BEAU
Crushing my balls
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
"I said, cowboy take me away / Fly this girl as high as you can into the wild blue"
– The Chicks
***
I was currently drafting my last will and testament in my head.
Location of death: Pawhuska, Oklahoma. Cause of death: Blunt force trauma to the ego and the inner thighs.
Riding a horse, I had discovered, was nothing like the movies.
In the movies, the hero vaults onto the stallion, mane blowing in the wind, galloping off toward the horizon while an orchestra swells in the background.
In reality, I had spent ten minutes trying to figure out the physics of mounting a beast that was taller than my SUV (a process I absolutely butchered, nearly pulling a groin muscle), another five trying not to slide off the side like a sack of wet flour, and the remaining time feeling like my reproductive future was being systematically destroyed by a torture device disguised as leather. (My balls by the way)
"Why does this hurt so much?" I asked through gritted teeth. Winnie was leading Daisy around the corral at a pace that was technically a walk but felt like a magnitude six earthquake.
"‘Cause you’re tense. You’re stiff as a board up there," she called back, not even looking at me. "Relax your hips. Move with her rhythm."
"My hips don't know how to relax. My hips are in crisis mode. My hips have filed a restraining order against this saddle."
"Stop fighting the movement. Just roll with it."
"I don't know how to roll with a thousand-pound animal!"
"Sure you do," she said, glancing over her shoulder with a smirk. "Just move your hips like you’re... engaging in other rhythmic activities."
I choked on air. The only time I moved my hips like this was when I was thrusting into someone, preferably in a king-sized bed with high-thread-count sheets. But I wasn't about to admit that out loud to the woman currently holding my life in her hands.
"I’m ignoring that," I wheezed. "And for the record, people have been doing this for thousands of years? Voluntarily?"
"Yep. It’s called transportation."
"Well, people from thousands of years ago didn't have Uber. I was built for climate control and lumbar support, Winnie. Not... this."
She snorted. "Just breathe. Feel her movement and match it. Don't fight gravity."
I tried. I genuinely tried. But every step Daisy took sent a jolt through my spine that rattled my teeth. I was starting to understand why cowboys walked with that distinctive swagger. It wasn't confidence; it was structural damage.
"You’re grippin’ with your thighs too hard," Winnie critiqued, stopping the horse. She walked over and slapped my thigh—hard. "Relax this. Let your legs hang natural."
"If I relax, I’ll fall off!"
"No, you won’t. Daisy’s steady as a rock. Trust her."
"I don't even trust myself right now!"
"Beau." She looked up at me, shielding her eyes from the sun. Her expression was patient, which somehow made me feel like an even bigger idiot. "You’re overthinkin’ it. Stop trying to control the horse. You can't control her. You just have to be with her."
Just be.
When was the last time I’d just existed? Without performing, without a camera in my face, without worrying about the angle or the lighting or the headline?
I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. I loosened my death grip on the reins. I forced my thighs—which were screaming in protest—to unclench.
And slowly—very, very slowly—something clicked.
As Daisy took another step, my body didn't fight it. I moved with her. The dip and sway of her gait stopped feeling like an assault and started feeling like a rhythm. It still hurt like hell, but it was a manageable hell.
"There you go," Winnie said softy. I looked down, and there was a flash of approval in her eyes that made something warm bloom in my chest, completely unrelated to the heat stroke. "See? You’re a natural."
"I don't know about natural," I muttered, adjusting my grip. "But I haven't fallen off yet, so I’m calling it a win."
"That’s the spirit."
***
By the time we finished the evening chores, the sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the Oklahoma sky in bruises of purple and gold. It was... majestic. I hated to admit it, but the view almost made up for the fact that my body felt like it had been dropped from a moving plane.
"Go shower," Winnie said as we reached the porch. "Dinner’s at six. You smell like a barn."
"It’s called musk," I argued weakly. "It’s masculine."
"It’s manure. Go."
I trudged upstairs, every step a reminder of the day's torture. My phone was on the nightstand where I’d abandoned it that morning—dead battery. I plugged it in, booted it up, and watched the notifications flood in.
Most of it was noise. Instagram tags, random DMs. But there were a string of texts from Z.
I flopped onto the bed—which felt like a cloud sent from heaven—and opened the thread.
Me: Survived Day 1. Everything hurts. I rode a horse and didn't die, though my future children might have been compromised. Also, there is a rooster named Pickles who has put a hit out on me.
Z: [Read 6:15 PM] Pickles? That’s a terrible name for an assassin.
Me: He has spurs, Z. Sharp ones. And dead eyes.
Z: Lmao. How’s the exile? Have you milked a cow yet?
Me: No, but I shoveled enough shit to build a new island. Also met the locals. There’s a blonde bartender who called me pretty and invited me to trivia.
Z: PLEASE tell me you’re not going to sleep with the first local girl you met.
Me: Why does everyone assume I’m just trying to get laid? I am a man of substance.
Z: You’re a man of "daddy cut off my credit cards." And your track record is literally just "models and bad decisions."
Me: Rude. And untrue. Sometimes they’re actresses. Anyway, no. I’m behaving. Trying to, at least. Winnie, the ranch owner, thinks I’m useless.
Z: Are you?
Me: ...Currently, yes. But I’m working on it.
Z: Character development. I love to see it. Just don't die, Beau. The paperwork would be a nightmare for me.
Me: I feel the love.
I tossed the phone aside and dragged myself to the bathroom. The hot water was erratic—Winnie had warned me it was "temperamental"—but when it finally kicked in, I nearly moaned aloud. I scrubbed away the dirt, the sweat, the smell of horse, and watched the grime swirl down the drain.
When I looked in the mirror after, toweling off my hair, I paused. I looked... tired. But there was color in my cheeks that wasn't from a tanning bed. A smudge of dirt on my jaw I’d missed. I looked a little less like a Sterling heir and a little more like... just a guy.
Huh.
I threw on clean jeans—my last clean pair of "casual" jeans that cost $400—and a white t-shirt, then headed downstairs.
The smell hit me first. Fried chicken. Gravy. Biscuits. My stomach gave a roar that could have rivaled a lion.
Pops was at the stove, and Winnie was setting the table. She’d showered too, her hair damp and loose around her shoulders, softening the sharp angles of her face.
"There he is," Pops said, turning with a grin. "Thought maybe you’d dissolved in the tub."
"Considered it," I admitted, limping toward the table. "Smells amazing, Pops."
"Chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, green beans with bacon, and buttermilk biscuits." He set a platter on the table that looked like a magazine cover. "Figured you earned a real meal."
"I could kiss you," I said solemnly.
"Save it for the girls at the Rusty Spur, son. Just eat."
The first bite was a religious experience. The crunch of the batter, the tender meat, the creamy gravy... I closed my eyes and let out a sound that was probably inappropriate for a dinner table.
"Good?" Winnie asked, looking amused.
"Good doesn't cover it. This is the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth. And I’ve eaten at Michelin-star restaurants in Paris."
"Flattery will get you everywhere," Pops said, passing the biscuits.
We ate in a comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the clinking of forks and my occasional groans of appreciation.
It felt... easy. Domestic. In Dallas, dinner was a networking event.
It was stiff conversations about stocks and mergers, checking watches, being seen. Here, it was just food and people.
"So," Pops said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "How many white t-shirts you got in that suitcase, Beau?"
I paused, fork halfway to my mouth. "Uh... that was the last clean one. Why?"
"‘Cause unless you plan on doing laundry every night, you’re gonna run out. And those fancy shirts ain't made for ranch work." He gestured to my chest. "You need proper gear. Wranglers. Pearl snaps. Boots that can handle mud without cryin' about it."
"My boots can handle mud," I protested.
Winnie and Pops exchanged a Look. A very specific, pitying Look.
"Your Dior boots?" Winnie drawled. "The ones literally 3% of the population can afford?"
"...Fair point."
"There’s a store in town," Pops said. "Murdoch’s. They got everything you need. Good prices, quality stuff. You should go tomorrow. Stock up before you’re workin’ in your boxers."
The mental image of me mucking stalls in silk boxers was both hilarious and horrifying.
"I can take him," Winnie said, spearing a green bean. "Need to pick up some feed anyway. We can make a run."
"Perfect." Pops nodded, then fixed me with a serious look. "You did good today, son."
I blinked, surprised. "I did?"
"Real good. I know it wasn't easy—hell, I know you probably wanted to quit about five minutes in—but you stuck with it. Didn't complain more than was reasonable. Put your back into it." He smiled, and it was warm, genuine. "I’m proud of you."
The words hit me square in the chest.
I’m proud of you.
Four words. Four simple words that I had spent twenty-four years chasing from my own father, jumping through hoops and corporate ladders to hear, and never once receiving.
And here was Dexter Jameson, a man who had known me for exactly twenty-four hours, saying them like they were easy. Like they were free.
"Thank you," I managed, my voice coming out rougher than I intended. "That... that means a lot."
"You’re gonna be sore as hell tomorrow," Pops warned. "Probably worse than today. But it gets easier. Your hands will toughen up. Your body will remember the work. Give it two weeks, and you’ll be waking up before the alarm."
"I don't know about that," I said, trying to lighten the heavy emotion in my chest. "The alarm and I are in a feud. It’s personal."
"We’ll see," Winnie said, catching my eye. There was a softness there now, the sharp edges of the morning smoothed away.
We cleared the table together—I insisted, despite my muscles protesting every movement—and by the time I headed upstairs, I was dead on my feet.
I collapsed onto the twin bed, which felt smaller than this morning but somehow softer. I should text Z back. I should check my email. I should worry about my dad and the company and the mess I’d left behind in Dallas.
But instead, I lay there in the dark, listening to the crickets outside, and thought about Pops saying he was proud of me. I thought about the way Winnie had laughed in the barn.
I set my alarm for 5:30 AM. I groaned just thinking about it.
But as I drifted off, the smell of sage and old wood settling around me, I realized something strange.
I wasn't dreading tomorrow.
God help me, I think I was actually looking forward to it.