BEAU
Welcome to hell
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
The devil went down to Georgia, he was lookin' for a soul to steal / He was in a bind 'cause he was way behind and he was willin' to make a deal - Charlie Daniels Band
***
The rooster looked terrifying.
I didn't know its name yet. What I did know was that the demon bird currently blocking my exit from Harrison's town car had eyes like tiny black marbles of pure hatred and a stance that screamed fuck around and find out.
"Mr. Sterling?" Harrison's voice held barely suppressed amusement. "Would you like me to... handle the poultry situation?"
"No," I said, not moving from my seat, still staring at the rooster through the window. "I just need a minute to mentally prepare."
"For a chicken, sir?"
"That is not a chicken. That's a velociraptor in a feather suit. Look at his spurs! He's armed!"
The rooster tilted his head and made a sound that can only be described as demonic gargling. Then he pecked at the car tire like he was personally offended by its existence.
This was fine. Everything was fine. I was Beau Sterling. I'd survived Dallas society, my father's disappointment, and that one time I accidentally crashed a diplomat's party thinking it was someone's birthday. I could handle one fucking bird.
I opened the car door.
The demon fucking charged.
I slammed the door shut so fast I nearly caught my fingers in it. "Nope. No. Absolutely not. Harrison, we're going back to Dallas. Turn the car around."
"Your father was quite clear about—"
"I don't care what my father said. That thing wants to murder me. Look at it! It tastes fear!"
The rooster was now strutting around the car like a prison yard enforcer, occasionally stopping to peck at the ground in what I could only assume was a show of dominance.
"Mr. Sterling," Harrison said in that patient tone he'd perfected over years of dealing with my bullshit, "it's a rooster. You're six-foot-two. I believe you can manage."
"Size means nothing to psychopaths, Harrison."
That's when I heard the laugh.
It wasn't a polite chuckle or even a hidden snicker. It was a full-throated, belly-deep laugh that echoed across the yard and made several nearby chickens scatter. I looked toward the porch where Pops was standing, and next to him—
Holy shit.
Standing next to Pops was a woman who made my brain temporarily forget about the murder rooster.
She was tall, probably five-seven or five-eight in her boots, with dark skin that glowed in the afternoon sun like she'd been personally blessed by whatever deity was in charge of making people devastatingly attractive.
Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was wearing a tank top and jeans that were clearly work clothes but somehow looked better than anything I'd ever seen on a runway.
But it was her expression that really got me. She wasn't just laughing—she was laughing at me. Her eyes were bright with amusement, her smile was sharp enough to cut, and everything about her body language screamed I know exactly who you are and I'm not impressed.
This had to be Winnie.
Fuck.
"Pickles, get your ass over here!" she called, and to my absolute horror, the rooster immediately trotted over to her like a well-trained dog.
She bent down and scooped him up, tucking him under her arm like he was a fuzzy pet instead of a feathered terrorist. "Sorry 'bout that.
He's protective of the driveway. Thinks it's his territory. "
I climbed out of the car, trying to salvage what was left of my dignity. "Right. Protective. Not homicidal."
Her smile got sharper. "You must be Beau."
"Must be," I said, flashing the smile that usually worked on everyone. "And you must be Winnie. Wow, you look—"
"Different from when we were twelve?" She set Pickles down, and the bastard immediately went back to glaring at me. "Yeah, puberty'll do that to ya."
Direct hit. I felt my cheeks heat up, which never happened. I didn't blush. I made other people blush.
Pops came down the porch steps, still grinning like this was the best entertainment he'd had in months. "I see you've met Pickles. He's Winnie's head of security."
"Head of bein' a dick, more like," I muttered.
Winnie raised an eyebrow. "Oh, so you're afraid and mouthy. This oughta be fun."
"I'm not afraid—"
"You refused to get outta the car."
"I was strategizing."
"Against a five-pound rooster."
"It's called tactical assessment!"
She laughed again, and despite the fact that she was clearly mocking me, I found myself wanting to hear that sound again. It was warm and genuine in a way I wasn't used to—nothing performed or calculated about it. Plus, it just sounded so... satisfying.
Harrison cleared his throat from behind me. "Mr. Jameson, I have the items Mr. Sterling Sr. requested I deliver." He pulled out an envelope and a sealed box from the trunk.
Pops took them with a nod. "Much obliged, Harrison. You stayin' for lunch?"
"Thank you, but no. I need to get back to Dallas before evening traffic." Harrison turned to me, and for just a second, his professional mask slipped into something that almost looked like concern. "Good luck, Mr. Sterling. Try not to... well, just try."
"Your confidence is overwhelming."
"I know, sir." He gave me a small smile, got back in the car, and drove away, taking my last connection to civilization with him.
I watched the car disappear down the drive, suddenly very aware that I was now stranded in Oklahoma with two people I barely knew, one of whom clearly thought I was a joke, and a rooster who wanted me dead.
"Well," Pops said, clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to make me stumble, "let's get you settled. Grab your bags and—" He stopped, staring at the trunk area where Harrison had been unloading my luggage. "Son, is that... how many bags did you bring?"
I looked at my three suitcases, garment bag, and toiletry case. "This? This is light. I had to leave two bags behind."
Winnie made a sound that might have been a choke or a laugh. "You brought five bags. For a ranch. Where you'll be shovelin' shit."
"I like to have options."
"Options," she repeated, looking at me like I was a particularly confusing math problem. "For shovelin' shit."
"You never know when you might need a different outfit! What if there's a... a gala? Or a barn dance? Or a sudden tornado and I need to look good for the news crew?"
"Oh my god." She turned to Pops. "He's serious. He actually thinks he's gonna need outfit changes. For manual labor."
Pops was trying not to laugh, I could tell. "Now, Winnie, be nice. City folk do things different."
"City folk do things stupid," she corrected, but she was grinning. She grabbed one of my suitcases—the heaviest one, of course—and lifted it like it weighed nothing. "Come on, princess. Let's get you to your tower."
"I'm not a princess," I protested, struggling with the other suitcase because apparently I'd packed it with rocks.
"You just tried to get outta the car and were defeated by a rooster. You're absolutely a princess."
I wanted to argue, but she was already walking toward the house, my suitcase in one hand like it was a purse, and I was too busy trying not to drop my own luggage to form a coherent comeback.
The house looked exactly like I remembered—two stories, wraparound porch, the kind of "rustic charm" that interior designers charged millions to recreate.
But up close, I could see it was more worn than my memory had painted it.
The porch steps had a slight sag, the paint was peeling in places, and there was a general air of holding on by a thread that made something twist in my chest.
This place needed work. A lot of it.
Inside was better—clean, organized, smelling like coffee and something baking.
The kitchen was to the left, all warm wood and worn counters that spoke of actual use instead of just existing for photographs.
The living room had furniture that looked comfortable instead of expensive, and there were photos everywhere—Winnie at various ages, always with a horse or holding a trophy, some cousins that I'd met a couple times, Pops and a woman who must have been Nana, their arms around each other.
It looked like a home. A real one. My family's houses had never looked like this.
"Your room's upstairs, same as it used to be," Pops said, leading the way up creaky stairs. "Winnie made sure it was aired out and ready for ya."
I glanced at Winnie, who was determinedly not looking at me. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it. Seriously, don't. I don't want people thinkin' I'm nice."
The room was the same as I left it back then: twin bed with the quilt Nana had made, same view of the pasture where horses grazed in the afternoon sun, same wooden floors that creaked in specific spots.
But there were updates: better furniture, a desk that looked sturdy, and—thank god—what looked like Wi-Fi equipment on the dresser.
"You have internet?" I asked, genuinely surprised.
Winnie snorted. "What'd you think we did out here? Sent messages by carrier pigeon?"
"I mean... maybe?"
She stared at me. "You're jokin'."
"I literally don't know. I've been in Dallas for twelve years. My concept of rural life comes from movies where everyone churns their own butter."
"Oh my god." She set my suitcase down with more force than necessary. "Okay, let me blow your mind, princess. We got electricity, runnin' water, and even—brace yourself—smartphones. Some of us can even read."
"I didn't mean—"
"We ain't medieval peasants. This is a workin' ranch. We manage cattle prices, breedin' records, feed orders, veterinary schedules. All of that requires—shockingly—technology." Her eyes flashed with something that looked like anger, and I realized I'd stepped in it.
"I'm sorry," I said, and I meant it. "That came out wrong. I didn't mean to sound like an asshole."
She studied me for a moment, then some of the tension left her shoulders. "Yeah, well, you did. But I guess we'll add 'not bein' a condescending prick' to the list of things you need to learn this summer."
"There's a list?"
"Oh, there's a list." She started ticking off on her fingers. "Not bein' a condescending prick, not bein' terrified of poultry, actually workin' instead of just lookin' pretty, not complainin' every five seconds—"
"Alright, I get it."
At least she thinks I'm pretty. That's something, isn't it?
"—learnin' the difference between a pitchfork and a shovel—"
"Those are different things?"
She closed her eyes like she was praying for patience. "Pops, I'm gonna need you to confirm that his daddy's actually payin' us for this, 'cause I'm pretty sure we're gonna need that money for the therapy bills."
Pops was leaning against the doorframe, grinning like this was the best show in town. "He's payin'. And then some. Plus, you know you love a project, Winnie girl."
"I love projects that don't talk back."
"Hey!" I protested.
"You literally just proved my point."
I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it because she was right.
Pops pushed off the doorframe, still chuckling. "Alright, kids, let's let Beau get settled. Dinner's at six sharp, and breakfast tomorrow is at five-thirty."
My brain short-circuited. "I'm sorry, did you say five-thirty? In the morning?"
"That's when five-thirty generally happens, yes sir."
"But that's... that's not even a real time. That's a myth. Like Bigfoot or reasonable healthcare costs."
Winnie's laugh was sharp and bright. "Oh, you're gonna be fun tomorrow. I can already tell. Don't worry, princess, I'll bring ya a juice box and some crackers if you get fussy."
"I don't get fussy."
"You're fussin' right now."
"I'm expressing reasonable concern about the fabric of reality being torn apart by waking up at an ungodly hour!"
"It's a ranch, Sterling. Ungodly hours are just called 'mornin'.'" She headed for the door, then paused and looked back at me. For just a second, something in her expression softened. "But seriously, get some rest. You look like shit."
"Thanks?"
"You're welcome." She grinned. "Oh, and Beau?"
"Yeah?"
"Welcome home."
And then she was gone, her footsteps echoing down the stairs, leaving me alone in a room that felt both familiar and completely foreign.
I sat on the bed—which was definitely smaller than I recalled—and looked out the window at the pasture.
A few horses were grazing in the golden afternoon light, and beyond them, I could see fields stretching out to the horizon.
It was quiet in a way Dallas never was. No traffic, no sirens, no constant hum of people and chaos.
Just... peace.
It should have felt good. It should have felt like a break.
Instead, it felt terrifying.
Because here, in this quiet, there was nothing to distract me from myself. No parties to plan, no headlines to generate, no persona to perform. Just me, and whoever the hell that was under all the bullshit.
My new phone I had purchased, buzzed—somehow still had signal—and I pulled it out to see a text from Z.
Z: How's exile?
Me: Theres many animals who wants to murder me I think.
Z: Sounds about right
Me: And Winnie thinks I'm an idiot
Z: She's not wrong
Me: You're supposed to be supportive
Z: I'm being realistic. Don't fuck this up, Beau. This is your last chance.
I stared at his message, then looked back out the window where Winnie had appeared in the pasture, leading a dark bay horse. Even from here, I could see the easy confidence in the way she moved—like she belonged exactly where she was.
Me: Yeah. I know.
I plugged my phone in, kicked off my shoes—my poor Dior boots that were definitely not ranch-appropriate—and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, I'd start figuring out how to not be completely useless.
Tonight, I'd just try not to think about how fucking terrified I was.
Somewhere outside, Pickles crowed, and I flinched hard enough to nearly roll off the bed.
Let's find out if I survive long enough to see tomorrow.