Beau A Scare
BEAU
A scare
Tulsa International Airport
"I should've known better than to cheat a friend / And waste the chance that I've been given / So I'm never gonna dance again / The way I danced with you"
- George Michael
***
The pre-dawn sky was a bruised purple over the airport parking lot, the kind of half-light that made everything feel temporary, like it could vanish if you blinked too hard.
Pops' old Ford idled at the curb outside departures, exhaust curling in the chill air.
I stood there with my single black duffel bag slung over one shoulder, feeling like an idiot for only bringing one piece of luggage.
It was all I needed—jeans, a few shirts, toiletries. I wasn't planning on staying. Two days, max. See Dad, make sure he was breathing, hug Mom, and get the hell back to Oklahoma before I missed my chance to be… whatever I was becoming.
Pops climbed out first, his boots scraping the asphalt as he rounded the truck.
He'd driven us here himself—insisting on it, claiming Cassie and I would spend the whole ride bickering about radio stations if he didn't take the wheel.
Now he clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder, squeezing once with that grip born from years of wrangling cattle.
The calluses on his palm rasped against my shirt, grounding me.
"You'll be alright, son," he said gruffly, his voice rough from a lifetime of shouting over machinery. "Your daddy's a tough old bird. Stubborn as they come. He'll pull through, and so will you."
"Thanks, Pops." My throat tightened, the words sticking. "For... everything. For letting me crash your life these past months. For not kicking my ass when I showed up like a lost puppy."
He chuckled, a low rumble that eased the knot in my chest just a fraction.
"You ain't crashed nothin'. You've been good for the place.
Good for her." He jerked his chin toward Winnie, still leaning against the truck bed, and his eyes softened in that rare way they did when he looked at her.
"Family comes back, Beau. You remember that.
And you're family now. Don't make me regret sayin' it. "
I nodded, swallowing hard. Family. It hit different coming from him—solid, earned, not the conditional kind I'd grown up with in Dallas. "I won't. I'll be back soon. Keep an eye on things for me?"
"Always." He clapped my shoulder again, harder this time, then stepped back. "Safe travels."
Cassie was next, hopping out of the back seat with her usual energy, even at 4 AM. She pulled me into a quick, bone-crushing hug, her hoodie smelling like cinnamon rolls from the batch she'd baked before we left to "send me off properly."
"Don't let Dallas suck the cowboy out of you," she muttered against my shoulder, her voice fierce despite the mock-glare she shot me when she pulled back. "And if your dad starts with the billionaire bullshit, just remember Pickles. That rooster would take him down in seconds."
I barked a laugh, the tension easing a notch. "I'll keep that image in mind. Thanks, Cass. For putting up with me."
She punched my arm lightly. "Anytime, city slicker. Now go. And text us when you land. If you don't, I'll send Pickles after you."
"Noted." I watched her climb back into the truck, waving dramatically.
Which left Winnie.
She was still leaning against the tailgate, arms crossed over her chest like armor, her wild curls pulled back into a messy ponytail that did nothing to tame them.
She was wearing one of my old t-shirts—the faded gray one she'd claimed weeks ago because it was "comfy"—tucked into her worn jeans, her boots scuffed with arena dirt.
She looked small in the dim light. Vulnerable in a way that twisted something deep in my gut.
Her eyes were a little red-rimmed, like she'd spent the night tossing and turning same as me, but she wasn't crying.
Not now. Winnie didn't do emotional waterfalls.
She did jokes. Deflections. Ways to keep the real stuff buried until it was safe to let it out.
I dropped my bag and crossed to her, pulling her into my arms without a word.
She stiffened for a split second—her default when things got too heavy—then melted against me, her hands fisting in the back of my shirt, face buried in my chest. I could feel her heartbeat, fast and erratic, matching mine.
"I'll come back," I murmured into her hair, breathing in the faint lavender from her shampoo, the underlying earthiness of the ranch that clung to her skin. "Two days, maybe three. Just long enough to see him, make sure he's stable, talk to Mom. Then I'm on the first flight back. I promise."
She pulled back just enough to look up at me, her brown eyes sharp and teasing, even as they shimmered. "Yeah, yeah. You'll probably get there and decide Dallas needs you too much. Fancy cars, tall buildings, women in heels who don't smell like horse shit."
I laughed, the sound surprising even me, and cupped her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks. "Shut up. I know you'll miss me even for two days. Admit it."
She snorted, rolling her eyes dramatically, but her lips twitched. "Miss you? Please. I'll be too busy training. Bandit and I will have the place to ourselves. No more city boy stealing all the hot water or hogging the bed."
"Liar."
I leaned in, kissing her—soft at first, a brush of lips that deepened when she sighed into it, her hands sliding up to tangle in my hair.
She tasted like the bitter coffee she'd chugged on the drive here, and I poured everything into that kiss—the things I hadn't said yet, the fear gnawing at me, the pull of her that made Oklahoma feel like home.
When I pulled back, she was flushed, her joke armor cracking just a little.
"Fine," she muttered, her voice softer now, vulnerability peeking through. "Maybe I'll miss you. A little. But don't let it go to your head."
"Too late." I kissed her forehead, lingering there, memorizing the feel of her against me.
"Tell Pickles I'll be back. I still owe him for saving us from those reporters.
And don't let Cassie talk you into any more of those midnight baking sessions.
Last time, the house smelled like burnt sugar for days. "
She laughed, shoving at my chest half-heartedly. "Get out of here before I change my mind and tie you to the fence post."
"Tempting." I grabbed my bag, forcing a grin even as my chest ached. "See you soon, Winnie."
"See you soon, Beau."
I turned then, walking toward the sliding doors before I could second-guess it. But I glanced back once—just once—and she was still there, arms crossed, chin lifted, watching me go. Strong. Stubborn. Mine.
***
The airport swallowed me whole—fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the murmur of announcements, the shuffle of tired travelers. I checked in quickly, moved through security with mechanical efficiency, and found my gate.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Winnie: Already planning the victory party for when you get back. Don't screw it up.
I smiled, typing back.
Me: Wouldn't dream of it. Be good.
Winnie: Never.
Boarding started, and I settled into my window seat, the duffel stowed above me. The plane filled around me—harried business types, a family with a fussy toddler, an elderly couple sharing headphones. Normal. Uncomplicated. The kind of life I'd left behind.
As the engines whined to life and we taxied, I pressed my forehead to the cool glass, watching the tarmac blur. Oklahoma shrank below us, a patchwork of greens and browns. The ranch was too small to see, but vivid in my mind—Winnie in the arena, curls flying; Pops clapping my shoulder.
Guilt twisted sharper. Dad. The heart scare. Z's voice on speaker in the truck—he's asking for you—had hit like a gut punch. Despite everything—the control, the expectations, the way he'd shaped my life into something that never fit—I didn't want him to die. Not like this.
But the other fear, the one that kept me staring out the window as we climbed, was Dallas itself. The pull of it. The gravity. Mom's tired voice on the phone days ago, weaving guilt and legacy into a noose. Come home.
What if two days turned into a week? What if they made me choose? What if I couldn't say no?
The flight dragged—an hour that felt like three. Turbulence bumped us once, hard enough to make the seatbelt sign ping, and I gripped the armrest, my mind flashing to Winnie's truck, the way she'd squeezed my thigh on those backroads drives.
I wanted to be back there. With her. Screw Dallas.
But then the pilot's voice crackled. "Ladies and gentlemen, we'll be touching down at DFW in five minutes."
And reality crashed back.
The landing was smooth, the cabin erupting in scattered applause.
I grabbed my bag, weaving through the deplaning crowd, the air thick with recycled chill and the faint tang of jet fuel.
Baggage claim was a zoo, but I didn't have much to wait for.
Just the duffel. Then out to arrivals, scanning the faces for—
Harrison.
He was impossible to miss. Tall, broad-shouldered, impeccably dressed in a crisp white shirt and slacks, his salt-and-pepper hair trimmed sharp as ever.
Dad's driver, assistant, and right-hand man for the past fifteen years.
He stood by the curb beside a gleaming black Mercedes sedan, holding a small cardboard sign with my name on it like I was some VIP client.
When his eyes locked on me, they widened—genuine surprise flickering across his usually impassive face. He straightened, lowering the sign, and for a second, he just stared.
"Beau?" He blinked, then broke into a real smile. "Damn, son. Look at you. You've... grown up."
I glanced down at myself—faded Levi's, scuffed work boots, a plain black t-shirt that hugged my shoulders a little tighter now from months of hauling feed. My skin was tanned, my jaw shadowed with stubble, the Stetson I'd grabbed at the last minute perched on my head.
"Oklahoma roughs you up a bit," I said, shaking his hand—firm, like Pops had taught me. "Good to see you, Harrison. How's Dad? Really. Is he awake? Talking?"
"He's stable. Resting. Your mother's with him now." Harrison's tone was calm, professional, but his eyes flicked over me again, appraising. "You look good, Beau. Strong. Different."
"Different how?"
He hesitated, then shrugged. "Like you've got dirt under your nails that ain't comin' off. In a good way." He opened the back door of the Mercedes, gesturing me in. "Let's get you there. Traffic's light this time of morning."
I slid into the cool leather seat, the familiar scent of leather polish and Harrison's aftershave wrapping around me like an old coat—comforting and claustrophobic all at once.
The duffel went at my feet, and Harrison pulled away from the curb, merging into the flow of Dallas traffic.
Skyscrapers loomed ahead, all glass and steel, reflecting the rising sun in blinding shards. Home. The word tasted sour.
"So," I said, leaning forward to catch his eye in the rearview. "How bad is it? Z said stress-related, but... what triggered it? The article? The board?"
Harrison's grip tightened on the wheel, subtle but there. "Your father's a high-strung man, Beau. The article was... a catalyst. Investors pulling out, board meetings getting heated. But he's tough. Doctor says rest, medication, and he'll be fine. Long as he listens."
"Listens to what? His heart?" I snorted, but it fell flat.
Harrison didn't laugh. "To reason, son. To family."
We lapsed into silence, the city unfolding around us—upscale boutiques, coffee shops with lines out the door, joggers in designer gear.
It was familiar, buzzing with the energy I'd once thrived on, but now it just felt.
.. hollow. No wide-open fields. No dust on my boots. No Winnie's laugh echoing in my ears.
But then I noticed the turns.
We weren't heading downtown toward Methodist Hospital. We were skirting the city, merging onto I-35 North, toward the rolling hills outside Dallas. Toward—
"Harrison?" My voice sharpened, stomach dropping. "This isn't the way to the hospital."
He met my eyes in the mirror, expression neutral. "Change of plans, Beau. Your father's been discharged."
"Discharged? Already? He had a heart scare this morning!"
"Stable enough. Doctor cleared him for light activity. Your mother thought it'd be better at the summer house. Quiet. Private."
The summer house.
Our sprawling estate in the Texas Hill Country—acres of manicured grounds, a mansion that screamed old money, the place Dad retreated to when he wanted to "discuss" things without prying eyes. Two hours from the city. Isolated. No quick escape.
"Harrison, turn around. Now. I'm not going to the summer house. I came to see my father in the hospital, not play games at some estate."
"I can't do that, son." His voice was steady, apologetic. "Your father's expecting you there. Insisted. Said it's important you come directly. Your mother's in agreement."
My blood ran cold. Expecting me. Important. This wasn't a visit. This was an ambush. The heart scare—real or exaggerated—was bait, and I'd swallowed it whole.
I yanked out my phone, fingers flying over the screen to text Winnie.
Harrison's taking me to the summer house. Something's wrong. Call me.
No signal.
We were already in the outskirts, cell towers sparse, the highway flanked by endless fields and scrub brush. I tried again—nothing.
"Harrison," I said, voice low, dangerous. "What the hell is going on?"
He sighed, long and weary. "Your father wants to talk, Beau. Face to face. About the company. About your future. About... everything."
"Everything?" I barked a laugh, bitter. "Like how I'm throwing it all away for a ranch? For her?"
Harrison's eyes flicked to the mirror, sympathetic. "Something like that. Just... hear him out. For your mother's sake, if nothing else."
I sank back, staring out at the blurring landscape, the city shrinking in the side mirror. The summer house. Two hours of nothing but my thoughts and this creeping dread. And no way to warn Winnie.
For the first time since leaving Oklahoma, real panic clawed up my throat. I might not be coming back.