Winnie En Route Towards a Better Future
WINNIE
En route towards a better future
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
"Healing doesn't mean the damage never existed. It means it no longer controls you."
– Unknown
***
The physical therapy equipment Pops refused to use properly sat in the corner of the living room like an expensive monument to stubbornness.
I stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching him attempt to navigate from the couch to the kitchen with his walker—and I use the term "navigate" loosely, because the man was putting weight on his bad leg like Dr. Mehta's explicit instructions were merely polite suggestions he could choose to ignore.
"Pops. Left leg. Non-weight-bearing. Do those words mean anything to you, or should I get flash cards?"
"I know what they mean," he grumbled, hobbling forward with the grace of a three-legged mule. "They mean some fancy doctor who ain't never worked a day in her life thinks I should sit on my ass while my ranch falls apart."
"Your ranch is fine. I checked the cattle this morning. Jake's comin' tomorrow for the fence work. Your only job is healin', which you're actively sabotagin' by bein' the most stubborn man in Oklahoma—and that's sayin' somethin' considering the competition."
He made it to the kitchen counter, breathing harder than he'd ever admit, and shot me a look of pure Jameson defiance mixed with a hint of sheepishness. "Don't lecture me in my own house, kiddo. I was workin' this ranch before you were a twinkle in some mystery woman's eye."
I winced. "Wow. Nothing like a good abandonment joke to lighten the mood."
"Too far?"
"No." But I crossed the room to steady him when he wobbled, because that's what we did—made terrible jokes and held each other up anyway. "Come on, old man. Back to the couch. We're doing the exercises Dr. Mehta assigned. All of them. Including the ones you hate."
"All the ones I hate? That's the whole damn list." He let me guide him back, one careful step at a time. "Those exercises were designed by Satan himself. Probably in a torture chamber with bad lightin' and country music from the wrong decade."
"Those exercises are keeping you out of a wheelchair and me from having to install one of those stair-lift things that makes your house look like an AARP commercial."
"I'd rather die than have one of those contraptions. Die with dignity, face-down in the dirt like a real rancher."
"Good thing you won't, because you're doing your PT." I helped him settle onto the couch, his left leg extending stiffly in the brace that made him look like a rejected Transformer. "Sit. Stay. I'll get the resistance bands."
"You're talkin' to me like I'm a dog. Like that fool rooster of yours."
"If you acted less like a stubborn mule, I'd treat you more like a human." I disappeared into the kitchen where we'd stashed the PT supplies, returning with the bands and the printout. "Okay. Ankle pumps first. Twenty reps. And I'm counting, so don't try to sneak through at fifteen like last time."
He groaned like I'd asked him to dig a trench across the county with a teaspoon. "You know what? I'm startin' to think you're enjoyin' this. This whole bossy nurse routine. It's revenge, ain't it? For all those times I made you muck out stalls in July when it was hotter than hell's front porch."
"Absolutely." I knelt beside the couch, grinning despite the bone-deep exhaustion that had been my constant companion for three weeks. "Consider this payback with interest. Now flex and point. Slowly."
He complied with all the enthusiasm of a man facing a firing squad, flexing and pointing his ankle with exaggerated slowness while making increasingly dramatic groaning sounds.
"Are you doing PT or auditioning for a daytime drama?"
"Can't it be both?" He finished rep ten and paused. "You know, this'd be a whole lot easier if you'd bribed me. Maybe some of those cookies Cassie makes. The ones with the chocolate chips that taste like heaven wrapped in butter."
"You're on a low-sodium diet, remember? Doctor's orders."
"That doctor's tryin' to kill me. Death by boredom and flavorless food. Might as well just shoot me now and save us all the trouble." But he kept going, hitting rep fifteen with a grunt that suggested his leg was actually working harder than he wanted to admit.
"You're doing good," I said, meaning it. "Two weeks ago you couldn't lift that leg six inches. Today you're clearing a foot."
"Don't patronize me, girl."
"I'm serious. That's real progress, Pops. You keep this up, you'll be back to bossing ranch hands around by spring."
He finished the set and leaned back, catching his breath. "Spring. That's five months away. You know what happens in five months if I'm sittin' on this couch like some useless old fart?"
"You heal properly and don't end up needing a second surgery?"
"The ranch falls apart. You work yourself into an early grave tryin' to do it all. And I become one of those useless old men who just takes up space and complains about the weather." His voice lost its joking edge, going quiet and serious. "I don't wanna be that, Winnie."
My throat tightened. "You're not useless.
You're healing. There's a difference." I squeezed his hand, the calluses familiar under my palm.
"And I'm not doing it alone. We hired Jake, remember?
Plus Cassie helps when she can. And the sponsorship money means we're not drowning anymore. We're actually okay."
"You got those sponsors 'cause you won. 'Cause you're talented as hell." Pride crept into his voice. "Nana would've lost her damn mind seein' you take first place. Probably would've called everyone in the county to brag."
"She would've called everyone in the state," I corrected, smiling at the memory. "Remember when I placed third at that junior rodeo when I was 10? She had it in the local paper within twenty-four hours."
"'Local Girl Shows Regional Talent,'" Pops quoted, grinning. "She framed that clippin'. Had it matted and everythin'. It's still in her office."
We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the weight of her absence familiar but no longer crushing.
"Alright," I said, standing. "Break's over. Quad sets next. Tighten and hold for five seconds. Fifteen reps. And before you complain—"
"I was gonna say this is cruel and unusual punishment."
"—it's necessary. So quit whining and start squeezing." I settled cross-legged on the floor. "Also, if you're good, maybe I'll make those cookies later. Low-sodium recipe. They taste like cardboard, but at least they're healthy cardboard."
"You're a terrible motivator. Worst I ever seen."
"Yet here you are, doing the exercises."
He grumbled but complied, working through the quad sets. We cycled through the remaining exercises, and by the end, he was exhausted, his face flushed and damp, but there was satisfaction underneath the fatigue.
"Good work," I said, gathering the equipment. "You're getting stronger every day."
"Feel like I got trampled by my own cattle. Then they backed up and did it again just for fun."
"That's how you know it's working." I squeezed his shoulder. "Nana always said pain is just weakness leaving the body."
"Nana also said whiskey was a food group and bet on horses like it was an Olympic sport. Not sure we should take all her advice as gospel." But he caught my hand, holding it between both of his. "You've been takin' care of me real good, kiddo. Better than I deserve."
"You're family. That's what we do." I tried to keep my voice light.
His expression shifted, the lightness draining away as he studied my face.
"You've been sad, Winnie. Don't think I haven't noticed.
You won regionals—biggest achievement of your career—and you've been movin' through it like a ghost at your own funeral.
Ever since that boy showed up and then.. ." He trailed off.
"There's nothing to talk about." I stood, busying myself with folding the resistance bands. "I'm fine."
"You're a terrible liar. Always have been." He shifted on the couch. "You know, I've still got that shotgun. The one your grandmother bought me. Shoots real straight. I could always take a drive up to Dallas. Have a conversation with that Sterling boy about breakin' my granddaughter's heart."
Despite the ache in my chest, I laughed. "You can barely make it to the kitchen without needin' a nap. How exactly are you planning this vigilante road trip?"
"I've got determination. And a walker with wheels—that's practically a getaway vehicle right there. I'd just need you to aim the truck toward Dallas and maybe help me out of the seat when we get there. After that, it's between me, him, and my twelve-gauge. I'll bring the good shells, too."
"Pretty sure threatening a billionaire with a firearm is illegal in all fifty states."
"Only if you get caught. And I'm old—I'd play the dementia card. 'Sorry, officer, I thought he was a coyote threatenin' my livestock. A really tall, really rich coyote in fancy boots.'"
I snorted, settling into the chair across from him. "Cassie would help you. She's been threatening to 'handle him' since regionals."
"That girl's got spirit. But I don't think shootin' him would fix what's hurtin' you, would it?"
The laughter died in my throat. "No. Probably not."
"You love him." Not a question.
"Yeah," I admitted quietly. "I do. Which makes me an idiot, because he made his choice. Two weeks of silence kind of says it all."
"Did he tell you he chose Dallas? Or are you just assumin'?"
"He didn't have to. It's been two weeks, Pops. Fourteen days of nothing. If he'd chosen differently... he'd be here."
"Maybe. Or maybe that boy's been figurin' out how to untangle himself from a billionaire daddy with control issues and lawyers on speed dial, and it's takin' longer than a phone call."
"Or maybe he took the money and the deal and is living his real life in Dallas. That's the logical choice, Pops. Turn down a million dollars for a girl you've known for so little? That's insane."
"Love usually is." He said it simply. "I proposed to your grandmother three weeks after we met. Everyone said we were crazy. We had forty-seven years. Sometimes the insane choice is the right one."
"Or sometimes it's just insane," I countered. "I don't blame him for choosing Dallas. I really don't. I just wish he'd called to tell me instead of disappearing like smoke."
"You could call him."
"And say what? 'Hey, remember when you said you loved me and I walked away without saying it back?' No. If he wanted to talk, he'd reach out. He knows where I am."
Pops opened his mouth to respond, but a sound from outside cut him off.
Tires crunching on gravel. An engine cutting off in the driveway.
We both froze. It was nearly five o'clock. No deliveries. Cassie was at work. Jake wasn't due until tomorrow.
"You expectin' someone?" Pops asked, trying to leverage himself up.
"Stay." I stood, moving to the window, nudging aside the curtain to peer out.
A truck sat in the driveway. Not mine—this one was newer, covered in road dust like it'd driven through half the state, rental plates visible. And standing beside the driver's door, pulling a single black duffel bag from the bed, was a figure that made my heart stop mid-beat.
Black Stetson. Worn jeans. Chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
Beau.
He was here. Actually, physically here.
My heart lurched, hammering so hard I felt it in my throat. Heat flooded my face, then drained away, leaving me cold and shaking.
"Winnie?" Pops' voice was sharp with concern. "Who is it? If it's those reporters again, I swear to God—"
"It's him." The words came out strangled. "It's Beau."
I heard the walker scrape against the floor as Pops maneuvered closer, peering over my shoulder. We watched together as Beau shouldered the duffel—just one, not the three overstuffed suitcases he'd arrived with four months ago—adjusted his hat, and started walking toward the house.
He looked different. Thinner. Exhausted. His walk was purposeful but hesitant, like a man who'd driven through the night but wasn't sure of his welcome.
"Well, I'll be damned," Pops said. "Guess we're about to find out if I need that shotgun after all. Where'd I put it? Hall closet?"
"You're not shooting him."
"Not immediately. But maybe just brandishin' it. For intimidation purposes. Though if he's here to break your heart again, all bets are off."
Beau reached the porch steps. Paused at the bottom, looking up at the house like he was gathering every ounce of courage he possessed.
Then he climbed. Each step deliberate. And knocked.
The sound reverberated through the house, through my chest, through every wall I'd built over fourteen days of silence.
"Winnie?" Beau's voice filtered through the door, muffled but unmistakable. "Win, I know you're in there. Your truck's here, and I saw the curtain move. Please. I need... I need to talk to you."
Pops raised an eyebrow. "You gonna make him stand out there all day cookin' in the heat? Or you at least gonna hear what he drove all night to say?"
"I don't know if I can." The admission felt like failure. "What if he's here to say goodbye? What if he chose Dallas and just wanted to do it in person?"
"Then he's a damn fool, and I'll get the shotgun," Pops said matter-of-factly. "But what if he didn't? What if that boy's standin' on our porch with one bag because he gave everythin' else up?"
I looked at the door. At the shadow of Beau's figure visible through the frosted glass. At the duffel bag.
One bag.
My hand moved to the doorknob before my brain gave permission. I took a breath that didn't quite fill my lungs.
Then I opened the door.
Beau stood on the porch, hat in his hands now. His blue eyes—bloodshot, exhausted, but steady—locked on mine. He looked like hell.
He looked like home.
"Hi," he said quietly, his voice rough.
"Hi." The word came out steadier than I felt.
We stared at each other across the threshold—inches that felt like miles.
"Can I..." He gestured vaguely toward the house. "Can I come in? Or at least... can we talk?"
Every instinct screamed to protect myself. But Pops was right behind me, radiating curiosity and protective grandfather energy, and I needed to know.
"Yeah." I stepped back, opening the door wider. "Come in."
He crossed the threshold, and the world shifted.
Behind me, I heard Pops mutter, "Well, this oughta be interestin'. I'll just be over here. With my walker. Near the hall closet. Just so we're all clear on the geography."
"Pops—"
"Just sayin'. Options are good to have."
Despite everything—the fear, the uncertainty, the two weeks of silence screaming between us—I almost smiled.
Almost.
Because Beau was here, standing in my living room with that duffel bag and those exhausted eyes, and I didn't know yet if he'd come to break my heart or save it.
But I was about to find out.