WINNIE
Shit happens
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
"City folk think the country is a playground. We know it's a battlefield."
– Anonymous Rancher
***
Solene Duval was the kind of girl who treated the world like it was her personal backdrop, and everyone else was just an extra who hadn’t learned their lines.
She was undeniably beautiful—I wasn’t blind. Legs that went on for days and that effortless, glossy way of looking like she’d stepped out of a magazine even after a five-hour drive. You could see why a guy like Beau would hook up with her. She was a trophy.
But there was something else too—something I recognized when she climbed out of that Mercedes.
The way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
The way her hands gripped her designer bag a little too tight.
She looked like someone who’d driven five hours not because she wanted to win Beau back, but because she was running from something.
The next day, Solene slept until 10 AM. I’d heard her stirring around dawn—probably jet-lagged from her glamorous Dallas time zone—but she didn’t emerge until the sun was high and the real work was already underway.
I’d avoided Beau as much as humanly possible. He’d wanted to talk about feelings last night in the barn, and then suddenly his “girlfriend”—or whatever the hell she was—decided to show up here, turning the whole ranch into her personal rom-com set. Feelings could wait. Manure couldn’t.
I started the morning in the barn, mucking stalls with a vengeance that had even Bandit eyeing me sideways.
Beau had wandered in around 6, looking like a man who’d slept about as well as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.
His eyes found me immediately, and for a second, I thought he might try to corner me—apologize, explain, beg.
But I grabbed a pitchfork and started on the next stall before he could open his mouth.
“Morning,” he said, voice tentative, like he was testing thin ice.
“Morning.” I didn’t look up. Scoop, toss, repeat. The rhythm was meditative.
“Winnie, about last night—”
“Pops needs help with the fence line,” I cut in, my voice flat. “South pasture. You should check the posts before the herd moves over.”
He hesitated, then sighed, a heavy sound that echoed in the quiet barn. “Yeah. Okay. But we need to talk. Soon.”
“Sure.” Scoop. Toss. The manure hit the wheelbarrow with a satisfying thud.
He lingered for another beat, waiting for me to crack. I didn’t. Eventually, he grabbed a hammer and headed out to deal with his hangover and the fence. Good. Let him stew. Let him deal with his Dallas import.
By 10:30, I was back in the kitchen, wiping down counters after a quick breakfast.
The screen door creaked open, and in swept Solene.
She looked like she’d been styled by a team of professionals for a “rustic chic” photoshoot. A white linen blouse tucked into high-waisted shorts that barely covered her ass, espadrilles that screamed “I’m slumming it but make it fashion,” and oversized sunglasses perched on her head like a tiara.
“Oh my god,” she said, stopping dead in the doorway and wrinkling her nose at the faint smell of bacon grease. “Is that… meat? In the air?”
“It’s a kitchen,” I said, drying my hands. “We cook food in here. Sometimes meat.”
She shuddered dramatically. “God. It sticks to your pores. Do you have, like, a green juice? Or avocado toast? Something that doesn’t scream ‘heart disease’?”
“We got apples in the orchard,” I said evenly, biting back a smile. “Or coffee. Fresh pot.”
“Coffee’s fine. Black. No sugar. My trainer would kill me.” She slid onto a stool at the counter, crossing her legs. Her eyes scanned the kitchen—the worn wooden cabinets, the scuffed linoleum—with what I expected to be disdain.
But instead, something flickered across her face. Longing, maybe. Or exhaustion.
“This place is so… different,” she said quietly, fingers tracing the grain of the wooden counter.
“Like, actually lived-in. Our place in Dallas is all marble and glass. You can’t touch anything without leaving fingerprints.
” She looked up, catching herself. “I mean, it’s gorgeous. Obviously. But it’s…” She trailed off.
I poured her coffee without missing a beat, sliding it across the counter. “But it’s not home.”
She blinked, surprised. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
She took a sip and made a face. “It’s strong.
Like, sludge.” But she took another sip anyway, cradling the mug like it was grounding her.
“Listen, Winnie, right? I… I know this is weird. Me showing up here. But Beau—” Her voice cracked slightly.
“He’s been ghosting me. Well.. I’ve kinda ghosted him too I guess.
Not just texts. Calls. Everything. And then I see these photos on his Instagram—dirt under his nails, cowboy hats, sunrises—and he looks…
happy. Actually happy. Not fake Dallas party happy. ”
She set the mug down, her manicured nails clicking against the ceramic. “I needed to see it for myself. Because if he’s actually choosing this—” She gestured around the kitchen, at the ranch beyond. “—then maybe I need to figure out what the hell I’m doing wrong.”
I leaned against the counter, arms crossed. That… wasn’t what I expected.
“You think he’s choosing the ranch over you?”
“I think he’s choosing himself over the life everyone’s been forcing on him.
And I…” She looked down at her hands. “I’m part of that life.
The galas, the press, the ‘Sterling heir and Duval heiress’ headlines.
Maybe I drove here because I wanted to see if I could be different too. If I could… not be that girl.”
Before I could respond, she straightened, the vulnerability disappearing behind her glossy armor. “But also, yeah, I’m here to remind him what he’s walking away from. Because maybe he just needs a reminder.”
“Sounds complicated.”
“It is.” She looked at me directly for the first time, and I saw something real there—fear, maybe.
Or desperation. “You seem like you actually know who you are. I’ve spent my whole life being who my parents want, who the press wants, who Beau’s family wants.
I don’t even know what I like. Probably not green juice, honestly. That shit’s disgusting.”
I couldn’t help it—I laughed. A real one.
She smiled, just a little. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Does Beau… does he talk about me? About Dallas?”
I chose my words carefully. “He talks about who he used to be. Not always fondly.”
She nodded slowly, like she’d expected that. “Yeah. Me too.”
Before the moment could settle, the screen door banged open, and Beau strode in.
He looked incredible. There was no other word for it. His sweat-damp shirt clung to every plane of his shoulders and chest, the fabric darkened and molded to him like a second skin. He still had the hammer in one hand, his forearm flexing with the weight of it, dirt smudged across his jaw and neck.
It was offensive, honestly. No man had the right to look that good after hours of manual labor.
His eyes landed on Solene first, then me, and I saw the panic.
“Winnie,” he started, then froze. “Solene. You’re up.”
“Finally,” she said, but her voice was softer now—less performative. She slid off the stool and approached him, but not with the same predatory energy as before. “You look… different. Good different.”
Beau shifted uncomfortably. “I, uh—gotta finish the fence. Herd’s moving soon.”
“Can we talk? Just five minutes?” Her hand reached for his arm, but there was a hesitance there—like she wasn’t sure she had the right anymore.
He shot me a look over her shoulder—wide eyes, subtle plea.
I pressed my lips together to hide my grin. Figure it out, cowboy.
“Solene, really—I need to—”
“I drove five hours, Beau. Five minutes. Please.”
He sighed, shoulders sagging. “Yeah. Okay. Five minutes.”
They walked out together, and I watched from the window as they stopped by the fence line.
Solene was talking, hands moving—animated, desperate.
Beau listened, arms crossed, but not unkindly.
When she reached for his hand, he didn’t pull away immediately.
He just… held it for a second, then gently let go, shaking his head.
She nodded, wiping at her eyes quickly, then straightened her shoulders. Said something that looked like “I understand.” Then she turned and walked back toward the guest house, alone.
Pops joined me at the window. “What do you reckon that was about?”
“Closure, maybe. Or reality check.”
“Girl’s lost,” Pops said quietly. “Reminds me of Beau when he first got here. Looking for something she can’t name.”
I felt kind of bad her driving 5 hours to maybe be turned down… I sighed, drank the last of my coffee and walked towards the house. I knocked three times, and then she came out, her eyes slightly red.
"Hey, Solene. Want a tour? Horses first."
She wiped under her eyes once more and titled her head. "Horses? Like, actual ones?"
"Unless you’d rather watch paint dry."
Solene huffed but followed me to Daisy’s stall. "Fine. But make it quick. I’m not really an animal person." She peered over the gate.
"Oh!" Solene jumped back. "It’s huge! And slobbery! Please don’t spit on me"
"Horses don't spit. That’s llamas." I unlatched the gate. "Come on. Pet her nose. She’s gentle."
Solene hesitated, then stepped in—white espadrilles first. She extended a manicured hand. Daisy blew a soft breath, and Solene yelped, stumbling backward into me.
"Easy," I said. "She likes you."
From the next stall, Bandit whinnied—a loud, welcoming hello.
Solene’s head snapped toward the sound, startled. She took a step back, overcorrected, and her heel caught on a loose clump of hay. She windmilled her arms, eyes wide with panic.
"Whoa—!"
Time slowed. Beau reappeared just in time, brushes in hand, but he was too far. Solene’s foot slipped fully, and she went down—backward.
Right into a fresh, steaming pile of manure I’d mucked out earlier but hadn't fully cleared yet.
She landed with a wet, heavy squelch that sounded like a boot being pulled out of mud.
Silence. Absolute silence.
Then chaos.
"Oh my GOD!" Solene shrieked, scrambling up, her pristine white shorts now a muddy brown disaster. Manure smeared her calves, her hands, and there was even a streak across her cheek where she’d wiped at her face in panic. "What IS this? It’s warm! And it stinks! Beau!"
Beau was there in an instant, but not to help her—he was biting his lip so hard to stifle a laugh that his face turned purple. "Solene, it’s... uh..."
"Manure!" she wailed, hopping on one foot like it would help. "Horse shit! On me! My clothes—my skin—oh god, is it in my hair?"
Pops, who’d been watching from the doorway, let out a low chuckle that built into a full guffaw. "Welcome to the ranch, miss. Happens to the best of us."
I couldn't hold it in anymore. Laughter bubbled up, starting as a snort and exploding into full belly laughs. Solene, covered in shit—literally—flailing like a diva in a bad rom-com. And Beau, trying so hard not to crack, his shoulders shaking with silent tremors.
"It’s not funny!" Solene snapped, but her voice cracked, and even she started to giggle—hysterical, teary-eyed giggles. "Beau, help me! Shower! Now!"
Beau composed himself enough to offer a hand, pulling her up fully but keeping her at arm's length. "Guest house has hot water. Come on."
She clung to his arm—manure and all—as he led her out, shooting me a look over his shoulder that was equal parts apology and relief. I waved them off, still laughing. Not in bad faith, but because it has been so long since it happened to anyone there, and to be honest it was always that funny.
By evening, Solene had showered (twice) and emerged in fresh clothes, subdued. Dinner was quieter than I expected—her sitting next to Beau, but not clinging. She asked Pops about the ranch, about how long we’d been here, about what it took to run a place like this.
“It’s a lot of work,” Pops said. “But it’s honest work. You know where you stand at the end of the day.”
Solene nodded thoughtfully. “I don’t think I’ve ever done honest work in my life.” She said it like a confession.
Beau looked at her, surprised.
“I’m serious. Everything I do is for show. Charity galas where we don’t actually care about the cause. Brunches where we compete over who has the better table. It’s exhausting.” She looked at me. “How do you do it? Just… be yourself?”
I shrugged. “Practice. And not caring what Dallas thinks.”
She laughed—a real one this time. “Must be nice.”
As she chattered a bit about Dallas (less superior now, more wistful), I caught Beau’s eye across the table. He mouthed, Thank you.
I shrugged. She’s not so bad.
The next morning, Solene left. Not dramatically—just quietly packed her car, hugged Beau goodbye (a real one, not performative), and stopped by the kitchen where I was making coffee.
“Thanks for not being a bitch to me,” she said bluntly.
“Thanks for not being insufferable the whole time.”
She smiled. “I’m gonna figure my shit out. Maybe take a break from Dallas. Do something real for once.” She paused at the door. “I think he likes you. I’ve never seen him look at me the way he does to you.”
“Solene—”
“I’m not saying it to be nice. I’m saying it because it’s true. And because… I want that someday. Whatever you two have.” She adjusted her sunglasses. “Don’t fuck it up.”
And then she was gone.
Pops wandered in, coffee mug in hand. “Girl’s gonna be alright.”
“Yeah,” I said, watching the dust settle from her tires. “I think she will be.”