed.
"Holy shit," he said.
"Language," Pops said mildly from behind his newspaper.
