Pops just howled with laughter, slapping his knee. "Aw, he’s just sayin' howdy! Run him off toward the barn!"
Elise was doubled over on the swing, tears streaming. "Oh my God, Beau! Faster! He’s gaining!"
I bolted down the steps, arms windmilling, heart hammering like I’d sprinted a mile. Pickles matched every stride, a blur of fury nipping at my heels. I vaulted the low fence into the yard, nearly face-planting in the dirt, and finally shook him when he got distracted by a grasshopper. Collapsing against the barn wall, I gasped for air, my shirt torn at the hem, a fresh scratch burning on my calf.
"That... bird... is Satan's familiar," I panted, glaring back at the porch where Pops and Elise were still cracking up.
"Welcome to ranch life, son," Pops called, wiping his eyes. "You’ll get used to it."
Like hell I would.
***
Later, after patching up the scratch and showering off the rooster apocalypse, I retreated to my room. The space felt smaller today—cozy, yeah, but closing in with the weight of unspoken things. Winnie was probably stirring by now, but I needed a minute. Just one.
I flopped onto the bed, grabbed my phone to kill time. That’s when the notification hit, a tag from some gossip account I’d never followed. My thumb hovered, then tapped.
The photo loaded first—the ranch sprawled out under a blue sky, me in the foreground hauling hay bales, looking every bit the reluctant cowboy. Innocent enough. It had even pulled my Insta post I made a month ago.
But the caption?
"Dallas King Goes Country: Beau Sterling's 'Exile' to Oklahoma Ranch Exposed. From Penthouse Parties to Pasture Dust—What's the Heir Hiding?"
My stomach plummeted. The article spilled out below: old photos of me at clubs, speculation about Dad’s empire crumbling without his "prodigal son," hints at scandals I’d buried deep. They’d dug up the ranch’s location, cross-referenced my socials, even speculated about "local entanglements" with blurry shots from the Rusty Spur.
Winnie’s face was there. Pixelated, but unmistakable. Dancing under the bar lights, smiling up at me.
Someone had doxed us. All of us.
Comments flooded in: theories about rehab stints, bad investments, a "mysterious ranch girl" who might be my "downfall." One user had already geotagged the property.
This wasn't just exposure. This was invasion. And if the vultures descended—reporters, trolls, my old "friends" sniffing for drama—Winnie’s quiet world would shatter.
My phone buzzed again:Dad.
Article's out. Call me. Now.
I tossed it aside, staring at the ceiling as dread coiled tight in my gut. One month of peace, and it was crumbling. How long before she saw it? Before everything I’d started to build here turned to ash?
Not long enough
BEAU
When Dallas calls back
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
15H00
"I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life."
– F. Scott Fitzgerald
***
The nap was a mistake.
It left me groggy and raw, like my subconscious had spent the hour replaying every worst-case scenario on a loop. I woke to my phone vibrating against the nightstand like an angry hornet trapped in a jar—insistent, relentless.
