We took care of the horses—unsaddling, brushing them down, making sure they had water and feed. Daisy got extra attention and a stream of whispered apologies from me for being a terrible rider who probably traumatized her with my death screams. She seemed unbothered, just happy for the carrots I kept slipping her from my pocket.
"She likes you," Winnie observed, leaning against a post and watching me fuss over the mare. "Even after you panicked, she didn't actually try to throw you. Just ran," She pointed out. "She was scared too."
"So she was trying to save us both?"
"Probably. Horses are smart like that. Or she just wanted to get away from the screaming."
"I'm sorry I doubted you, Daisy," I told the horse seriously, stroking her nose. "You're a good girl. A brave girl. We survived a rabbit together. That makes us war buddies."
"You're ridiculous," Winnie said, but she was smiling, a genuine, soft expression that made my pulse kick up.
When we finally finished and headed toward the house, Pops clapped me on the shoulder. "Go shower, both of y'all. I'll get dinner started and crack open that surprise."
"What surprise?" I asked.
"You'll see. Just don't take too long—and Beau? You did good today. Real good. Even with all the screamin'."
Something warm bloomed in my chest at his words, chasing away some of the embarrassment. "Thanks, Pops."
***
The shower was salvation incarnate.
Hot water pounded away the grime, the lingering terror, the phantom sensation of Daisy's gallop still reverberating through my bones. I let steam cloud the mirror and replayed Winnie's rescue in slow motion: not the terror, but the artistry. The way she'd closed the distance with Bandit like they were one organism, snagged those reins mid-stride without flinching, turned absolute chaos into calm control. It was the most impressive thing I'd ever witnessed, and I'd been to parties where people did backflips off buildings for Instagram.
This? This was real skill. Real bravery.
Toweling off, I caught my reflection through the clearing fog. My shoulders almost seemed broader. My skin was actually tanned instead of salon bronzed, and there was a new white scar from a fence mishap last week running along my forearm. Progress, I supposed. Evidence I was becoming something other than Dallas Party Boy Beau.
I dressed in soft jeans and a faded gray tee—no energy for anything fancier—and padded downstairs barefoot, following the siren call of butter and garlic and something that smelled suspiciously like heaven.
The kitchen hit me with warmth and aromas of sizzling shrimp, but my eyes locked immediately on the counter. There, sitting amidst the worn dish towels and mismatched mugs, was a chilled bottle of Dom Pérignon, sleek and elegant and wildly out of place.
"No fucking way," I breathed.
Pops stirred a pot without glancing up, lips quirking. "Language, son. And yes way. Figured survivin' your first real spook warranted somethin' special. Been savin' that for when Winnie wins regionals, but hell—why wait? Life's too damn short to save the good stuff for 'someday.'"
"Pops, that's... that bottle's probably two hundred bucks. Maybe more."
"Don't care what it cost." He finally looked at me, expression warm and sure. "You faced somethin' scary today. Could've quit right there in that meadow, said you were done with horses forever. But you got back up, walked home, took care of Daisy like nothin' happened. That's character, son. Worth more'n any price tag."
My throat tightened unexpectedly. In Dallas, gestures like this came loaded with strings—networking opportunities, social media moments, silent debts. Here, it was just... kindness. Recognition without agenda. I think.
"Thank you," I managed. "Really. That means a lot."
"Don't mention it. Now grab beers from the fridge—we'll start there and work our way up to the fancy stuff. Can't drink champagne on an empty stomach or you'll be singin' show tunes by dessert."
I was pulling out three Coors when light footsteps descended the stairs. Then Winnie appeared in the kitchen doorway, and my entire nervous system short-circuited.
She'd showered too—that much was obvious from the damp curls tumbling loose past her shoulders instead of her usual work braid. But it was everything else that knocked the wind out of me. Cutoff denim shorts that showed off legs built from years of riding and ranch work, all lean muscle and smooth curves that went on forever. An oversized band tee—faded Eagles tour merch from what looked like the '70s—hung loosely on her frame, one sleeve slipping off her shoulder to bare warm brown skin dusted with freckles I'd never been close enough to notice before.
She looked soft. Relaxed. Completely unaware that she'd just walked into the kitchen looking like every cowboy's wet dream.
"Staring's rude," she said lightly, padding over to grab a beer from my frozen hands.
"Just... you look nice. Different."
"It's called being clean. Revolutionary concept." But her smile was teasing, no self-consciousness at all as she twisted off the cap and took a long drink.
