WINNIE
The Education of Beau Sterling
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
Tumble outta bed and stumble to the kitchen / Pour myself a cup of ambition / And yawn and stretch and try to come to life
-Dolly Parton
***
Five-thirty AM arrived with the subtlety of a slap to the face.
I’d been up since five, which was standard. What wasn’t standard was the petty, vibrating excitement I felt about what was about to happen. In exactly three minutes, I was going to drag Beau Sterling out of bed and make a billionaire trust fund baby earn his keep.
I stood outside his room with two mugs of coffee—one for me, one for him if he didn’t immediately piss me off.
I knocked. Loud.
Nothing.
I knocked harder. "Sterling! Rise and shine!"
A groan came from inside that sounded like it’d been dragged from the pits of hell. "Go away."
"Nope. Up and at ’em, princess. We got work."
"It’s still dark," came his muffled, sleep-rough voice. "The sun isn’t even awake. Why are we awake if the sun isn’t awake?"
I tried the handle—unlocked. Rookie. I shoved the door open. The room was pitch black except for the glow of a phone charger. I could just make out a Beau-shaped lump buried under every blanket on the bed.
"Because the horses don’t care what time it is, and neither do I. You got five minutes to get dressed, or I’m comin’ back with a bucket of ice water."
The lump groaned, longer and more dramatic. "You’re joking."
"Do I look like I joke about chores?" I flipped the light switch.
He made a sound like a dying walrus and one arm shot out from the blanket cocoon to shield his eyes.
"Four minutes now," I added.
"I hate you."
"Yeah, get in line. Coffee’s downstairs. Don’t make me come back."
I turned and left before I had to witness whatever state of undress he was in. Professional distance. He was a job. A temporary, annoying job who used to cry over cow pies when he was twelve.
Downstairs, Pops was already at the stove, flipping pancakes. The smell of bacon filled the air because apparently, he’d decided to kill our guest with kindness. I would’ve gone with cold cereal and a reality check.
"He up?" Pops asked.
"Define ‘up.’" I sipped my coffee. "He’s conscious and whining, so I’ll call it a win."
"Give the boy a break, Winnie. First day’s rough."
"First day’s supposed to be rough. That’s the point." I snatched a piece of bacon, dodging Pops’ spatula. "If it was easy, he wouldn’t learn nothin’."
Heavy footsteps thudded on the stairs. Then Beau appeared in the doorway looking like death in denim.
His hair was sticking up in about fifteen directions—not styled, actually wrecked. His eyes were slits. He wore a plain white T-shirt that looked too clean for what was about to happen to it.
He looked soft. City soft. Like he’d shatter if I handed him anything heavier than a latte.
The last time I’d seen Beau Sterling, we were twelve.
He’d been all gangly limbs and big eyes, following me around asking a million questions, getting spooked by chickens, stepping in cow shit, and crying about his sneakers.
He’d been sweet in that clueless, rich-kid way—tried hard even when he was useless.
Looking at him now, sleep-deprived and stumbling toward the coffee like a zombie, I couldn’t see much of that kid. Just an exhausted man who clearly regretted every decision that led him here.
Good.
"Coffee," he croaked.
I slid the mug across the counter. "Figured you’d need it."
He grabbed it with both hands and drank like his life depended on it. When he finally surfaced, those blue eyes blinked at me, confused and vaguely annoyed.
"What time is it?"
"Five forty-five."
"In the morning?"
"No, Beau. Five forty-five at night. Sun just rises real early in Oklahoma." The sarcasm was automatic. "Yes, in the mornin’. Welcome to ranch life."
He made a pained noise and went back to the coffee. I watched him gulp it down, unimpressed. Twelve-year-old Beau used to chug apple juice like that after we’d spent an hour trying to teach him how to ride.
"This should be illegal," he muttered. "Waking up before six violates human rights."
"Human rights don’t apply to livestock," Pops said cheerfully, sliding pancakes in front of him. "Eat up, son. You’ll need fuel."
Beau ate without complaining, which was something. He looked more human with food in him—stubble on his jaw, sleep creases on his face. Less magazine cover, more actual person.
Still didn’t look like he belonged here, though.
"Alright." I stood, draining my mug. "Time to see what you’re made of. Grab those boots by the door."
He looked at the work boots—proper mud-caked leather, not his fancy bullshit—like I’d just told him to strap cinder blocks to his feet. "Those aren’t mine."
"They are now. Pops dug ’em out. They were mine when I was younger." I grinned. "Hope you don’t mind wearin’ girl boots."
His face did something complicated, but he put them on without arguing. At least he’d learned that much since he was twelve.
"This is Bandit," I said, stopping at the first stall. My gelding was already giving Beau a look that said I will end you. "He’s mine. Best barrel racer in three counties, but he don’t like strangers. Don’t try to pet him."
"Wasn’t planning on it," Beau said, eyeing Bandit like the horse might explode. "He looks like he wants to kick me."
"He probably does. Bandit’s got good instincts."
I grabbed a pitchfork and tossed him the second one. He caught it, barely.
"This is a pitchfork," I said. "You use it to scoop dirty hay and horse shit. Put it in the wheelbarrow. Take the wheelbarrow to the manure pile. Come back. Do it again. Questions?"
He stared at the pitchfork, then the stall, then me. "How much shit are we talking?"
"Depends on the horse. Bandit’s prolific, so... a lot."
"Great. Love that."
I led him to an empty stall and unlatched it. The ammonia smell hit like a wall. Beau’s face cycled through disgust, regret, and horror before landing on grim determination.
"Oh my god," he said, stepping back. "That’s—"
"A lot of manure. Told you." I stepped in and demonstrated. "Scoop, lift, shake, dump. Don’t get too much or you’ll tire out. Use your legs. And for the love of god, don’t step in the fresh piles."
"There are fresh piles?"
"Always. Horses poop like it’s their job."
He took a deep breath like he was about to dive underwater, positioned the pitchfork, and scooped. Immediately, half of it slid off because his angle was wrong. He did this weird juggle to catch it and nearly dropped the whole thing.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. "Angle it up. Tilt—no, the other way. There."
He tried again. Marginal improvement. He looked so proud when it actually landed in the wheelbarrow, you’d think he’d just brokered world peace.
"Good. Now do that about eighty more times."
His face fell. "Eighty?"
"Give or take. And this is just one stall. We got six more."
"Six—" He stopped, closed his eyes, took a breath. "Okay. I can do this. It’s just shit. Shit happens."
I turned away so he wouldn’t see me grin.
It started rough. His technique was all wrong—too much upper body, not enough leverage. He kept trying to scoop too much and nearly toppling over. He stepped in a fresh pile within five minutes and made a sound like his soul was leaving his body.
But he didn’t quit.
By stall three, he was getting the hang of it. His rhythm improved. He was sweating through his white shirt, breathing hard, hair plastered to his forehead—but he was doing it. Twelve-year-old Beau would’ve given up by now. Twelve-year-old Beau cried over a splinter.
This version kept going.
"You good?" I asked, leaning on the doorframe.
He looked over, face flushed, sweat dripping. "Yeah. Just hot."
"It’s gonna get hotter. Pace yourself."
He nodded and went back to work. I went back to supervising, making sure he didn’t impale himself or collapse from heatstroke. The fact that he was finally pulling his weight—barely—was mildly satisfying.
By stall five, the humidity in the barn had climbed to 'sauna' levels. Beau paused, yanked his soaked T-shirt over his head, used it to wipe his face, and tossed it over the stall door.
I looked away, focusing very hard on a bucket. Then I looked back.
A shirtless Beau Sterling—covered in sweat and smeared with Oklahoma dirt, breathing hard from actual labor—was... unexpected.
Not a catastrophe. Not a problem. Just... inconvenient.
His skin caught the morning light slicing through the barn slats, turning him into some kind of half-baked farm ad.
Broad shoulders shifting as he stabbed the pitchfork into a stubborn pile of hay, chest rising and falling with each breath.
It was the kind of build that said "personal trainer three times a week," not "shoveling manure for the first time.
" I figured he’d bail after stall two, whining about his cuticles or calling Daddy for a helicopter extraction.
Nope. Here he was, still going. Raw effort in every swing, like he was trying to prove something—to me, to himself, who knew.
I cleared my throat, the sound cutting through the quiet. "What’re you doin’?"
He paused, leaning on the pitchfork handle, looking at me like I’d asked why he needed oxygen. "It’s hot?"
"It’s not even seven."
"And I’ve been shoveling shit for an hour. Sweating through my shirt." He shrugged, matter-of-fact, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand and leaving a fresh streak of grime. "So I took it off. Problem?"
A dozen smartass answers crowded my brain, but they all stuck. "No. Just—" I waved a hand at him, the barn, the whole ridiculous situation. "We ain’t even halfway through mornin’ chores and you’re already strippin’ down. What, you plannin’ to go full caveman by lunch?"
He grinned—that cocky, lopsided thing that used to get him out of trouble at twelve. "Would that distract the horses, boss?"
"It’d distract the flies," I shot back, turning away before I had to look at the way sweat tracked down his side. "Pants stay on. Get back to it, princess."