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)
“What?” I ask, wiping my mouth.
The deputy nods at Nash. “Didn’t think Hawthorne had it in him.”
Nash lifts his cup in a lazy salute. “I contain multitudes.”
The deputy chuckles and walks off.
I stare at Nash. “You’re… normal today.”
He looks at me like I said something dangerous. “Normal?”
“Like, you’re still you. Watchful. Serious. But…” I gesture vaguely. “You’re laughing. You’re teasing. You’re—”
“Here,” he finishes, quiet.
I swallow.
“Yeah,” I say, softer. “Here.”
We finish lunch, then head to the print shop for posters. Nash insists on carrying the boxes because apparently I’m a delicate flower now, which is hilarious considering I once threw a hay bale at him out of spite.
When we finally get back to the ranch mid-afternoon, the vendor list is tighter, the sponsor calls are handled, and the knot in my chest has loosened for the first time in days.
We step out of the truck and Nash pauses, scanning the property line automatically.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Nothing. Just… measuring.”
“Measuring what?”
“Risk,” he says simply.
That’s when it hits me—hard and sudden.
This easy day… it’s sitting on top of something sharp. A threat that hasn’t stopped just because we got tacos and confirmed a funnel cake truck.
Nash is always holding the edge of it, even when he smiles.
Later, while I’m sorting sponsor packets at the kitchen table, I catch myself watching him through the window. He’s out by the barn with Daddy, lifting something heavy, joking with him like they’ve been friends forever.
It’s… too easy.
I didn’t expect easy.
I expected hard conversations and awkwardness and old pain flaring like a sunburn.
But with Nash, it feels like sliding into a groove that’s been waiting for us all along.
Which is exactly why my brain starts doing what it always does when I’m happy:
It panics.
Because I live in Saint Pierce.
My apartment is there. My job, what’s left of it, is there. My whole big-city life I built out of stubbornness and survival is there.
And Nash…
Nash is Valor Springs down to his bones.
This ranch. His job. The way he knows the land like it’s an extension of his body.
How does a relationship like this work when our zip codes don’t match?
When the last time we tried to want each other, life broke us apart?
I stare at the sponsor packet in my hands and suddenly can’t read the words.
My chest tightens.
Nash steps into the kitchen a second later, wiping his hands on a rag. He catches my expression instantly. “What’s wrong?” he asks, voice low.
I try to smile it off. “Nothing.”
His eyes narrow. “Laney.”
There it is again—my name, softened like he’s holding it carefully.
I swallow, then tell the truth because it’s sitting too heavy. “I’m scared,” I admit.
His gaze softens, but he doesn’t interrupt. He just waits.
“Not about the rodeo,” I say quickly. “Not even about the sabotage—well, yes, that too. But…” I tap my fingers against the packet like I can organize my feelings into a neat list. “This. Us. Because it feels easy with you. And easy doesn’t happen to me.”
He steps closer, slow. “Easy doesn’t mean fragile.”
“But what happens after?” I whisper. “After we catch whoever’s doing this. After Rodeo Days. After I’m not needed here every second.” My throat tightens. “I live in Saint Pierce, Nash.”
He studies me for a long beat, then reaches out and hooks a finger under my chin, tipping my gaze to his.
“We’re not solving ten years of distance in one morning,” he says quietly. “We’re just… here. Today.”
“And tomorrow?”
His mouth curves, faint but sure. “Tomorrow we keep being honest.”
That should scare me more. Instead it steadies me. Because Nash Hawthorne isn’t promising something shiny and impossible. He’s promising the only thing I’ve ever actually needed from him:
Presence.
Choice.
Not running.
I let out a shaky breath. “Okay.”
He leans down and kisses my forehead—soft, not for show, just for me. Then he glances toward the window again, that watchful edge returning like a reflex. “Now,” he says, voice shifting back to business, “tell me which vendor has the biggest mouth and the best view of your north pasture.”
I blink. “Why?”
His eyes sharpen. “Because whoever’s doing this isn’t just cutting wire. They’re watching you.”
A chill crawls up my spine.
The easy day doesn’t vanish, but it gains shadows again—real ones, pressing in at the edges.
And as Nash moves closer to the door, already turning into the protector he can’t help being, I realize something else, too: I can worry about the future. I can fear the distance. But I’m more afraid of losing this again than I am of figuring out how to make it work.
So I gather my binder, square my shoulders, and follow him—because whatever comes next, I refuse to do it alone.
THIRTEEN
NASH
Night in Valor Springs has a way of going quiet like it’s listening.
The ranch settles. The horses stop shifting. The wind eases off. Even the old house seems to breathe slower, like it’s finally tired of being brave.