The kind where every nerve ending feels like it’s been stripped bare and set on fire, and the only thing keeping you from combusting is sheer, bone-deep willpower. Last night replayed in my head like a glitchy film reel on a loop.
Winnie’s hands fisting in my shirt. Her breath warm against my ear, smelling of tequila and lime. The way her body pressed into mine with that reckless, liquid confidence that made my brain short-circuit.
I had kissed her. Or she kissed me. Or we kissed each other. It was a blur of heat and desperation, her mouth soft and demanding, her legs wrapping around me. I had wanted her. God, I had wanted her so badly it physically hurt, an ache in my chest that had nothing to do with the manual labor.
But I’d stopped it. Pulled back. Because she was drunk, and I was... trying to be decent. Even if decency felt like a rusty chain wrapped around my ribs, squeezing until I couldn't breathe.
I’m not a religious guy—never have been, despite the fancy churches my family dragged me to for photo ops—but if there was a higher power listening, I was begging now. Save me from myself. Because one more moment like that, one more accidental brush of her fingers, and I was done for. She would be the death of me, no question. She was turning a guy like me—Mr. Dallas Nights, king of the no-strings-attached hookup—into someone who actually gave a damn about timing and feelings and all the messy human stuff I’d spent years ignoring.
And yeah, maybe it was character growth. Dad shipping me out here was supposed to be punishment, a way to knock some sense into the party boy who’d embarrassed the family one too many times. But look at me now: up before dawn without an alarm, mucking stalls like it was my vocation, fighting off roosters and worse—feelings. Real ones. The kind that stick to your ribs.
I never took advantage of anyone, especially not when they were under the influence. That was my line in the sand, even back in the city haze of clubs and bad decisions. But I’d been taken advantage of plenty—girls playing games, situations blurring into regret. Here? It was different. Cleaner. Or at least, it had been until Winnie crashed into my orbit like a comet and set everything on fire.
The afternoon sun hung heavy over the ranch, turning the air thick and golden with dust motes. Winnie was still out cold upstairs, taking her first real break in... hell, I couldn't even phantom how long. She had probably been running on adrenaline and caffeine since Nana died.
The thought twisted something in my gut. I’d been leaning on her hard these past weeks—asking questions, watching her work, soaking up her knowledge like a sponge. And for what? To prove I could hack it? To escape my own mess? She deserved more than being my unofficial tour guide through Oklahoma ranch life.
I found Pops and Elise on the porch, settled in like they’d been there since breakfast. Pops was in his old rocker, boots kicked up on the railing, a half-empty glass of iced tea sweating in his hand. Elise lounged on the swing, her phone forgotten in her lap as she stared out at the pastures with a soft, unfocused look.
The ranch hummed around us—crickets starting their early chorus, a horse nickering from the barn, the distant low of cattle in the north field. It was peaceful in a way that made Dallas feel like a fever dream.Just a month ago, I’d been dodging paparazzi and nursing hangovers in high-rises. Now? This was my reality.
"Afternoon," I said, easing into the chair across from them. My muscles ached from the morning’s work—nothing major, just the usual chores we’d knocked out while Winnie slept—but it was a good ache. Earned.
Pops tipped his head in greeting, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Beau. You look like you could use some of this." He nudged the pitcher on the side table with his boot. "Elise just refilled it. Sweet as sin."
I poured myself a glass, the ice clinking like wind chimes. "Thanks. Quiet out here today."
"Always is when Winnie’s catchin' up on sleep," Elise said, swinging gently. She had that Denver polish about her—jeans pressed just so, hair tied back with a silk scarf—but her smile was pure ranch, warm and unhurried. "First time in years she’s slept past noon. Nana used to have to drag her out of bed on school days, but these days? Girl works like the devil himself is chasin' her."
Pops chuckled, but it faded quick, his gaze drifting to the horizon. "Yeah. Works too hard, if you ask me. Been that way since she was knee-high to a grasshopper." He took a long sip, the glass leaving a ring on his jeans. His voice dropped, thick with that Oklahoma drawl that turned every word into a story. "You know, sometimes I wonder if I stole her youth, lettin' her shoulder all this. After Nana passed... well, the ranch didn't run itself. And that girl, she just stepped up. No complaints, no fussin'. Mucked stalls before homework, fixed fences on weekends when she should've been at prom or whatever kids do these days."
Elise reached over, squeezing his arm. "Dad, you didn't steal anything. You gave her a home. A purpose. Winnie’s tough because she had to be, but she’s here because she wants to be."
Pops nodded slow, like he was chewing on the words. "Maybe. But seein' her like this—sleepin' off a rough night, lookin' peaceful for once—it hits me. That first day we found her... Lord, she’ll always be that baby to me." His eyes softened, distant, like he was seeing it all over again. "Wrapped in this pink blanket on the porch steps, not a note, nothin'. Just these big ol' eyes starin' up at me, curious as a colt. Didn't cry when I picked her up—reached right for my shirt with those tiny fists, like she was sayin', 'You're it, old man.' Nana came out, took one look, and that was that. Our girl."
He paused, swirling the ice in his glass. The swing creaked as Elise leaned forward. "She was so small, Beau. Fit right in the crook of my arm. And from that moment? Changed everything. Made this place feel whole again. But growin' up... she never got to just be a kid. Not really. School plays? Nah, she was helpin' with calvin'. Sleepovers? More like midnight checks on the horses. I let her, 'cause we needed her. But now? Seein' her worn down like this... makes a man wonder if I held her back from somethin' bigger."
"You're not wrong," I said quietly, surprising myself. The words just slipped out, heavy with my own guilt. "She’s been showing me the ropes—everything from barrel turns to irrigation lines—and I keep thinking, what if she didn't have to? What if she could just... live? Travel, maybe. See the world beyond Pawhuska."
Elise shot me a look, half-amused, half-knowing. "Oh, now you're philosophizing? Careful, city boy." She turned back to Pops. "But seriously, Dad. Winnie’s not trapped. She’s chosen this. The way she lights up talking about Bandit, or planning for regionals? That’s her heart. Nana always said she was born for the dirt and the wind."
Pops grunted, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah, Nana did say that. Called her our little dust devil." He set the glass down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Remember that summer she was ten? Fixed the east pump all by herself after that storm. Came in covered head to toe in mud, grinnin' like she’d won the lottery. I was proud as punch, but... should've made her go fishin' instead. Or somethin' normal."
The conversation drifted then, easy as the breeze rustling the cottonwoods. Elise told a story about her last trip to Denver—some fancy art gallery opening where she’d schmoozed clients over wine that cost more than a month’s feed here—and Pops ribbed her about "city nonsense." I chimed in with a half-remembered tale from a Dallas gala, but it felt hollow compared to their grounded rhythm.
We talked ranch gossip: the Henderson brothers' latest tractor mishap, Cassie’s plans for a trivia night rematch. "She called earlier," Pops said. "Wants Winnie there, says they've got a score to settle. I told her we’d see."
Elise laughed. "Knowing Cassie, she’ll drag her out herself if she has to."
The sun dipped a fraction, casting long shadows across the yard. It was the kind of afternoon that stretched lazy and full. For a minute, I forgot the ache in my chest, forgot the what-ifs about Winnie. Just sat there, listening to the rhythm of real life.
Then, out of nowhere, Pickles burst from under the porch like a feathered demon on a mission.
That damn rooster—red as sin, spurs sharp as knives—locked eyes on me and charged, wings flapping like he was auditioning for a horror flick.
"SHIT!" I yelped, launching from the chair so fast it tipped backward. My glass hit the deck with a crash, iced tea splashing everywhere. Pickles was on me in seconds, screeching bloody murder, pecking at my boots like I’d personally insulted his lineage.
"Get off! Get—POPS! HELP!"
