"Brown skin girl, your skin just like pearls."
– Beyoncé
***
I’d spent the afternoon in the south pasture, wrestling with a fence line that didn’t really need fixing, but it kept my hands busy while my mind spun in circles. That conversation with Winnie—her fear that this was all too fast, too risky, too uncertain—had left me raw and restless.
I’d told her I was serious. That I wasn’t going anywhere. But I could see it in her eyes, she didn’t fully believe me yet.
And now, thanks to some vulture from a Dallas magazine, she had even more reason to doubt.
When Elise had told me at lunch more about the reporter who’d called—the one who’d implied Winnie was using me for money—I’d wanted to throw something. Hard. The audacity. The casual cruelty of it. And Winnie had just… taken it. Internalized it. Let it feed every insecurity she already had about us.
I’d tried to find her after our talk, but she’d disappeared into the barn, throwing herself into work like she could outrun her feelings. I knew that move—I’d been doing it myself for a month.
By dinner, the tension was thick enough to choke on. Pops kept shooting me concerned looks over his chili. Winnie was picking at her food like it had personally offended her. And Elise looked like she was two seconds away from locking us both in a room until we sorted our shit out.
Finally, Elise set her spoon down with a clatter.
“Alright, that’s it. I can feel the angst from here, and it’s killing my digestion.” She looked around the table. “We’re going to the Rusty Spur. All of us. Right now.”
Pops raised his eyebrows. “It’s Wednesday.”
“And? Time is a construct. Besides, after those reporter calls this morning and whatever dramatic heart-to-heart happened in the pasture, we all need a drink.” She looked at Winnie. “Especially you.”
Winnie hesitated, glancing at me quickly before looking away. “I don’t know—”
“Winnie.” Elise’s voice was gentle but firm. “You can’t control what reporters write. But you can control whether you let them ruin your night. Come out with us. Have some fun.”
Pops nodded. “She’s right. And I could use some live music.”
Winnie exhaled, finally meeting my eyes. “Fine. But if Cassie force-feeds me shots, you’re driving home, Elise.”
“Deal.”
I tried to catch Winnie’s eye as we headed out, but she was already moving toward Pops’ truck, keeping distance between us like a safety buffer. The drive to the Rusty Spur felt longer than it was. I sat in the back seat next to Winnie, hyperaware of every inch of space between us. Our knees brushed once—accidentally—and I held my breath, waiting to see if she’d pull away.
She didn’t. But she didn’t lean in either.
The bar was packed when we arrived—trucks everywhere, music spilling out into the parking lot. We pushed through the doors, and immediately Cassie’s scream cut through the noise.
“OMIGOD, ELISE!”
I watched as Cassie launched herself over the bar like an Olympic hurdler, nearly taking out a tray of beers in the process. She wrapped Elise in a bear hug that lifted her off the ground.
“Girl! When did you get back?!”
While they caught up, Pops headed to his usual booth, and Winnie and I drifted toward the bar. Cassie finally released Elise, then her sharp eyes landed on Winnie.
“Hold up. Win, you look stressed as hell. Sit. Beer first, then you tell me everything.”
We settled onto stools. Cassie slid frosty mugs across the bar, her gaze moving between me and Winnie like she was reading a crime scene.
“So?” she prompted. “What happened?”
Winnie took a long pull from her beer before answering. “Reporters called this morning. From Dallas. Asking about Beau. About… us.”
Cassie’s face went from concerned to furious. “Reporters? Like actual press?”
