WINNIE
Sealed records
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
Morning
"I don't wanna be famous / If I can't do it with you" – Mason Ramsey
***
The sedan doors swung open before I was even halfway down the drive.
Two men spilled out like oil on clean gravel. One was wiry and twitchy in a sweat-wilted button-down, clutching a little digital recorder like a weapon. The other was bigger, already lifting a camera with a lens long enough to shoot the damn moon.
Reporters.
Cold washed through me so fast my fingers went numb. They weren’t supposed to be here. Calls and emails were one thing—easy to hang up on. But standing in my driveway? On my dirt?
“Hey!” I called, forcing my voice to carry even though my heart was pounding. “Can I help you? This is private property.”
The wiry one turned like a shark scenting blood. His eyes lit when he clocked me. He didn’t bother with names or niceties. He just yanked out his phone and shoved it toward my face.
Blurry Spur shot. Me, pixelated, laughing, leaning into Beau. His hand on my back, unmistakable even through the grain.
“Is this you?” he snapped. “The mystery brunette with Beau Sterling?”
“I don’t—who are you?” I took a step back, hands coming up. “You can’t just show up here—”
“Naomie Jameson, right?”
The name hit like a fist.
Naomie. Hospital-band name. Court-file name. The name on the report from when somebody left a baby on a stranger’s porch and walked away. Nobody out here called me that. Not unless I was in trouble. Not unless they knew too much.
“Born at Osage County Hospital,” the wiry man rattled off, stepping closer, recorder in my face. “Abandoned at three days old. Foster system till Margaret and Dexter Jameson took you in. Hell of a story, huh? From unwanted newborn to billionaire’s… what, exactly? Side piece? Rehab project?”
My mouth went dry. “How do you know that?” My voice shook. “Those records are sealed. That’s not—” I swallowed. “That’s not public.”
“Did Beau promise you a payout?” He barreled on, eyes bright with mean curiosity. “Is this your exit plan? How much is he paying you to play wholesome ranch girl for the cameras?”
He flicked his gaze around—house, barn, pastures—with obvious disdain, like my whole life was some set dressing.
“Get away from me,” I said, but it came out thin.
The cameraman stepped in, shutter already firing. Click click click, flash-flash—each burst like a slap. “Naomie, over here! Can you confirm you grew up poor? Did you hide your past from him? Does being abandoned make it easier to latch onto rich men?”
“Stop!” I threw my hands up, backing toward the porch steps, heel catching the bottom one. “I said stop!”
They kept coming, orbit tightening. Panic clawed up my throat.
“POPS!” The word ripped out of me. “BEAU!”
The wiry guy put a foot on the stair. “Just one comment, Naomie—”
A streak of red and orange exploded out from under the porch.
Pickles.
He didn’t cluck. He screamed—full-on dinosaur screech—and launched himself straight at the camera guy’s chest, wings flapping, spurs out.
“What the—fuck!” the man yelped, stumbling back as Pickles went for his face, then attack his ankles like a tiny feathered chainsaw. The rooster had fought coyotes; a dude in loafers didn’t stand a chance.
“Get it off! Get this fucking chicken off me!”
The screen door banged open so hard the frame rattled.
Pops stepped out first, lever-action shotgun in his hands. He didn’t yell. He didn’t posture. He just racked the slide.
KA-CHUNK.
The sound rolled across the yard, sharp and absolute.
“Trespassers,” Pops said, voice slow and deadly calm, Southern drawl thick as molasses, “get shot. That’s the law in this county.”
The reporters froze. The wiry one’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he looked from the barrel to Pops’ face.
“Sir, we’re press, we have a right—”
“You got the right t’ back your sorry asses off my porch,” Pops cut in. “You’re on private land harassin’ my girl. You don’t move, I call the sheriff an’ the coroner, same time. Your pick.”
Then Beau shouldered past him.
If Pops was fire, Beau was ice. No raised voice. No flailing. Just focused, terrifying rage.
He vaulted off the porch, boots hitting dirt hard, and closed the distance in three strides. He grabbed a fistful of the wiry guy’s shirt and slammed him back against the car so hard the door clanged.
“You,” Beau said, voice low and razor-sharp, “are done.”
The reporter tried to puff up. “You touch me again and that’s assault—”
“You wanna talk about assault?” Beau stepped in, crowding his space. “You marched onto private property. You harassed a woman. And you used sealed juvenile records, which means you bribed somebody or hacked something. That’s a felony. You want a headline?” His mouth twisted. “I’ll hand you one.”
The guy’s mouth snapped shut.
Beau turned on the cameraman, who was still trying to fend off Pickles with his very expensive lens. “Delete the photos. Now. Or I will bury you in so many lawsuits your great-grandkids’ll piss themselves when they hear my name.”
“I—I can’t just—”
“Now,” Beau barked, that ice finally cracking, anger bleeding through.
The cameraman fumbled the buttons with shaking hands, scrolling, tapping, going pale. “Deleted. They’re deleted, see?” He held the display out—empty gallery, No Images.
“Pickles. Heel,” Pops called, like he was talking to a dog.
Miraculously, the rooster fluffed himself up and strutted back to the porch, looking smug as hell.
Beau shoved the reporter away. “Get off this property. If I see you again, if I hear my girlfriend’s name—or her real name—used for clicks, I will end your career. That ain’t a threat. That’s a promise.”
“G–girlfriend,” the wiry one repeated weakly, but he was already scrambling into the car.
They peeled out so fast gravel spit in all directions. Then they were gone, tail-lights shrinking down the long dirt drive.
Silence slammed back down, thick and heavy.
My legs gave out, and I dropped onto the porch step. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
Naomie. They’d said it like it was dirty. Like they’d scraped my whole life out of some manila folder and decided where it fit in their story.
Pops lowered the shotgun with a grunt and eased himself down beside me, laying the gun across his knees. He suddenly looked older than he had that morning, shoulders bowed.
Beau was in front of me in a heartbeat, dropping to his knees in the dust. His hands hovered like he was afraid to hurt me, then came up to cradle my face, thumbs warm on my cheeks.
“Winnie,” he breathed, voice rough, eyes blazing and scared. “Baby, you okay? Did they touch you?”
“They knew,” I whispered. Tears finally spilled, hot and humiliating. “They knew about the adoption. They knew my birth name. How did they know, Beau? That was supposed to be sealed. That was supposed to be mine.”
Guilt slid over his face like a shadow. He pulled me into his chest, wrapping his arms around me so tight I could feel his heart slamming against my ear.
“I’m sorry,” he said into my hair, voice cracking. “I am so fucking sorry. I thought… if I kept my end locked down—if I played nice with Dallas—we could keep this place off their radar. I thought the bubble would hold.”
“The bubble popped,” I choked, fingers fisting in his shirt.
Pops let out a long breath through his nose.
“All right,” he said, the word dragged out, accent heavier when he was pissed.
“First thing, we lock that damn gate. Big ol’ chain.
I’ll call Sheriff Harlan, get this trespass on record.
Ain’t nobody comin’ up this drive again ‘less they got an invite or a warrant.”
“It won’t be enough,” Beau said quietly, pulling back just enough to look at me. He looked wrecked. “If they’ve got your file, they’ve got everything. Once it’s in their system, they’re gonna spin it however sells. They’ll make it ugly.”
“It’s already ugly,” I muttered, wiping at my face. “Dumpster baby, dustbowl, bedwarmer. That’s a hell of a headline.”
“Hey.” His hands tightened on my face, not rough, just steady. “You are none of those things. They can print whatever the fuck they want. Doesn’t make it true.”
“What do we do?” My voice sounded small even to me.
Beau’s jaw clenched, his eyes hardening into something like resolve. “We fight,” he said. “We get a lawyer. We talk to Harlan. We tell your story our way before they get to cut it up. And we don’t hide. That’s what they want.”
Pops nodded once, decisive. “Boy’s right,” he said. “World wants t’ come knockin’, fine. We just make sure they see more’n whatever bullshit they dug outta some file. They’re gonna see a Jameson. My girl. Standin’ on her own two feet.”
“And if it gets bad?” I asked, throat tight.
Beau didn’t look away. “Then it gets bad,” he said, simple. “And I stay. I’m not runnin’ back to Dallas and leavin’ you to eat this alone. He can cut me off. He can take the money. He doesn’t get to take me.”
Pops snorted, something like pride in it. “If he tries showin’ his face out here givin’ you trouble, I’ll have a real good talk with him ‘bout that trespass law.”
Despite everything, a shaky laugh slipped out of me.
I leaned my forehead against Beau’s, breathing in sweat, soap, gun oil, and adrenaline, with the faintest whiff of coffee from Pops behind us. The world had finally found its way up our long dirt road. It knew my name now. Both of them.
But with Beau’s hands on my cheeks and Pops’ solid weight warm at my side, one thing cut through the fear:
They weren’t taking me on alone.
.