Pawhuska, Oklahoma
15H00
"The storm doesn't always come with thunder. Sometimes it's just the weight of what's coming." – Unknown
***
I stood there in the gravel, the truck's taillights cutting red slashes through the dusk, my thumb hovering over the screen like I could somehow rewind the last five minutes.
You'll regret this conversation.
The line was dead, but Dad’s voice still echoed in the humid air—cold, final, and laced with the kind of disappointment that usually came with a price tag. The air felt thicker now, heavy with the sharp tang of ozone and regret. My cheeks were wet. I swiped them dry with my sleeve, the denim rough against my skin.
The front door creaked. Cassie leaned halfway out, keys in hand. "Beau! You coming? Hendersons are already at the Spur. I'm not giving them the satisfaction of winning just because you turned into a flake."
Winnie’s head appeared over her shoulder, eyes finding mine in the porch light. Even from here, she could see something was off. Her smile faltered.
"You good?" she called, quieter than Cassie, like the question was just for me.
No. Not even close.
"I’m gonna sit this one out," I said, moving closer to the steps instead of the truck. "Not feeling great. You two go without me."
Cassie’s eyes narrowed. "You sick, or youSterling sick? There’s a difference."
"Headache," I lied. "Didn’t sleep great. I’ll just drag you down."
"Please, you carried us last time," she scoffed. But she clocked the look on my face, the way my hand still shook around the phone. Her voice softened. "You sure?"
"Yeah. Go win. Someone has to keep the Hendersons humble."
That got a grin out of her. "Say less." She slapped the doorframe. "Come on, Win. We'll bring your fragile city boy some fries on the way back."
Winnie hesitated on the threshold, studying me. For a second, I thought she might insist on staying. Part of me wanted her to. Wanted her here, where I could explain everything before the internet did.
But she just said, "Text me if you need anything," with a look that said she knew I wouldn’t.
Then they were gone—engine rumbling, gravel spitting, laughter drifting back on the evening air. The truck's taillights disappeared down the drive, and the ranch fell quiet.
Just me. My phone. And the article burning a hole in my pocket.
I lasted ten minutes outside before the silence got too loud. I ended up at the kitchen table with a glass of water I wasn't drinking, the phone screen bright in the dark room.
I’d read the second article three times already, but I opened it again like a masochist.
The photo from the Spur took up half the screen now—me and Winnie dancing, her face blurred just enough to make it insulting. Anyone who’d seen her once would recognize the shape of her, the hair, the laugh in her body language.
"Ranch employee."
"Shacking up."
"Pattern of using people."
"This poor girl probably has no idea what she's getting into."
They'd taken the one good thing in my life and turned it into a prop in my public humiliation.
I could picture it too clearly: someone at the Spur tonight shoving their phone in her face.Is this you?Or worse, someone in town sending it "as a joke."
