WINNIE #2
"Yes, ma'am."
The "ma'am" landed weird. Polite, but with an edge that made me think of twelve-year-old Beau calling me "ma'am" after I yanked him out of a horse stall for the third time. Shouldn’t have stuck. Didn’t.
"How’s this?" he asked a few minutes later, kicking at a corner I’d told him to clean up.
I blinked, refocusing on the actual stall instead of... whatever that was. "Yeah. That’s... good enough."
He flashed a real grin this time—not the polished Dallas charm, but something brighter, crinkling his eyes. Made him look younger. Almost like the kid who’d once tried to "help" me feed the chickens and ended up running from a feisty hen with a fistful of corn.
"Don’t get cocky," I said. "Two more stalls."
But he’d leveled up. No more flinching at the smell. No gingerly tool-handling like it was radioactive. Just work. Steady, determined work. Like he actually gave a damn about getting it right.
That part threw me more than the shirtlessness.
By the last stall, Beau looked like he’d lost a fight with a manure monster and barely escaped. Dirt-smeared, sweat-drenched, breathing like he’d run a marathon in flip-flops. But his eyes had that spark—alive, surprised at himself.
He was flagging, though. Scoops slowing, shoulders drooping.
"You gonna live?" I asked, pitching in on the final pile before he face-planted.
"I’m fine," he wheezed. His body language screamed liar. He sagged against the wall, chest heaving. "How do you... do this. Every day?"
"Practice. Started young, so my muscles don’t revolt." I nodded at his form. "You’re killin’ your arms. Use your legs—wider stance, drive from the hips."
He watched me demo, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion. Copied it—better, but wobbly. Pushed through anyway.
We dumped the last wheelbarrow on the manure pile. He bent over, hands on knees, sucking air like a fish on dry land.
"I did it," he panted, half-laughing, half-disbelieving.
"You did." I grabbed a water bottle from the cooler and tossed it over. "Not bad for a first-timer, princess."
He caught it, chugged half, then—because apparently boundaries were optional—poured the rest over his head. Water sluiced down his face, neck, chest, carving clean tracks through the grime. He raked a hand through his sopping hair, shaking it out like a dog.
I stared at a spot on the ground. Professional. Supervising.
"What’s next?" he asked, wiping his eyes. Actual enthusiasm under the wheeze.
"Feedin’. Waterin’. Movin’ fence posts."
He groaned, tipping his head back, but grinned through it. "You’re evil."
"If I wanted you dead, there’s quicker ways." I jerked my head toward the feed room. "Just makin’ you useful."
"Is it working?"
I glanced back. Dripping wet, dirt-streaked, grinning like an idiot. Looked more like the Beau from twelve years ago than the polished suit from last night—messy, triumphant, real.
"Ask me in a week."
Noon hit like a hammer. I’d shoved sandwiches at him on the porch because watching him unravel was starting to feel like my new hobby.
He still hadn’t put the shirt back on. Sat there inhaling ham and cheese, oblivious to the way sunlight hit the sweat still drying on his shoulders. Or the faint manure smear on his collarbone. Or how he somehow looked less like a billionaire and more like... one of us.
"You good?" I asked, forcing my eyes to my own plate before the silence turned awkward.
"Define ‘good.’" He flexed one arm experimentally and winced. "Every muscle’s plotting revenge. Might need a forklift tomorrow."
"You did solid work this mornin’."
He froze mid-bite, eyes going wide. "For real?"
"For real. Thought you’d quit after stall one."
That grin hit again—the unfiltered one. Lit up his whole face, chased off the exhaustion. "Thanks, Winnie. Means somethin’."
I shrugged, staring out at the pasture like it held the secrets of the universe. "Don’t let it swell your head. Afternoon chores wait for no man. And they suck worse."
"Figured." He stretched, arms over his head—a long, lazy move that pulled everything tight. I focused very hard on my pickle spear.
Needed to remember: This was Beau Sterling.
Trust-fund kid playing cowboy. The same scrawny twelve-year-old who’d cried over cow pies, asked if chickens laid "surprise eggs," and followed me around like I had all the answers.
Gone by fall, back to Dallas penthouses and whatever rich-people problems waited there.
Not my circus. Not my shirtless monkeys.
"Break’s over," I said, standing fast. "Time to learn saddlin’."
He groaned but hauled himself up, snagging the shirt without putting it on. Trailed me to the barn, boots crunching gravel. "In Dallas, breaks are, like, an hour. With AC."
"You ain’t in Dallas, princess."
"Yeah." He paused in the barn door, squinting out at the endless fields. Voice quieter. "Noticed that."
Something hung in the air—wistful, almost. Like he’d meant more than the heat. But he shook it off, flashed a quick grin when he caught me looking, and ducked inside.
This summer was gonna test me, that was for damn sure.
Part of me—the petty, grudge-holding part—was ready for it.
The other part? The one remembering a wide-eyed kid who tried anyway?
Might even be looking forward to watching him try again.
Just a little.