“I’ve always been wise. You’re just finally listening.”
Reinforcements had arrived. And suddenly, the mountain didn’t look quite so high.
WINNIE
Why can’t anything go right
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
10:00 AM
"I'm every woman—it's all in me."
–Whitney Houston
***
I didn’t think a Wednesday morning could go from peaceful to catastrophic in the span of a single phone call, but here we were.
I was sore. Yesterday’s riding session with Elise had been brutal. My thighs ached in places I hadn’t felt in years, and my lower back felt like I’d been thrown from a horse instead of riding one. Elise was a perfectionist—every turn scrutinized, every pocket dissected, every breath timed. But I wouldn’t complain. Regionals were fricking soon, and if anyone could get me to that podium, it was her.
I’d been sitting on the porch, coffee in hand, watching Beau fix the fence line in the distance. He’d been out there since dawn, shirt already soaked with sweat, looking like he belonged there. Looking like he’d always belonged there.
And that scared the hell out of me.
It had been a month. One month since he’d shown up useless and terrified of Pickles. One month of watching him transform from a spoiled rich kid into someone who could muck stalls without complaining, who woke up at 5 AM voluntarily, who looked at this ranch like it was salvation instead of punishment. This didn’t make sense how fast he adapted. As if he was meant for this.
One month of falling for him so hard and fast it felt like being thrown from Bandit at full gallop.
And I didn’t know if that was real or just… proximity. Convenience. The romance of someone choosing a different life. What if he woke up and realized he’d made a mistake? That he’d given up a luxurious life for dirt and early mornings and a girl who couldn’t promise him anything but hard work?
What if I was just a phase?
My phone buzzed, jolting me from my spiral. Unknown number. I answered anyway—could be a rodeo official, a vet, someone important.
“Hello?”
“Is this Ms Jameson?” A woman’s voice, crisp and professional.
“Yes, who’s calling?”
“This is Patricia Whitmore from Dallas Society Magazine. I’m working on a piece about Beau Sterling III and his… extended sabbatical in Oklahoma.” The way she said “extended sabbatical” dripped with condescension. “We’ve heard through sources that he’s been staying on your property. I was hoping to get a quote from you about his time there.”
I froze. “How did you get this number?”
“We’re journalists, Ms. Jameson. It’s what we do.” She paused, and I could hear the smile in her voice—the kind that wasn’t friendly. “Now, our readers are very curious about Mr. Sterling’s sudden departure from Dallas society. Some speculate it’s a publicity stunt. Others say he’s having a breakdown. And there are… rumors about a romantic involvement with a local woman. Would you care to comment?”
“No comment.”
“Come now, Ms. Jameson. Surely you have something to say. You’re running a cattle ranch, correct? I imagine the financial support of someone like Beau Sterling would be quite… beneficial to your operation.”
She’s insinuating I’m using him for money.
“I said no comment. Don’t call this number again.” I hung up, my hands shaking.
Elise appeared in the doorway, coffee mug in hand. “Who was that?”
“A reporter. From Dallas. Asking about Beau.” I set my phone down like it might explode. “They’re writing a story about him. About us.”
