2. Winnie
CHAPTER TWO
winnie
The second I turn into the Stetson driveway, my car rattles like it’s offended I asked it to do one more thing today.
“Come on,” I beg, patting the steering wheel. “You’ve survived worse.”
Which is true. I bought this car when I was sixteen with saved up tip money from the bakery and pure optimism. It’s been held together by a prayer for the past seven years. The engine wheezes as I ease to a stop, dust curling up around me like it’s judging my choices.
I cut the ignition just as the door of the main house swings open.
“Well I’ll be damned,” a familiar voice calls. “Is that Winnie Hawthorne?”
I grin before I even look.
There’s only one kid I know who would ever speak like that. Someone well beyond his years, and also the funniest kid on the planet.
“Fisher Stetson,” I say, stepping out. “Is that you?”
“Do you know any other six-year-old with this smile?” He beams like I just handed him candy.
“Nope. Not one.”
He launches himself at me, and I barely brace in time before he wraps his arms around my middle.
I’m not sure I miss Trouble so much as I miss everything that came with him. His nephew. The way it always feels like sunshine here, even on cloudy days. Stetson men everywhere—wrestlin’, hollerin’, turning ordinary afternoons into entertainment whether you asked for it or not.
I still get to see Fisher at the bakery occasionally when PJ, Fisher’s nana, is next door at the salon getting her hair done. I always make sure he gets the freshest slice of pie that day.
He pulls away just long enough to inspect me. “Your car sounds worse.”
“Rude,” I say. “She’s doing her best.”
He nods solemnly. “That’s what Nana says about Uncle Ryder.”
I snort. “Where is your Nana?”
He points behind him. “In the kitchen. She’s makin’ lunch. And if you’re smart, you’ll come inside before anyone on the ranch gets word.”
“Sounds about right,” I say, following him inside.
PJ is in the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. The second she sees me, her face lights up.
“Winnie,” she says, pulling me straight into a hug. “It’s so good to see you.”
“Good to see you too,” I say, meaning it.
She steps back, eyes looking me over in that gentle way that somehow still sees everything.
“What brings you by today?”
I tuck my hands into my back pockets. “I heard you might be looking for help around the ranch.”
Her smile softens. “You doin’ okay, sweetheart? Is the bakery okay?”
“Things are a little tight right now. We’ll pull through. Just… need to find ways to help bring in a bit more money.”
PJ reaches out and squeezes my arm. “You or your parents need anything at all, you let me know, you hear me? Anything.”
Before I can answer, Fisher pops up between us. “I need help.”
PJ arches a brow. “Oh yeah?”
“My stomach’s growlin’,” he says seriously. “Like… loud.”
She grabs a sandwich plate and sets it on the table. He slides into an open chair.
“Problem solved,” she says.
Then she turns back to me. “I was about to restock the guest house with fresh towels. If you wanna start there, I’ll put together a list for you. I’d love to have you help out around here in the mornings. Maybe help Fisher with morning feed.”
“That would be perfect,” I say. “Thank you.”
And that’s how I end up at the guest house ten minutes later, arms full of linens.
I’m still stacking towels on the shelf when my phone rings. Unknown number.
“Hello?”
“Hi, may I speak with Winnie Hawthorne?”
“This is she.”
“Hi, Winnie. This is Melissa calling from the Weston Rodeo Committee. I’m calling about your request to host a booth for Hawthorne’s Bakery this weekend.”
My heart jumps so hard it actually knocks the breath out of me.
“Oh—yes,” I say quickly. “Thank you so much for calling. My parents and I really appreciate you reaching out. We are so excited about?—”
“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” she cuts in. “Unfortunately, we don’t have enough space this weekend to accommodate your bakery.”
Her words are soft. Like she’s hoping I won’t feel how disappointing they are.
“Oh,” I say. “I—I understand. Is there anything we can do? We’re happy to bring a smaller setup, or?—”
“We’re fully booked,” she says, firm but polite. “We appreciate you reaching out. If a spot opens up in the future, we’ll be sure to give you a call.”
There’s a pause. Just long enough for me to realize this is the part where I’m supposed to say thank you and sound grateful for nothing.
“Okay,” I manage. “Thank you for letting me know.”
“Of course. Have a great afternoon, Ms. Hawthorne.” The line goes dead.
I check my phone like maybe it’ll ring again and she’ll say just kidding—we made room.
It doesn’t.
So, I just stare at the stack of towels in front of me. Things were supposed to be looking up. A rodeo weekend booth could’ve meant lines. Extra money for the bakery. Some of our bills caught up. Instead, it’s just another closed door.
Another reminder that being nice and hopeful doesn’t always get you a yes.
I lock my phone and set it back in my pocket.
“It’s okay,” I whisper to no one. “I’ll figure it out.”
I’ve been saying that my whole life.
By the time I check off all the items on PJ’s list, I finish in just enough time to get to my shift at Saddle and Oak.
The parking lot is mostly trucks. Several are obnoxiously lifted, all white or black, all with mud-caked tires.
I wedge my barely running car between a Ram and a Silverado and smooth my hair in the rearview.
If I’m going to lose my last shreds of dignity in this town, I might as well try to look decent while doing it.
Inside, it’s dark like normal. Nineties country is playing through the speakers, a mechanical bull is spinning with no one on it, and Honey is already at the bar with her perfectly-straight, glossy dark hair.
She slides a glass toward me then pauses, eyeing it like she’s negotiating with her own morals.
“Now,” she says, lowering her voice, “I normally wouldn’t condone drinkin’ on the job.”
I lift a brow. “Normally.”
“But,” she adds, reaching for the bottle anyway, “I just broke up with Milo. For the last last time.”
I snort. “The last last time?”
“It’s final,” she says, already pouring. “Which is what I said the last three times, but this one feels different.”
“Did he do something unforgivable?”
“He overslept and left me waiting for him on our lunch date and then had the nerve to say ‘calm down,’" she says, lifting her hands in the air.
I wince. “That’s a crime.”
“So, tonight we’re having just a tad. For emotional support.”
I pick the glass up. “For the record, I fully support bad decisions made in the name of healing.”
Honey clinks her glass against mine. “See? This is why I like you.”
I take a sip, then sigh. “You know, every time someone I know has a break up, it makes me less convinced Prince Charming actually exists.”
She laughs. “Oh, he exists. I’m just not sure he lives in Weston. But he sure as hell doesn’t sleep through lunch dates.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” I say. “Well, if you ever need someone to talk you out of getting back together with him?—”
Honey wipes down the counter and cuts me off. “I won’t listen.”
“—or someone to help you hide the body,” I finish.
She grins. “Now that’s friendship.”
The front door opens and the bell above it rings. That sound is starting to feel like a warning more than anything because boots hit the floor in a heavy rhythm, and I don’t have to look up to know. I feel it. The Human Thundercloud of a person who seems to be everywhere I go this week.
Of course it’s him.
Same hat. Same cocky posture. Same six-foot plus inconvenience.
I tip my we’re-not-supposed-to-be-drinkin’-tonight glass toward Honey. “Another,” I whisper before he spots me. She jumps on it with a knowing smirk.
He eyes the stack of trays sitting on the bar in front of me. “You really workin’ here, huh Shortcake? I thought you were just helpin’ out yesterday.”
Another fun nickname.
When I was a kid, I was the unofficial taste tester, of course—but they also made me hand out samples to anyone who wandered by. Little paper plates, tiny bites of frosting, the whole thing.
Danger, of course, would latch onto that nickname. Shortcake.
Guess I am short, sweet, and apparently I have nicknames that are impossible to forget once others start saying it.
“Yep. Guess Honey decided I was employable.”
His jaw tightens. “And your parents know you’re runnin’ drinks in a bar full of cowboys who don’t know how to behave?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m capable of carryin’ a tray and sayin’ no.”
His hand curls around the edge of the bar, knuckles whitening slightly. “You ever had to say it to the men who come in here?”
“Like I told you before, I can handle myself.”
“That right?” His gaze flicks to the men across the room watching us a little too closely. “You can’t always see things before they turn for the worst.”
There it is. That tone. Like I’m still seventeen and back at Weston Woods where he’s telling me I’m too young to have a drink in my hand, even though I was just trying it for the first time with a group of my friends.
I straighten. “I didn’t ask for your permission.”
“No,” he says after a moment. “You didn’t.” He looks at me like he’s remembering something, or maybe realizing I’m not some kid trailing after Trouble anymore. Just… me.
The Stetsons were always loud, close, everywhere—and I’ve always just been… here. The small-town girl you grow up with. Not shiny like a new city girl, not wild like the buckle bunnies that roll through. Just nice. Familiar. Predictable.
Not exactly the kind of thing you stop and stare at.
Trouble tried, there were days where it felt like he really saw me. I know he did. Lord knows I wanted it to work.
But wanting someone doesn’t mean you get to keep them.
“So, you must be Danger?” a drunk blonde calls from the corner. “They call you that ’cause you’re a hazard to women everywhere?”
He tips his hat like she just paid him a compliment. “Something like that.”
Of course he’s unbothered. Men like him always are. I take a longer sip than necessary of the drink I’m pretending I’m not stealing.
The blonde leans in. “So, Trouble tell you about what he’s spent all day doin’?”
Their conversation gets quieter, and I can no longer hear it over the music.
Honey’s mouth twitches as she drops a few ice cubes into a glass. “Trouble’s been busy today.”
“Busy?” I ask.
Honey hesitates. “You really wanna know?”
Something in her tone tells me I should say no, but I don’t.
“Just rip off the Band-Aid.”
She sighs, sympathetic. “Trouble’s proposing tonight.”
The words are gentle, but they still manage to knock the breath right outta me.
“Oh,” I say, because it’s the only thing my mouth can form.
“Yeah,” she adds quickly. “He went all out. Rented the fairgrounds. Lights, flowers, the ferris wheel. Said it’s where they had their first real date.”
I picture it without meaning to. Sawyer glowing. Trouble nervous in that quiet way of his. Giving her that same look, the one he gave her the moment she landed in Weston.
“That’s…” I smile, and I mean it. “That’s really sweet. I’m happy for them.”
And it is. I am happy for her. For him too. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting a little though.
That was always something I wanted but knew I’d never get from him. Not the grand gestures—just the choosing. I used to think maybe if I stayed long enough, loved him gently enough, he’d find his way. That I could be the one he decided on.
Turns out, he just needed the right person.
Maybe that sayin’ “always a bridesmaid, never a bride” was aimed at women like me.
And I get it. I really do. Sawyer’s easy to love. Strong and bright and sure of herself in ways I never quite figured out how to be.
Don’t get me wrong. Deep down, I’ll always hope to find the kind of love that makes someone choose me the way Trouble chose Sawyer. The kind of love that doesn’t have a choice in the matter at all.
Honey leans closer. “They’re comin’ in after to celebrate. That’s why all the Stetson’s are here tonight.”
Oh. Of course.
“That explains him,” I sigh, eyes flicking toward Danger without saying his name.
Honey nods. “The others come in all the time. But him coming in lately? That doesn’t usually happen. Don’t blame him. Hard to leave when you’ve got a little boy at home.”
Because he’s not just a hot cowboy hiding behind Ray-Bans in a dark bar with a jawline that belongs in a moody, slow-burn TV drama. He’s a dad. A hands-on one. The kind who doesn’t waste nights out unless someone pries him loose.
Trouble used to say Danger shut himself down after Fisher’s mama left town. Like loving her once was enough for a lifetime. Like his heart clocked out early and never bothered to punch back in.
I never really bought that.
Men like him don’t stay closed off forever. One day, there’ll be a woman who fits into his world like she was made for it—someone who doesn’t burn pies, who knows when to push and when to let him brood in peace. Someone Fisher adores. Someone Danger softens for and doesn’t even realize it.
I just hope she—whoever she is—gets a version of him the rest of us never do.