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)
I want to kiss her more than I want a name on my next breath.
But behind that want is a picture of her face if this all goes wrong—the ranch threatened, the saboteur still out there, and me adding a fresh broken piece to the pile.
I stop.
She feels it. Her shoulders lower a fraction, not rejection—resignation. “Make your call, Nash,” she says, trying for light and almost making it. “We’ll practice the fake-relationship PDA another time.”
“Promise?” I ask before I can stop myself.
She huffs out a breath. “Go before I change my mind and kiss you first.”
I nearly do something catastrophically stupid then. Instead, I step back. “Goodnight, Laney.”
“Night, Nash.”
She slips inside. The door closes with a soft click that echoes louder than it should.
I stand there for a beat, staring at the wood, then force myself down the steps and away from the light. The yard swallows me up. I pull out my phone and hit Gray’s contact.
He picks up on the first ring. “Tell me this is a social call,” he says, dry.
“Not even close.”
“Tell me it’s at least not about damage.”
“Also not true.”
He sighs. “Hit me.”
“Kyle Stroud showed up at the Eager Beaver,” I say. “He’s sniffing around the ranch. Dropping hints about his daddy’s ‘investments.’ Talking leverage. Talking like he knows something we don’t.”
Gray’s voice sharpens. “Specifics.”
I give him a quick rundown—Stroud Holdings’ interest in the north pasture, the old complaint about ‘interference,’ Kyle’s little monologue about progress being inevitable and us standing in front of the bulldozer.
“And the way he looked at Delaney,” I add, jaw tightening. “Like she was already an acquisition.”
Gray doesn’t answer for a beat. Then, “Stroud’s always been thirsty for what he can’t have. Daddy’s money made him sloppy, not soft.”
“I want everything you’ve got on him,” I say. “On his old man. On the company. Land deals, backroom agreements, political donations, water rights. Any connection to the Keenes. Any hints of using ‘accidents’ to move reluctant sellers.”
“You’re thinking sabotage is part of a pattern.”
“I’m thinking rich men don’t like being told no. And Clay Stroud got told no by a Coleman with a big fat Sharpie across a dotted line.”
Gray exhales through his teeth. “I can pull some of it from public records. The rest I’ll have to dig for. Might be morning before I have anything solid.”
“That’s fine. I’ll be up.”
“No, you won’t,” he says, all boss now. “You’ll sleep. I need you sharp, not cooked.”
“I’m not—”
“Don’t finish that sentence. You sound like me five years ago, and I was an idiot.”
I rub a hand over my face.
He softens a notch. “We’ll look into Stroud. In the meantime, eyes open. Ears open. Don’t let your… history with Delaney cloud your judgment.”
“Too late,” I say, honest because lying to him is a waste of both our time.
He’s quiet.
“I figured,” he says finally. “Just remember: mission first. Her safety is the mission. Not your second chance.”
The words land where they’re supposed to.
“I know,” I say.
“Good. Now go do what I pay you for—make bad people uncomfortable.”
“Yes, sir.”
He hangs up.
I slide my phone into my pocket and turn toward the dark pasture. The ranch stretches out like a living thing, breathing slow. I can almost feel the heartbeat of it in my feet. I start walking.
Habit. Training. Obsession.
Call it what you want.
I move along the edge of the yard, past the barn, toward the south line. My red-lens flashlight sifts through shadows, turning them into information.
Fence holds.
Gate’s latched.
The area where we fixed the wire looks untouched.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out.
Sinclair. My brother.
I hit accept. “What’s up?”
“Nash, I found something you might want to take a closer look at.”
“What’s that?”
He pauses, and I can hear him breathing. “It’s about Dad.”
Fuck.
“Send me what you found.”
I keep going, circling toward the north side, where the pasture curls down to the creek. The moon throws enough light that I leave the flashlight at my side, letting my eyes do the work.
“Do you think he could still be out there?” Sin’s voice echoes my own questions I’ve had for years.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. I stop in my tracks. “I gotta go. Talk soon.” I hang up before he’s even had a chance to say goodbye.
I spot headlights.
Low, dirty, bouncing.
On Coleman land.
A pickup, no running lights, no hesitation.
My pulse spikes.
The truck is near the back corner, where the property line meets the old service road. Too far to catch detail, close enough to know it doesn’t belong.
“Hey!” I bark, already breaking into a run.
The engine revs.
Taillights flare—red ghosts in the dark—and the truck swerves toward the fence line.
I sprint, boots pounding, breath steadying into that tight, efficient rhythm I trained into my body years ago.
“Stop!” I shout, useless but automatic. “Coleman property!”
The truck doesn’t stop. It guns it. For a second, it looks like the fool driving is going to plow straight through the fence we rebuilt twice. At the last second, they jerk the wheel and slip through a narrow gap between posts where the ground dips—just shallow enough to make it, just hidden enough you’d have to know it was there. They peel out onto the service road, gravel spraying, taillights shrinking.