Pops shook his head, swinging back onto Thunder. "Come on, heroes. Let's walk 'em back. And Beau? Keep practicing. Can't have our ranch hand falling off every time a bunny sneezes."
As we led the horses home, the adrenaline fading into a pleasant exhaustion, I glanced at Pops. He was moving easier now, color back in his cheeks. The ride had done him good—done us all good. Even Beau, who almost died, dusted off his pants with a sheepish grin.
The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the grass.
Temporary or not, moments like this? They stuck. They became the stories you told years later. And for the first time, I found myself hoping Beau would be around long enough to tell it.
BEAU
Hatless in Oklahoma
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
16h - 21h
"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you."
– Maya Angelou
****
The trek back to the barn felt like a death march through quicksand.
Every step was a fresh reminder that I, Beau Sterling—heir to a fortune that could buy small countries, a man who had successfully navigated yacht parties in Monaco and charity galas in Manhattan—had been thoroughly outmaneuvered by wildlife smaller than my shoe.
Daisy plodded along beside me, her earlier frenzy completely forgotten as she paused to nibble at roadside weeds with meditative calm. Meanwhile, I rubbed my throbbing thighs and mentally cataloged every embarrassing moment of the ride. The windmilling arms. The high-pitched yelps that had probably caused migration pattern shifts for birds in neighboring counties. The way I’d gripped that saddle horn like a drowning man clutching driftwood—all triggered by a jackrabbit that probably thought I was the real threat.
"You're brooding," Winnie observed from up front. She was sitting Bandit with an infuriatingly casual grace, matching her horse’s stride like they were out for a Sunday stroll instead of escorting home a traumatized disaster.
"Brooding implies depth," I muttered, wincing as my boot hit a rock. "This is shallow self-pity mixed with significant physical pain."
"Over a rabbit?"
"Over the fact that I was defeated by a rodent the size of a house cat. Yes." I glanced back at Pops, trailing us on Thunder, hoping for a shred of masculine sympathy. "You've seen worse, right? Please tell me this isn't my personal rock bottom."
He grinned, the lines around his eyes crinkling in the fading sunlight. "Had a fella once spook over a tumbleweed. Thought it was a rattler. Ended up tangled in barbwire, hollerin' about snakes that weren't there. Took us twenty minutes to cut him loose."
"Was he publicly shamed forever?"
"Only till lunch. Then we all laughed it off over cold beer and he never lived it down." Pops' chuckle rumbled warm and reassuring. "You'll be fine, son. Everyone takes a spill. Hell, I fell off Thunder twice before I learned to stick. Gravity always wins eventually."
I looked at the bay gelding, who seemed about as likely to bolt as a parked car. "Thunder looks like he's never moved faster than a shuffle," I said skeptically.
"Exactly. That's how bad I was."
Winnie snorted from the front. "At least you stayed on, Beau. Tumbling off counts as progress. Sort of. Like, negative progress."
"Barely stayed on. And at what cost?" I patted my head mournfully, checking for something that wasn't there. "My hat. It's out there alone, probably being judged by that same rabbit. It was a good hat. It made me feel taller."
"We'll retrieve it tomorrow before breakfast," she promised, her voice softening just a fraction. "Before the wildlife claim it as treasure. Or nesting material."
"Great. Now I'm worried about crow gangs. This ranch is a war zone."
The joke landed, but the real sting cut deeper. That hat had been my armor—the one thing making me feel like I fit into this world, even a little. That might seem superficial as hell, but that's who I am. Superficial armor is better than no armor. Without it, the wind whipped my hair into chaos, and I caught my reflection in a barn window later: just asweaty guy in rumpled clothes, no props to hide behind. Back to being the obvious outsider pretending at cowboy.
"Tell you what, son," Pops said as the barn came into view. "We get back, we'll clean up, and I'll crack open somethin' special. You survived your first real spook. That's worth celebratin'."
***
