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 keep it tender. She keeps it fierce.
We kiss until our mouths are sore and our lungs are begging, until the line between grief and joy blurs into something softer—something like healing.
When we finally slow, Delaney curls into my chest again, fingers drawing lazy patterns over my ribs like she’s grounding herself in the fact that I’m real.
I press my lips to her hair.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, for everything. For leaving. For deciding. For the years.
She tilts her chin up and kisses the corner of my mouth.
“I’m here,” she whispers back. “Now. That has to count for something.”
My throat tightens. “It counts for everything,” I murmur.
Outside, the ranch is still threatened. The fences still vulnerable. The night still full of shadows.
But in this bed, with Delaney in my arms and the past finally spoken out loud, I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time:
Not control.
Not rage.
Not survival.
Peace.
And a vow that settles into my bones like bedrock— no matter who’s cutting wire, no matter who thinks they can scare this family into giving up…
They’re not taking her from me again.
FOURTEEN
DELANEY
It’s been three days of stolen kisses in hallways, shared coffee on the porch, and Nash Hawthorne looking at me like he’s finally done running.
I haven’t been this happy in… I don’t know if I’ve ever been this happy.
Which is exactly why I keep waiting for the universe to remind me it doesn’t do fairytales.
We still haven’t said the hard part out loud—Saint Pierce, distance, what happens when the ranch stops bleeding and I’m not needed here every second. It hangs over us like a storm cloud we’re both pretending is just a nice bit of shade.
But for now?
For now, Nash’s hand finds mine like it belongs there, and my mother hums while she cooks like the whole house is lighter. My dad’s shoulders sit a little higher. The fences are holding. The vendor list is tight. The sponsor banners are hung.
And it’s Rodeo Days.
Coleman Ranch is strung with lights and flags. People are everywhere—boots, denim, kids with glitter on their cheeks, old men in folding chairs acting like they personally invented fun. The air smells like dust and barbecue and fried sugar. Somewhere, a country band is sound-checking too loud and nobody’s mad about it.
I’m in full event-mode, which means I’m holding a clipboard like it’s a weapon and sprint-walking in my boots like my life depends on it.
“Delaney!” Mrs. Landry calls, waving from her craft booth. “My spot is still too close to the porta-potties!”
“I moved you two feet left!” I call back. “That’s all you get!”
She gasps like I’ve insulted her bloodline.
I keep moving.
The sponsors are happy. The kids’ events are set. The chili cook-off tent is already chaotic and it isn’t even noon. I’ve said “Where’s your permit?” so many times it’s becoming my personality.
Nash is nearby—always nearby—pretending he’s just a doting boyfriend while his eyes constantly sweep the crowd. Every time I look up, I find him like my body knows where he is before my mind catches up.
He gives me a small nod across the grounds—I’ve got you.
My chest warms.
I should go tell him the cornhole tournament is missing its brackets.
Instead, my walkie crackles.
“Laney?” It’s Brooke—because of course it is—assigned to vendor wrangling like the universe has jokes. “Corn dog cart’s not where it’s supposed to be.”
I close my eyes. “Where is it?”
“North pasture access, by the old hay bales. It’s… wandering.”
“Corn dogs don’t wander, Brooke.”
“Well this one did.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m on it.”
I make my way through the crowd, waving, smiling, answering questions, dodging children with sticky hands. I cut past the mechanical bull line and the roping demo and head toward the north pasture access.
The farther I get from the center of the festival, the thinner the crowd becomes. The music fades behind me into a muffled thump. The sunlight feels hotter out here, more exposed. The grass sways in the breeze. Beyond the fencing, the north pasture stretches open and wide—beautiful, valuable land that men like the Strouds look at and see dollar signs.
I spot the corn dog cart immediately.
It’s parked crooked, like someone dropped it and walked away. The teenage boy working it is standing beside it, looking nervous, hands shoved in his apron pockets.
“Hey,” I call. “You okay?”
He jolts like I startled him. “Uh—yes, ma’am. Sorry. A guy said we had to move it because it was blocking—”
“A guy?” My stomach tightens. “What guy?”
He points vaguely toward the tree line. “Tall. Fancy boots. Told me he was… with the committee.”
I’m the committee.
My pulse quickens.
I force my voice calm. “Okay. You’re fine. Just—roll it back to where your permit says you’re supposed to be. If anyone tells you to move again, you call me. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I start to turn, already reaching for my walkie to call Nash.