Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 43512 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43512 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
“Watch for anything that feels off,” Daddy said before he headed out again. “Old easements. Water rights. Loan notes. We’ve pissed off a lot of the right people over the years.”
He wasn’t wrong.
In the “COLEMAN RANCH — LEGAL” drawer there are thick envelopes from the drought year when the Keenes tried to divert our share of river water and the county court slapped them so hard they still flinch when they see a judge. There are letters from small-time developers who sent glossy brochures and got dusty boots in response. And then there’s a thin, crisp folder stamped with a name I’ve been trying not to think about:
STROUD HOLDINGS.
I open it.
Inside: a purchase offer for the north pasture from four years ago. Generous numbers. “Win-win language.” A hand-signed letter from Clay Stroud himself, promising jobs, infrastructure, and “a legacy your grandchildren will thank you for.”
At the bottom, in my father’s own handwriting, there’s a single word scrawled across the signature line:
NO.
I huff out a humorless breath.
Beneath that: a photocopy of a complaint filed by the Strouds about “unfair interference” in their development plan. Nothing came of it. The Colemans have land and history while the Strouds have money. Sometimes those things balance. Sometimes they don’t.
I flip further.
There’s a note from Daddy to himself, tucked in the back.
Keene + Stroud mtg @ county — water corridor? leverage?
No follow-up.
No resolution.
Just a question mark that feels louder than the words.
I close the file, put it at the top of the stack that I’m going to show Nash, and try not to let the weight of it sink too deep.
By the time dinner rolls around, my brain is a stew of what-ifs and oh-no’s. Mama serves chili like it’s armor, Josie and Gray swing by for exactly ten minutes of “just checking in,” and Nash sits at the table looking entirely too calm for a man who rearranged his bed to hear my door last night.
(I heard him. The scrape of wood. The way the house shifted around his instincts. My heart hasn’t decided what to do with that information yet.)
“Town’s buzzing,” Daddy says, lifting his spoon. “Apparently my daughter has a bodyguard boyfriend now.”
“He’s not—” I start.
Nash cuts in smoothly. “She’s stuck with me a little while, sir.”
My mother tries very hard not to smile into her cornbread.
After dinner, I start stacking bowls, ready to spend my Friday night elbow-deep in suds and old files.
“Laney,” Nash says, leaning against the counter like a problem in a worn t-shirt. “We should go out.”
My eyebrows try to climb off my face. “We what?”
“Eager Beaver.” He tips his chin toward town. “Line dancing. Cheap beer. People. You know, the whole ‘convince the locals we’re a thing’ package.”
“I hate the Eager Beaver.”
“You used to love it.”
“I loved leaving it at midnight in your truck.”
Mama chokes on a laugh.
Nash’s eyes crinkle. “Exactly,” he says. “People remember that. They’ll remember us now. Together.”
He’s not wrong.
I still hate it.
“You can stay home,” he adds, too casual. “Tell everybody you’re too chicken to two-step with me. I’ll do recon alone.”
My narrowed eyes say I see what he’s doing.
His mouth curves like, yeah, you caught me, but are you really going to let me show up at the Eager Beaver solo and let the rumor mill fill in the blanks?
I throw my dishtowel on the counter. “Fine. But if someone requests ‘Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy),’ I’m setting the jukebox on fire.”
“Deal,” he says, way too fast.
The Eager Beaver is exactly the same and completely different.
Same neon beer signs buzzing faintly. Same wooden dance floor polished by a thousand boots. Same bar where I had my first legal drink and my last illegal one. The air smells like spilled beer, perfume, and nostalgia.
Different me.
Different him.
The moment we step inside, the hum of conversation shifts. Heads turn. Music keeps pounding, but the air around us sharpens like we’re the interesting part of the show now.
Nash’s hand finds mine. He threads our fingers together like he’s been doing it every day for the last ten years. The contact is simple. My pulse is not.
“You okay?” he murmurs, low enough that it’s just for me.
“No.”
“Want to turn around?”
“Yes.”
“Gonna?”
“No.”
He squeezes.
We weave through the crowd. The small-town ecosystem rearranges itself around us: ranch hands nodding, old-timers watching like they’re grading us, girls from high school whispering behind their hands with faces that say thank God I left this town and eyes that say tell me everything.
At the bar, we run into the past in skinny jeans and a floral top.
“Delaney Coleman?” Brooke Jenkins blinks at me, then squeals. “Oh my God, you’re actually here.”
“Brooke,” I say, bracing myself. “You look great.”
She does—glowy and happy and three shots in.
She pins Nash next with a stare that could strip paint. “And you’re…”
“Nash,” he says, easy. “Hawthorne.”
Her eyes widen. “No. Way.”