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)
“We’re going into town,” Nash says before I can answer. “Couple errands. Couple of… couple things.”
“Couple-y things,” I echo. “Very technical.”
“Gotta keep the brand consistent.” His eyes spark.
Daddy snorts. “Your mother and I are happy to handle the ranch chores while you kids go ‘brand’ yourselves all over Main Street.”
Mama smacks his shoulder with a dish towel. “Hush. We want folks to see him with her. If whoever’s messing with us knows we’ve hired help…” She trails off, eyeing Nash, then me. “This is the least horrible plan we’ve ever had.”
High praise.
Nash reaches for the jam, his arm brushing mine lightly. “We’ll check in with Gray too,” he says. “See if he dug anything up on Stroud.”
I stiffen. “What did he say last night?”
“Not much.” He nods, jaw tightening. “Told him what happened at the Beaver. And about the truck that cut across the back corner.”
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. “Truck?”
Mama freezes.
Daddy lowers his paper. “What truck?”
“The one that decided to use your land as a joyride around midnight,” Nash says calmly, but his eyes flash. “Didn’t get plates. Only saw taillights. But it knew the layout.”
My stomach drops. “You didn’t think that was worth mentioning last night?”
His gaze lands on me, steady. “By the time I got back, you were upstairs and your dad was half asleep in his chair. There wasn’t anything you could’ve done with that information except lose sleep.” He pauses. “I had it covered.”
My knee bounces under the table. He did have it covered. And part of me wants to be mad anyway, because this is my home and I want to know every threat that breathes near it.
Daddy blows out a slow breath. “Well. I’m up now. We’ll take another look at that corner later.”
Mama slides a cup of coffee toward Nash like it’s a weapon she’s choosing to lay down. “You make sure my daughter doesn’t get shot at before dinner, you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says. His voice goes soft on ma’am in a way that eases something tight in my chest.
Breakfast hums on—talk of fence staples, Josie’s pony lesson, the weather.
At some point, Nash’s phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, then leans closer to me, the world narrowing to the bend of his head and the low, private rasp of my name. “Laney.”
It’s not the way he said it in high school. It’s deeper now. Roughened by sand and time and whatever broke him over there. It slides under my skin like it owns the place.
I look up, caught.
He’s close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his irises. Close enough that if I leaned forward an inch, my nose would brush his.
“Gray says he’s working on the Stroud files,” he murmurs, eyes on mine. “Wants us to keep doing what we’re doing today. Business as usual.”
“Right,” I say, but it comes out as more of a breath than a word.
His gaze dips to my mouth, then back up, fast.
Mama clears her throat so loudly she might have swallowed a spoon.
We jerk apart like teenagers.
“I am right here,” she says. “At my table. Where I eat food.”
Daddy bites a smile into his toast.
Heat floods my neck. Nash’s ears turn pink, which is deeply satisfying.
“Town,” I say, standing so fast my chair squeaks. “Let’s go… be nauseating in public.”
“Ma’am,” Nash says, nodding to Mama. “Sir.”
We escape onto the porch like it’s a lifeboat. Outside, the air is already warming up, sun lifting over the pastures, a soft breeze trying its best. I head for Nash’s truck with more energy than dignity.
“You okay?” he asks once we’re in the cab.
“No.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Absolutely not.”
He grins. “Copy that.”
We start with the feed store because nothing says romance like bulk mineral blocks.
Mr. Calhoun gives us a slight discount “because y’all are young and in love and under attack,” which is his way of caring without saying he’s worried.
Then we hit the co-op, the hardware store, and the bakery, where I buy cinnamon rolls for the crew and the lady at the counter gives us a free extra “for the happy couple.”
By the time we reach Main Street and park in front of the coffee shop, my cheeks hurt from smiling.
Fake smiling.
Real smiling.
Some unholy mix.
We grab iced coffees and claim a small table outside. It’s shaded, and the breeze channels up the sidewalk, carrying the sounds of town—music from someone’s truck, laughter, the metallic thunk of someone closing a tailgate.
Nash sits opposite me, long legs stretched out, one ankle crossed over the other. He’s relaxed in that way that isn’t actually relaxed at all. I’ve come to recognize it in the last few days. It’s a coiled stillness, like his muscles have gone on low power, not off.
“So,” I say, tracing my straw in a circle over the condensation ring. “Strouds.”
He sobers. “Gray says public records show three attempted acquisitions within a fifty-mile radius where owners ‘suddenly’ changed their minds after ‘unfortunate incidents.’”