Winnie The Pull of Home
WINNIE
The pull of home
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
"I'm already gone / And I'm feeling strong / I will sing this victory song / My my my my victory song"
– Kelly Clarkson
***
The truck's windows were down, warm Oklahoma air whipping through the cab, carrying the scent of hay fields, wildflowers, and that rare kind of freedom that made you feel invincible.
The radio was cranked up—some upbeat country song about backroads and bad decisions—and Cassie was half-hanging out the passenger window, arms stretched toward the sky like she was trying to catch the wind, hollering the lyrics at the top of her lungs.
I was squeezed in the middle on the bench seat, laughing so hard my sides hurt. One hand was braced on the dashboard, the other clutching Beau's thigh as he navigated the winding country roads with a confidence that still surprised me.
"BEAU! FASTER!" Cassie shrieked, her blonde ponytail whipping wildly in the wind. "This is Oklahoma, not a damn Sunday drive to church! Let's go!"
"I'm already going seventy!" Beau shouted back, grinning.
His left hand was casual on the wheel, his right shifting gears with the kind of smooth precision that made my stomach flutter.
He'd gotten good at driving manual—no more grinding gears or stalling at stop signs.
Now he handled my truck like he'd been born to it, downshifting into curves, accelerating out of them with a confidence that was honestly kind of sexy.
"Seventy is basically crawling!" Cassie turned back to us, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Winnie, tell your man to step on it! We need to feel the G-force!"
"Leave him alone," I laughed, squeezing Beau's leg. "He's doing great. Better than you ever did in this truck."
"That's a lie! Slander!"
"You stalled it four times trying to leave my driveway last week!"
"That was a mechanical failure! The clutch was being difficult!" Cassie protested, but she was grinning, turning back to the window to belt out the chorus again.
We'd been driving aimlessly for over an hour, no destination in mind, just burning gas and blowing off steam after a week that had been equal parts exhausting and exhilarating.
My training times were getting better—consistently in the low sixteens now—and Beau had been lighter, happier, like some weight had lifted after our vulnerable shower conversation earlier in the week.
We hadn't talked about Dallas, or his dad, or the reporters.
We'd just... existed. Together. And it felt good.
Normal. Like this was our real life, not some temporary dream.
"You know what?" Cassie declared, pulling herself back inside and slouching dramatically against the door.
"Beau, you're officially a real cowboy now.
Like, certified. You can drive stick, you don't complain about early mornings, and you've survived Pickles.
That rooster is the final boss of ranch life. "
Beau laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Does that mean I get a trophy? A plaque? Maybe a belt buckle that says 'I Survived the Chicken from Hell'?"
"Better. You get Winnie's undying affection and Pops' approval. Which, let's be honest, is harder to earn than any trophy." Cassie waggled her eyebrows at me. "Right, Win?"
"Pops does like you," I admitted, leaning into Beau's shoulder. "He told me last night you're 'good people.' That's high praise. Usually, the best someone gets is 'tolerable.'"
"Good people, huh?" Beau's smile softened, his hand leaving the gearshift to rest on my knee, thumb tracing lazy circles. "I'll take it."
"You should. Pops doesn't say that about just anyone." I tilted my head up to kiss his jaw, quick and sweet, and he turned his head to catch my lips properly, the truck drifting slightly before he corrected.
"EYES ON THE ROAD, YOU TWO!" Cassie yelled, smacking the back of Beau's headrest. "I'm too young and beautiful to die in a fiery truck crash because you can't keep your hands to yourselves! Save the heavy petting for the bedroom!"
"You literally just told me to go faster!" Beau shot back, but he was laughing, both hands back on the wheel now.
"That's different! That's controlled chaos! This is distracted driving!"
I rolled my eyes, grinning at Cassie. "You're so dramatic."
"It's part of my charm."
The song shifted to something slower, mellower—a ballad about longing and open roads—and Cassie turned it down a notch, leaning her head back against the seat. "This is nice. We should do this more often. Just drive and forget the world exists."
"Agreed," I murmured, settling against Beau's side, feeling the warmth of him, the steady thrum of the engine, the way the truck rocked gently over uneven pavement. For a moment, it really did feel like the world had shrunk down to just us—three people, one truck, endless sky.
Then Beau's phone rang.
It was loud in the suddenly too-quiet cab, the generic ringtone cutting through the music like a knife. Beau's hand tightened on the wheel, his jaw clenching, and I felt him tense beside me. He glanced at the screen where it sat in the cupholder.
Z.
Z was his father's personal assistant. His Dallas lifeline. The guy who managed the chaos of the Sterling empire. If Z was calling on a Saturday, it wasn't for a casual chat.
Beau hesitated, his thumb hovering over the phone like it was a live grenade.
"You gonna answer that?" Cassie asked, her tone lighter now, sensing the shift.
"I... don't know." His voice was tight, uncertain. "It's probably nothing. He calls sometimes just to check in on scheduling or PR stuff."
"Answer it," I said firmly, nudging him. "We'll be quiet. We'll shut up completely. Right, Cassie?"
Cassie mimed zipping her lips, locking them, and throwing away the key with exaggerated drama.
Beau glanced at me, searching my face, then sighed. He pulled the truck over onto the gravel shoulder, dust billowing up around us as the engine idled. "Okay. But if this is about some Dallas gossip, I'm hanging up."
He swiped to answer, putting it on speaker. "Z? What's up?"
"Beau."
Z's voice crackled through the speaker, and immediately, I knew it was bad. His usual easy humor, the polished professional tone, was gone. It was replaced with something heavy. Serious.
"Hey, man. I... I don't know how to say this, so I'm just gonna say it. Your dad's in the hospital."
The world tilted.
Beau's face went pale, the blood draining away instantly. His knuckles went white where they gripped the steering wheel. "What? What happened? Is he—"
"He's alive. Stable," Z said quickly. "But he had a heart scare this morning.
Chest pains, shortness of breath, left arm numbness.
Your mom called an ambulance, and they took him to Methodist. The doctors are running tests, but they're saying it's stress-related.
Angina, maybe a mild myocardial infarction.
Not a massive heart attack, but... close. Too close."
Z paused, his voice softening. "Beau, you need to come home. Even if it's just for a day or two. Your mom's a wreck, and your dad... he's asking for you."
Beau closed his eyes, his head falling back against the headrest. "Fuck."
"I know. I'm sorry, man. I know the timing is shit, but—"
"No, it's fine. You're right. I need to... I'll figure it out." His voice was hollow, distant, like he was already halfway to Dallas in his mind. "Thanks for calling, Z."
"Anytime. Text me when you land, yeah?"
"Yeah. I will."
Beau ended the call. The phone dropped into his lap.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The radio played softly in the background, oblivious to the bomb that had just detonated in the cab. The dust settled around the truck, choking out the sunlight.
Cassie broke the silence first, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. "Beau... I'm so sorry. That's—shit. That's awful."
"He's fine," Beau said mechanically, staring straight ahead at the empty road. "He's stable. It's just... stress. My mom probably exaggerated. She does that."
I turned to face him fully, my hand finding his, lacing our fingers together. "Beau. Look at me."
He didn't move.
"Beau." I squeezed his hand.
He finally turned, his eyes wide and panicked.
"You need to go," I said softly.
"Winnie, I—"
"You need to go," I repeated, firmer this time. "He's your dad. Yeah, he's complicated, and yeah, things are messy, but if something happens—if he... if he dies, and you weren't there? You'll never forgive yourself. Trust me."
My voice cracked slightly, memories of Nana's last days flooding back. The rush to the hospital. The fear. "I know what that regret feels like. Don't carry it."
"But regionals are in two weeks," he argued, though his resistance was weak. "You need—"
"I don't need you here for that. I want you here, but I don't need you.
I've got Pops, I've got Cassie, I've got Bandit.
I'll be fine." I squeezed his hand, trying to pour every ounce of reassurance into my touch.
"Go. Be with your family. A day or two, like Z said. Then come back. We'll still be here."
He searched my face, his expression torn—guilt and fear and longing all tangled together. "I don't want to leave you. Not after everything. Not with the reporters and—"
"I'll handle it. We'll handle it." I leaned in, pressing my forehead to his. "This is what you do when you care about someone, right? You let them go when they need to go, and you trust they'll come back."
His breath hitched. He kissed me—desperate, clinging, like he was memorizing the shape of my lips. "I'm coming back. I swear. A few days, tops."
"I know."
He kissed me again, deeper, his hand cupping my face.
Cassie—bless her—made exaggerated gagging noises from the passenger seat. "Ewwww! Okay, I said I'd be quiet, not blind! Save the tonsil hockey for private time! There's a child present!"
"You're twenty-three," I muttered against Beau's mouth, but I was smiling, the tension breaking just slightly.
"Emotionally, I'm twelve!" Cassie protested, covering her eyes dramatically. "And this is grossly romantic! Stop being cute! It's making me feel feelings!"
Beau pulled back, laughing despite everything, and pressed one last kiss to my forehead. "Alright. Alright. I'll... I'll book a flight tonight. Leave first thing tomorrow morning."
"We'll drive you to Tulsa," I said immediately. "To the airport."
"You don't have to—"
"We're doing it. End of discussion." I looked at Cassie. "Right?"
"Damn straight. Road trip part two: Emotional Airport Edition." Cassie lowered her hands, her expression softening. "Beau, for real though. I hope your dad's okay. Even if he's kind of a dick from what I've heard."
Beau snorted, the sound half-laugh, half-sob. "Yeah. Thanks, Cassie."
He put the truck in gear, pulling back onto the road. But the easy joy from before was gone, replaced with a heavy quiet that pressed against all of us. I kept my hand in his, my head on his shoulder, and tried not to think about how everything could change in the span of one phone call.
I tried not to think about how "a day or two" might turn into forever.
.