I shrugged. “Practice. And not caring what Dallas thinks.”
She laughed—a real one this time. “Must be nice.”
As she chattered a bit about Dallas (less superior now, more wistful), I caught Beau’s eye across the table. He mouthed,Thank you.
I shrugged.She’s not so bad.
The next morning, Solene left. Not dramatically—just quietly packed her car, hugged Beau goodbye (a real one, not performative), and stopped by the kitchen where I was making coffee.
“Thanks for not being a bitch to me,” she said bluntly.
“Thanks for not being insufferable the whole time.”
She smiled. “I’m gonna figure my shit out. Maybe take a break from Dallas. Do something real for once.” She paused at the door. “I think he likes you. I’ve never seen him look at me the way he does to you.”
“Solene—”
“I’m not saying it to be nice. I’m saying it because it’s true. And because… I want that someday. Whatever you two have.” She adjusted her sunglasses. “Don’t fuck it up.”
And then she was gone.
Pops wandered in, coffee mug in hand. “Girl’s gonna be alright.”
“Yeah,” I said, watching the dust settle from her tires. “I think she will be.”
WINNIE
The prodigal daughter
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
9:00 AM
"Home isn't a place; it's the people who make you feel like you belong, no matter how far you've wandered."*
– Unknown
***
Sunday mornings on the ranch were usually sacred. It was the only time the world stood still long enough for me to hear myself think.
Pops had left before sunrise for the early service at the white-steepled church in town, taking his rattling truck and his Sunday best with him. That left me with the quiet, the dew on the grass, and the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of Bandit’s hooves hitting the dirt in the arena.
Regionals were looming like a storm cloud on the horizon. The cloverleaf pattern was burned into my retinas, a figure-eight of speed and precision that I ran in my sleep. Bandit was ready—he was lean, fast, and intuitive, anticipating the turns before I even shifted my weight. We clocked a 16.2 in the cool morning air. Solid. But not winning material.
I needed sub-16.
Because this year, it wasn’t just about the buckle or the pride. It was about the purse.
I walked Bandit to the cool-down pen, my mind doing the same exhausted math it had been doing for months. Entry fees: $350. Diesel for the trailer: $200. Vet checks, feed supplements, the new shoeing Bandit needed next week…
I rubbed my forehead, leaving a streak of dirt. I’d been moving money around like a shell game—robbing Peter to pay Paul, then robbing Paul to pay the feed store. Pops didn’t know how bad it was. He didn’t know I’d intercepted the “Final Notice” on the property taxes last week and paid it with the emergency fund I was supposed to be saving for a new roof.
If I didn’t place at Regionals, I didn’t know how we were going to make it through winter.
I pushed the panic down—a practiced skill—and headed back to the house. The guest house was empty now, the curtains open and the bed stripped. Solene had left yesterday morning—quietly, surprisingly. No drama, no tearful scene. Just a hug, some honest words, and dust settling behind her Mercedes as she headed back to Dallas to figure out her own life.
Beau had been lighter since she left. I’d caught him whistling this morning while fixing the fence, and last night at dinner, he’d actually laughed—a real one, not the careful, diplomatic chuckles he’d been giving while Solene was here.
