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 follow the line of disturbance like it’s a neon sign.
Grass flattened. Dirt scuffed. A clear skid where boots dragged. Something shiny in the sunlight—
Her walkie.
My throat closes.
I grab it, thumb the button. “Laney—Laney, respond.”
Static.
No voice.
No laugh.
No sharp “I’m fine, stop being dramatic.”
Nothing.
My vision narrows to a ruthless tunnel.
I scan again. Tire tracks cut across the pasture near the tree line. Fresh. Deep. The kind you make when you’re in a hurry and you don’t care who notices. The tracks angle toward the service road. The same goddamn service road that truck used the other night.
I drop to a knee and run my fingers through the dirt. Still loose. Still warm from recent compression.
Minutes.
We’re talking minutes.
I stand so fast the world tilts for half a second.
I call Gray back.
He answers immediately. “Report.”
“She’s gone,” I say. The words taste like metal. “Confirm abduction. I’ve got fresh scuffle marks and tire tracks heading to the back service road. I need a team. Now.”
Gray doesn’t ask questions he doesn’t need answers to. “Any ID on the suspect?”
I glance toward the teen by the cart and motion him over with two fingers.
“Describe him,” I demand.
The kid swallows hard. “Nice shirt. Like… pressed. Fancy boots. Expensive hat. Smelled like cologne. He was— he was real calm when he threatened me. Like he didn’t care.”
That calm threat.
That entitled ease.
A picture snaps into place in my head so sharply it’s like someone clicked a switchblade open behind my ribs.
Kyle Stroud.
I feel my teeth grind. “It was Kyle Stroud,” I say into the phone, voice going lethal. “I’m sure of it.”
Gray exhales, low. “Copy. I’m mobilizing Lone Star. You stay on the track and do not go solo.”
I laugh once, short and humorless. “Tell that to my body.”
“Nash,” Gray warns. “If you go down, she stays gone.”
That lands.
I force myself to breathe. To think.
“Copy,” I say. “I’ll hold. But I’m not stopping.”
“Send me a pin,” Gray says. “And get back to the ranch. We need her parents looped in and we need to control the information before Stroud does.”
I end the call and snap photos of the tracks and the scuffle marks, sending them with location. Then I look at the teen.
“You did good,” I tell him, voice gentler than I feel. “Go find the sheriff. Tell him Delaney Coleman has been taken. Tell him Nash Hawthorne said to lock down the festival and keep her family safe.”
The kid nods like his spine is made of fear and willpower.
I take off toward the ranch. My body is a machine now—moving on purpose, no wasted motion. But inside, something old and violent wakes up.
You don’t touch what’s mine.
Not mine like ownership.
Mine like promised. Like loved. Like held in my arms last night while she slept with her cheek on my chest and I thought, I could do this forever.
Forever doesn’t mean a damn thing if she’s gone.
Delaney’s parents are in the kitchen when I burst in.
Mrs. Coleman’s face goes white the second she sees mine.
Mr. Coleman stands so fast his chair scrapes. “Nash? Where’s Delaney?”
I don’t sugarcoat it. Sugar is for coffee, not disaster. “She’s been taken,” I say, voice steady even as my blood roars. “From the north pasture access near the corn dog cart. It happened minutes ago.”
Mrs. Coleman gasps.
Mr. Coleman’s hands curl into fists. “Taken by who?”
I lock eyes with him. “Kyle Stroud.”
Silence detonates in the room.
Then Mr. Coleman’s face turns a shade of red that scares even me. “That little—” he chokes out. “That little bastard—”
“We need facts,” I cut in. “Not feelings. Feelings can come later.”
Mrs. Coleman stares at me like she might fall apart if she blinks. “Why?” she whispers. “Why would he—”
“Because you told his family no,” I say. “Because he’s entitled. Because he thinks he can force leverage.” My jaw clenches.
Mr. Coleman paces like a caged animal. “We call the police.” He grabs the landline in his hands.
“We have,” I say. “I’ve also called Gray.” I nod. “There’s someone you need to call.”
He glares. “Who?”
“Clay Stroud,” I say.
Mrs. Coleman’s eyes widen. “Why would we call him?”
“Because either Clay knows and he’s complicit,” I say, “or Clay doesn’t know and his son just went rogue. Either way, Clay’s reaction tells us something. And if he’s smart, he’ll want his son found before this turns into a grave.”
No one argues.
Mr. Coleman dials with hands that shake from fury.
The phone rings.
Once. Twice.
Then a smooth voice answers. “Coleman.”
Mr. Coleman’s voice is ice. “Clay. Where’s my daughter?”
A pause.
“What are you talking about?”
I lean in, close enough to hear every breath.
Mr. Coleman’s voice breaks on the edge of restraint. “Kyle took her. Don’t you lie to me.”
Another pause, longer this time. And then Clay Stroud’s tone shifts—sharp, startled, real. “Kyle?” he says. “Kyle isn’t—” He swallows audibly. “Coleman, I swear to you, I don’t know what you’re talking about. My son is… he’s an idiot, but he wouldn’t—”