I had spent the entire day systematically dismantling Winnie Jameson’s composure, and I have to admit: it was the most fun I’d had in years.
More than fun—it was addictive. Like a drug I didn't know I was craving until the first hit. Watching her fumble with a simple gate latch because I was standing too close, my heat radiating into her space. Seeing the way her breath hitched, sharp and audible, when I leaned in to grab a bridle, my chest brushing her arm just enough to send a shiver through her. Witnessing that specific, lovely shade of red bloom across her cheeks when I dropped my voice an octave, right against her ear, just to ask where the feed bags were.
She hadn't expected it. She was used to the Beau who complained about rooster attacks and sore muscles, the city boy playing dress-up. She wasn't ready for the Beau who remembered exactly how to use his charm like a weapon—precision-calibrated to devastating effect.
But something had clicked yesterday on that porch. A switch had flipped. I was done apologizing for being a Sterling, and I was done pretending I was just a hapless ranch hand. I could be both: the guy who worked until his hands bled and the guy who knew exactly how to look at a woman to make her knees weak.
And Winnie? She liked it.
She hated that she liked it, which only made it better. I saw the way her pupils blew wide, swallowing the brown, when I invaded her personal space. I saw the way her gaze dropped to my mouth when she thought I wasn't looking, hungry and terrified all at once.
God, she was beautiful. Not in the polished, manufactured way of the Dallas socialites I was used to—all filler and filters—but in a raw, striking way. Sweat-damp curls, sun-flushed skin, eyes that flashed fire when she was challenged.
I wasn't kidding when I told her I wanted a taste. I wanted to know if those lips—always coated in cherry chapstick—tasted as sweet as they looked. I wanted to know if she was the type to be quiet, biting her lip to hold it back, or if she would make those little hitching gasps I’d heard when she was frustrated, only this time for a very different reason. Based on the way she’d reacted today? My money was on the gasps. Maybe even whimpers if I was being honest. I wanted to wreck her composure until she forgot everything but my name.
Just thinking about it made my jeans feel uncomfortably tight. Again.
We’d skipped trivia night. Thursday had been too heavy after the Phoenix incident and the loaded silence in the barn. Winnie had disappeared into her room right after dinner, claiming exhaustion, and I’d let her go. Pushing her then would have been a mistake—too fast, too aggressive. It would have broken the fragile thing growing between us. I knew when to advance and when to hold the line.
But now it was Friday evening. Chores were done. The sun was dipping low, casting long, bruised shadows across the yard. I was heading upstairs to scrub the day off my skin, fantasizing about cold water, when I spotted Pops in the hallway.
He looked different. He was wearing a pressed button-down shirt tucked into clean, dark jeans, and he’d swapped his scuffed work boots for a pair of polished dress boots I’d never seen him wear. He was holding his truck keys, staring at the door like he was building up the resolve to open it. His shoulders, usually squared against the world, were slumped.
Every Friday night, he went somewhere. I’d noticed the pattern weeks ago but never asked. I figured it was a poker game, or maybe a town council meeting where they complained about property taxes. But tonight, looking at the set of his jaw, I knew it wasn't anything that casual.
Maybe it was the bravery I’d found in the barn yesterday, or maybe it was just that Pops had become the father figure I’d always wanted but never had—a man who actually saw me—but I stopped him.
"Hey, Pops. Heading out?"
He paused, turning to look at me with that assessing gaze that saw too much. Then he smiled—a small, sad thing that didn't reach his eyes. "Cemetery. Going to visit Nana. I go every Friday."
Oh.
The realization hit me in the chest, heavy and sudden. "Every Friday? For ten years?"
"Rain or shine." He jingled the keys, a nervous tic I hadn't noticed before. "It’s... it’s just my time with her. Fill her in on the week. Tell her about the cows. Probably seems silly to talk to a stone."
"No. No, it doesn't seem silly at all."
I hesitated. I shouldn't intrude. This was his grief, his ritual, private and sacred. But I remembered the woman from my childhood summers—warm hands that always found mine, a laugh that shook the kitchen, the way she’d made a lonely kid feel like he belonged when his own parents treated him like an accessory.
"Could I come with you?" I asked, the words out before I could overthink them.
Pops’ eyebrows rose, surprise flickering across his face. "You want to go to a graveyard on a Friday night? Instead of chasing trouble?"
"Yeah. I mean, if that's okay. I remember her. Those summers... she was always really good to me. Made me feel welcome when I was just a scared city kid who didn't belong." I swallowed, the memory sharp. "I’d like to pay my respects."
Something shifted in Pops’ expression. The sadness didn't leave, but it warmed, softening the edges of his grief. "She’d like that, son. She liked you. Always said you had a good heart, even if it was buried under expensive shirts." He nodded at the door. "Come on, then. We’ll take the truck."
The cemetery was about fifteen minutes outside of town, perched on a gentle rise overlooking a patchwork of farmland that stretched toward the horizon. The evening light was doing that magic trick it does in Oklahoma—painting everything in shades of spun gold and burnt orange, making the world look soft. It was peaceful. Quiet.
Pops drove in silence, an old Willie Nelson tape playing low on the radio. I didn't try to fill the air with small talk. I just watched the landscape roll by and let the memories surface.
Nana. I remembered the smell of cinnamon and yeast that always clung to her apron. I remembered her teaching me and Winnie how to catch fireflies without crushing them. I remembered the time I scraped my knee falling off a fence, sobbing like I was dying, and she’d just sat me down and said, "Being brave doesn't mean you aren't scared, Beau. It means you saddle up anyway."
I’d forgotten that. I’d forgotten her. I’d forgotten how much those summers had shaped me until I came back and felt the pieces clicking into place.
Pops parked near a sprawling oak tree, its branches casting long shadows over the grass. We walked to a simple granite headstone. There were fresh flowers in the vase—he must have replaced them every week.
