WINNIE
The Hendersons Brothers can suck it
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
Yeah, we got our own little world / And it's everything I need / Yeah, this small town small is just right for me"
– Jason Aldean
***
I was putting on makeup for the first time in three weeks, and it felt weird as hell.
Not bad-weird. Just... foreign. Like I was rediscovering a lost civilization on my own face.
I’d gotten so used to my usual ranch routine—ponytail, chapstick, maybe some mascara if I was feeling particularly fancy or expecting a feed delivery—that actually doing a full face felt like playing dress-up.
But Cassie had texted me approximately seventeen times about trivia night, culminating in a final threat: "WEAR SOMETHING CUTE OR I'M DISOWNING YOU AND TELLING EVERYONE ABOUT YOUR EMO PHASE."
So here I was, standing in front of my bathroom mirror at 6 PM on a Thursday, applying eyeliner with a hand that was steadier with a branding iron than a liquid liner wand.
I finished my makeup—mascara, a bit of blush to hide the exhaustion, and a neutral lipstick that Cassie had bought me last Christmas—and assessed the damage. Not bad. I actually looked like I’d made an effort instead of just rolling out of a hayloft.
My closet was about ninety percent work clothes and one percent "things Cassie forced me to buy against my will.
" I pushed past the flannel shirts and grabbed a denim dress I’d forgotten I owned—fitted, hitting mid-thigh, with a belt that cinched my waist. I threw on my good boots (the ones without mud permanently caked into the seams) and my brown leather jacket.
One last look in the mirror. Hair down in natural curls, actual makeup, a dress that proved I possessed legs.
Cassie was going to lose her mind.
I heard a knock downstairs—Beau’s room door opening—and his footsteps heading down the hall. I grabbed my bag, took a breath to center myself, and headed down after him.
He was in the kitchen with Pops, wearing dark jeans, a green pearl snap shirt, and that damn black cowboy hat. He’d actually started to tan from all the outdoor work, and the slight sunburn across his nose had faded into something that looked intentional instead of accidental.
He looked up when I came in, and his eyes went wide. His mouth opened, then closed.
"Holy shit," he said.
"Language," Pops said mildly from behind his newspaper.
"Sorry, but—Winnie, you look amazing."
I felt my cheeks heat. "It’s just a dress."
"It’s not just a dress. You look—" He seemed to struggle for words, his gaze sweeping over me in a way that made my skin prickle. "Really beautiful."
"Don't get used to it. I'm back in work clothes tomorrow."
"Noted. But for tonight? I’m definitely appreciating the view."
Pops chuckled, turning a page. "You two kids have fun. Don't stay out too late—we still got work in the mornin', and the cows don't care about hangovers."
"Yes, sir," Beau said, and it was funny how natural that sounded coming from him now.
We headed out to my truck. I tried not to notice how he held the door open for me or how good he smelled—cedar and something clean, simpler than the designer cologne he'd arrived with.
"So what exactly happens at trivia night?" he asked as I started the engine.
"Trivia. Obviously. But it’s bloodsport." I pulled out onto the main road, gravel crunching. "Cassie and I usually dominate, except when we go up against the Henderson brothers—they run the feed supply in Fairfax and they’re weirdly good at sports trivia and geography."
"Sounds intense."
"It is. There's prizes for winning, drinks are cheap, and everyone gets drunk and makes bad decisions. It's peak small-town entertainment."
"Wait till you're three beers in and arguing about whether a tomato is a fruit or a vegetable with a guy who hasn't left the county since 1998."
"It’s a fruit," Beau said.
"See? You're gonna fit right in."
The Rusty Spur was already packed when we got there—trucks filling the parking lot, music pouring out every time the door opened, that particular, electric energy that came from people ready to blow off steam.
Cassie was waiting outside, leaning against the brick building in cutoff shorts and heels that had no business being in Oklahoma but looked incredible anyway. She lit up when she saw us.
"There's my girl!" She pulled me into a hug that smelled like tequila. "And looking fine as hell too! I feel so validated." She turned to Beau, a slow grin spreading across her face. "Well, well. City boy cleans up nice. You actually look like you belong here. Almost."
"Thanks?" He seemed unsure.
"It’s a compliment. Trust me." She linked her arm through mine, dragging me toward the door. "Alright, team, let's go destroy some trivia and get drunk. Not necessarily in that order."
Inside, the Rusty Spur was exactly what you'd expect—wooden everything, neon signs buzzing, a jukebox playing Luke Combs. The air was thick with the smell of fried food and sawdust.
And everyone turned to look when we walked in.
"Jesus," Beau muttered beside me, adjusting his hat.
"Told you. You're famous now." I waved at a few people I knew. "Just smile and try not to look terrified. They can smell fear."
Cassie dragged us to a high-top table near the trivia setup and immediately flagged down Donna.
"Three shots of tequila and a round of Coors!"
"Tequila?" Beau looked alarmed. "Already? It’s 7:05."
"It’s trivia night, Sterling. We don't fuck around." Cassie grinned at him, sharp and challenging. "Unless you can't handle it?"
"I can handle it," he said, that competitive gleam sparking in his eye.
Donna set down our drinks with a smile. "Hey, Winnie. Cassie. And Beau! Good to see you again, honey."
"Thanks, Donna." Beau pulled out his wallet, the leather looking too new against the scarred table. "Can I start a tab? And actually... whatever anyone orders tonight, put it on my tab."
The table next to us, full of local ranch hands, went dead quiet.
"Anyone?" Donna asked, pen hovering.
"Anyone in the bar. All night."
"Beau," I hissed. "You don't have to do that. That’s insane."
"I want to. Consider it me buying my way into the good graces of Pawhuska." He flashed a grin.
Cassie cackled. "Oh, I like him. He's buying goodwill with alcohol. Smart man. Tactical."
Within approximately thirty seconds, word had spread that Beau Sterling was buying drinks, and the atmosphere shifted from "suspicious of the rich kid" to "let's hear what he has to say."
The tequila shots arrived. Cassie held hers up. "To trivia night, to new friends, and to absolutely destroying everyone else in this bar!"
We clinked glasses and drank. The tequila burned perfectly on the way down.
"Alright, everyone!" Jerry, the host, tapped his microphone. "Welcome to Thursday Night Trivia! Y'all know the rules: six rounds, ten questions each, winning team gets a hundred-dollar bar tab and eternal glory!"
"We already have a bar tab," Beau pointed out.
"Yeah, but the glory's important," Cassie said seriously, slamming her shot glass down. "First round is pop culture! Focus!"
For the next hour, I remembered why I loved trivia night. The trash talk, the collective groans, the cheers. And Beau was surprisingly good.
"Question three: What year did the first iPhone come out?"
"2007," Beau said immediately, writing it down. "I was in middle school. It changed my life."
"Question seven: Who won Best Picture at the 2019 Oscars?"
"Parasite." He didn't even hesitate. "I went to the after-party. You pick things up."
By the end of the pop culture round, we were tied for first place with the Henderson brothers. I pointed a finger across the bar to where Jake and Matt Henderson were sitting, looking smug in their baseball caps.
Jake caught my eye and raised his beer in a mock salute, grinning like the devil himself.
"Oh, that smug son of a bitch," I muttered.
"Winnie's got a rivalry with them," Cassie explained to Beau. "It's been escalating."
"It's not a rivalry, it's a blood feud."
"It's trivia."
"IT'S PRINCIPLE!"
We traded blows for the next three rounds. The Hendersons took history by a hair (my bad, I blanked on the Teapot Dome Scandal), but we crushed them in Science thanks to Beau knowing the chemical symbol for gold ("Au," he’d said smugly, "from the Latin 'aurum'").
By the time we hit the final round—Random Facts—the bar was roaring. We were dead even.
"Alright, folks!" Jerry shouted over the noise. "It all comes down to this. One question to rule them all. Tie-breaker!"
The room went quiet. Even the jukebox seemed to lower its volume.
"This bar," Jerry said, gesturing around the Rusty Spur, "has been standing here a long time. The question is: In what year did the Rusty Spur officially open its doors?"
Cassie froze. "Oh no."
"What?" I whispered. "Do you know it?"
"I think it's... the fifties?" she hissed. "But maybe the forties?"
We looked at Beau. He was staring at the neon sign above the bar, his brow furrowed.
"1948," he said softly.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"I... think so?"
"Think so isn't good enough, Sterling!"
"It's 1948," he said, firmer this time. "I saw a plaque by the door when we walked in. It said 'Est. 1948.'"
I stared at him. "You noticed a plaque while everyone was staring at you?"
"I notice details. Trust me."
I looked at Cassie. She shrugged. "He's the only one with a guess."
I wrote down 1948 and ran it up to Jerry.
Five agonizing minutes later, Jerry tapped the mic. "We have a winner."
He looked directly at our table.
"By exactly one year... the winners are Team Winnie!"
The bar erupted. I screamed, Cassie screamed, and before I knew what I was doing, I grabbed Beau by the front of his shirt and kissed him—hard, fast, and right on the mouth.
It was over in a second. I pulled back, eyes wide, realizing what I’d just done in front of half the town.
Beau stared at me, looking dazed. He touched his lips.
"We won?" he asked, voice rough.
"Yeah," I breathed, my heart hammering a rhythm that had nothing to do with trivia. "We won."