Beau Hatless in Oklahoma #3
People in town actually greeted me now. Not with the suspicious once-overs and whispered conversations from week one, but with actual "Hey, Beau!
" and "How’s it goin'?" like I was a person instead of a curiosity.
Earl at the feed store knew my coffee order (black, two sugars, to mask the taste of the burnt pot).
Donna at the Rusty Spur saved me a seat when I wanted to nurse a beer and take the edge off the day.
Even Mrs. Henderson had stopped calling me "that Sterling boy" and started calling me "Winnie’s friend," which felt like a promotion I wasn't entirely sure I deserved.
It was kind of nice, feeling like I almost belonged somewhere.
The imposter syndrome was still there—hovering in the background, reminding me I was a city boy playing cowboy in a costume—but at least the work was keeping me in shape.
My gym gains were intact, possibly even improved by hauling feed sacks, and I could lift hay bales without wanting to die. Progress.
I still hadn't found my favorite hat, though. The black Stetson I’d lost in the meadow was gone for good, likely serving as a luxury condo for field mice. I hadn't brought myself to buy a new one because it felt like a betrayal. I was probably being dramatic, but drama was my baseline.
"Beau? You got a minute?"
I looked up from mucking Daisy’s stall to find Pops standing in the barn doorway.
The afternoon sun backlit him, casting a long shadow, but even from here I could see his posture was off.
He was leaning heavily on the door frame, his weight shifted entirely to his left leg.
When he moved to step inside, I caught the tiniest wince tightening the corner of his eye—a flicker of pain he smoothed away instantly.
"Yeah, sure. What’s up?"
He glanced around the yard first, checking that Winnie wasn't within earshot.
She was out in the south pasture fixing fence, probably a good twenty minutes away.
I swear we had to repair a new section of fence every single day.
I didn't know which horse kept running into it, but I was starting to suspect they were doing it on purpose just to mess with me.
"Need your help with somethin'. But I need you to keep it between us."
Immediately, my mind went to worst-case scenarios. Financial trouble? The IRS? A secret second family? "Are you okay? Is something wrong?"
"I’m fine," he said, waving a hand dismissively.
"Just got a bum knee actin' up and I don't want Winnie fussin' over me.
She worries enough as it is." He gestured for me to follow.
"Come on. Need help gettin' some things down from the attic.
Used to do it myself, but these days... gravity ain't my friend. "
He turned and started toward the house, and I noticed how carefully he was walking—not limping exactly, but favoring his right leg in a way that suggested pain he was trying desperately to hide. It reminded me of the way he'd moved after the trail ride, slow and stiff.
"When you say 'bum knee,'" I asked, falling into step beside him, "you mean actually injured, or just old-age stuff?"
"Bit of both. Had surgery on it a few years back after a bull decided I looked punchable. It’s mostly fine, but weather changes and heavy work make it flare up.
" He opened the back door. "Winnie will try to take on all the heavy liftin' herself if she thinks I’m hurtin', and she’s already doin' more than she should.
Girl carries the weight of the world on her shoulders.
Don't need to add my aches and pains to the pile. "
"So you're asking me to be your secret accomplice in old-man stubbornness?"
"Essentially, yeah."
I grinned. "I can do that."
The attic was accessed through a pull-down ladder in the upstairs hallway. Watching Pops eye it with obvious reluctance told me everything I needed to know about his knee situation. Climbing that thing was out of the question for him today.
"What are we getting?" I asked, reaching for the cord.
"Few boxes of decorations and some old photos," Pops said, leaning against the wall. "Elise is comin' to visit end of the month, and I wanted to get her room ready. Make it feel more like home."
I paused, halfway up the ladder, and looked down at him. "Wait. Who's Elise?"
"My daughter."
I nearly fell off the ladder. "I’m sorry, your what?"
Pops looked up at me, amused by my shock. "My daughter. Elise. She’s thirty-two, lives in Denver, works for some tech company doin' things I don't understand involving 'clouds' that aren't in the sky."
"You have a daughter." I said it slowly, testing the words. "A whole entire daughter that no one mentioned for three weeks?"
"Well, she’s not a secret. Just hasn't been able to visit much lately 'cause of work. But she’s takin' some time off, gonna come stay for a few weeks."
"Does Winnie know?"
"'Course she knows. They talk on the phone every week. Elise is comin' down to help with the regional competition prep—she used to compete herself before she moved to the city. Taught Winnie everything she knows."
I climbed the rest of the way into the attic, my mind spinning. "Okay, but like... why did I think you only had Winnie? Has she mentioned Elise and I just blocked it out?"
"Might've been focused on other things," Pops called up diplomatically. "Like not dyin' from manual labor."
"Fair point."
The attic was hot and dusty despite the cleaning Winnie and I had done a week ago. It smelled of cedar and old paper. Pops pointed out what he needed from below—three boxes labeled Elise's Room and a wooden crate full of framed photos—and I started hauling them toward the ladder.
"So Elise is Winnie's... aunt? No, wait—" I did the math in my head as I shifted a heavy box.
"Winnie’s my granddaughter," Pops clarified. "Legally adopted, but she's mine in every way that counts. Elise is my daughter by blood. They’re technically aunt and niece, but they grew up more like sisters. Only about eight years between 'em."
"And Elise is coming here. Soon."
"Two weeks."
"Does she know about me?"
Pops chuckled. "Oh, she knows. Winnie told her all about the city boy who showed up in designer boots and couldn't tell a rooster from a chicken."
"I knew the difference! Pickles is just unusually terrifying! He has the soul of a velociraptor!"
"Uh-huh. Well, Elise is lookin' forward to meetin' you. Said anyone who can survive three weeks here and still show up for work must have somethin' to 'em."
I carefully lowered a box down to him, watching how he caught it with one hand while bracing against the wall with the other. The knee was definitely bothering him more than he wanted to admit.
"You should tell Winnie," I said, pausing before grabbing the next one. "About the knee. Seriously."
"And have her try to do everything herself? No thanks."
"She’s going to notice eventually."
"Eventually ain't today." He set the box down with a slight grunt. "Besides, I got you now. Between the two of us, we can handle the heavy stuff without her overtaxin' herself."
Something warm settled in my chest at that—the casual way he'd said I got you now, like I was part of the team. Part of the solution instead of the problem.
A rare win for Beau Sterling.
"Yeah, okay. I can do that."
We spent the next hour moving boxes and setting up Elise's room—a bright space at the front of the house with windows overlooking the south pasture. Pops directed while I did the heavy lifting, and we fell into an easy rhythm.
"She’s gonna want to reorganize everything," Pops said, watching me arrange photos on the dresser. "Always does. Says I got no sense of aesthetic."
"Do you?"
"Absolutely not. But things are where I can find 'em, and that’s what matters."
I picked up one of the framed photos—a younger Pops with a little girl on his shoulders, both of them grinning at the camera. "Is this Elise?"
"Yep. She was about five there. Already obsessed with horses. Used to sneak out before dawn to feed 'em, scared the hell outta me the first time."
"Sounds like someone else I know."
"Apple don't fall far." He took the photo, studying it with a soft expression I hadn't seen often.
"She was supposed to take over the ranch eventually.
Had the skills, the passion, all of it. But then she got that job offer in Denver, and I couldn't tell her no.
Would've been selfish, keepin' her here when she had opportunities. "
"Do you regret it? Letting her go?"
"Regret? No. Miss her? Every damn day." He set the photo down carefully, aligning it perfectly. "But that’s parenthood. You raise 'em to fly, then you gotta let 'em. Even when it hurts."
The words hung in the air, and I thought about my own father—who’d raised me to be an extension of himself, not to fly but to reflect. Who measured my worth in stock prices and social connections instead of who I actually was.
"For what it's worth," I said quietly, "she's lucky she had you."
Pops looked at me, really looked at me, and something passed between us that didn't need words.
"You’re doin' good here, son. Real good. And I don't just mean the work—though you've exceeded every expectation I had, which admittedly were pretty low."
I laughed. "Thanks?"
"I mean you’re figurin' out who you are separate from all that Dallas noise. That takes courage. Most people never do it." He clapped my shoulder. "Whatever happens when summer ends, you remember that. Remember you got people here who see you for who you actually are."
My throat tightened unexpectedly. "Yeah. Thanks, Pops."
"Don't mention it. Now help me hang this mirror before Winnie gets back and starts askin' questions about why we’re both covered in attic dust."
We finished setting up the room just as I heard the distinct rumble of Winnie’s truck pulling up outside. Pops caught my eye and put a finger to his lips in an exaggerated shushing gesture that made me grin.
"Our secret?" he confirmed.
"Our secret."
We headed downstairs to find Winnie in the kitchen, dirt-streaked and sweaty from fence work, chugging water straight from the tap like she’d just crossed a desert.
"Where've y'all been?" she asked between gulps, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "I came lookin' for Beau to help with the south gate and he'd vanished."
"I had him helpin' me with some stuff," Pops said easily. "Man work. You wouldn't understand."
"'Man work'?" She fixed him with a look that could peel paint. "What year is this, 1952?"
"Sorry, let me rephrase: work that required someone younger and prettier than you."
"That’s worse."
"Is it though?"
I watched them banter, the easy affection between them, and felt that warm feeling in my chest again. This—this was what family was supposed to feel like. Not board meetings and obligations, but teasing and trust and knowing someone had your back even when they were giving you shit.
"Anyway," Pops continued, "we were gettin' Elise's room ready. Figured it should look nice when she gets here."
"Oh! That's sweet." Winnie's expression softened instantly. "Did you find those photos she wanted?"
"Yep. All set. Room's ready to be immediately reorganized the second she walks in."
"As is tradition."
They both laughed, and I realized how much I was looking forward to meeting this mysterious daughter/aunt/sister figure who apparently reorganized rooms and worked in tech and used to compete in rodeos.
Also, slightly terrified. Because if she was anything like Winnie, I was in for another round of proving myself to a Jameson woman who could probably destroy me with a single look.
But that was a problem for future Beau.
Present Beau had survived another day of ranch work, learned there was an entire family member he didn't know about, and become Pops' partner in old-man-stubbornness.
Not bad for a Tuesday.