"Head of bein' a dick, more like," I muttered.
Winnie raised an eyebrow. "Oh, so you're afraidandmouthy. This oughta be fun."
"I'm not afraid—"
"You refused to get outta the car."
"I was strategizing."
"Against a five-pound rooster."
"It's called tactical assessment!"
She laughed again, and despite the fact that she was clearly mocking me, I found myself wanting to hear that sound again. It was warm and genuine in a way I wasn't used to—nothing performed or calculated about it. Plus, it just sounded so... satisfying.
Harrison cleared his throat from behind me. "Mr. Jameson, I have the items Mr. Sterling Sr. requested I deliver." He pulled out an envelope and a sealed box from the trunk.
Pops took them with a nod. "Much obliged, Harrison. You stayin' for lunch?"
"Thank you, but no. I need to get back to Dallas before evening traffic." Harrison turned to me, and for just a second, his professional mask slipped into something that almost looked like concern. "Good luck, Mr. Sterling. Try not to... well, just try."
"Your confidence is overwhelming."
"I know, sir." He gave me a small smile, got back in the car, and drove away, taking my last connection to civilization with him.
I watched the car disappear down the drive, suddenly very aware that I was now stranded in Oklahoma with two people I barely knew, one of whom clearly thought I was a joke, and a rooster who wanted me dead.
"Well," Pops said, clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to make me stumble, "let's get you settled. Grab your bags and—" He stopped, staring at the trunk area where Harrison had been unloading my luggage. "Son, is that... how many bags did you bring?"
I looked at my three suitcases, garment bag, and toiletry case. "This? This is light. I had to leave two bags behind."
Winnie made a sound that might have been a choke or a laugh. "You brought five bags. For a ranch. Where you'll be shovelin' shit."
"I like to have options."
"Options," she repeated, looking at me like I was a particularly confusing math problem. "For shovelin' shit."
"You never know when you might need a different outfit! What if there's a... a gala? Or a barn dance? Or a sudden tornado and I need to look good for the news crew?"
"Oh my god." She turned to Pops. "He's serious. He actually thinks he's gonna need outfit changes. For manual labor."
Pops was trying not to laugh, I could tell. "Now, Winnie, be nice. City folk do things different."
"City folk do things stupid," she corrected, but she was grinning. She grabbed one of my suitcases—the heaviest one, of course—and lifted it like it weighed nothing. "Come on, princess. Let's get you to your tower."
"I'm not a princess," I protested, struggling with the other suitcase because apparently I'd packed it with rocks.
"You just tried to get outta the car and were defeated by a rooster. You're absolutely a princess."
I wanted to argue, but she was already walking toward the house, my suitcase in one hand like it was a purse, and I was too busy trying not to drop my own luggage to form a coherent comeback.
The house looked exactly like I remembered—two stories, wraparound porch, the kind of "rustic charm" that interior designers charged millions to recreate. But up close, I could see it was more worn than my memory had painted it. The porch steps had a slight sag, the paint was peeling in places, and there was a general air ofholding on by a threadthat made something twist in my chest.
This place needed work. A lot of it.
Inside was better—clean, organized, smelling like coffee and something baking. The kitchen was to the left, all warm wood and worn counters that spoke of actual use instead of just existing for photographs. The living room had furniture that looked comfortable instead of expensive, and there were photos everywhere—Winnie at various ages, always with a horse or holding a trophy, some cousins that I'd met a couple times, Pops and a woman who must have been Nana, their arms around each other.
It looked like a home. A real one. My family's houses had never looked like this.
