7. Dawn
Chapter 7
Dawn
T he crowd’s roar should’ve been exhilarating, but all I could feel was the crushing weight of failure pressing down on my chest. Another run, another loss. Celine had given her all—I knew that much. The problem wasn’t her. It was me.
As I dismounted and led her toward my used trailer, the announcer’s voice blared over the arena, declaring the winner with a tone that felt like it was mocking me. My name wasn’t even in the top five. Again.
I didn’t bother sticking around to applaud the winners. Some might say that it’s unsportsmanlike conduct, but I genuinely didn’t care. I’d been alone for the last four rodeos of the week, the festival drawing to a close as people quickly left the venue. Willow had agreed to stay at the ranch to help Billie and the residents in Martha’s absence.
I stroked Celine’s sweat-dampened neck, my throat tight. “You did great, girl,” I whispered, though my voice cracked. She nickered softly, nudging me as if to say it wasn’t my fault. But it was. I wasn’t focused. I wasn’t fast. And I wasn’t strong enough to push through everything piling up on my shoulders.
As I guided her through the rows of trailers, my mind raced. The ranch felt like a burden that grew heavier with every loss, as though I were stuck in a room with the walls closing in.
I used to thrive under pressure—race harder, think quicker—but lately, it was like my brain couldn’t find the gear to push forward. I couldn’t stop thinking about the overdue bills, the endless repairs, the residents’ routines, and the gaps Martha’s absence had left.
Nash’s offer floated back into my mind, unwelcome and persistent. A benefit concert. A chance to raise enough money to keep the ranch afloat.
The idea of a benefit concert tugged at me like a fly I couldn’t swat. It wasn’t just the money; it was what it symbolized. Taking Nash up on his plan felt like admitting I couldn’t do this on my own—like giving up a piece of the pride that had kept me fighting in the first place.
Failure. That’s what it felt like.
I loaded Celine into the trailer, my movements mechanical. When the last latch was secured, I leaned against the door and let my forehead rest against the cool, rusted metal. I closed my eyes, but the numbers were still there, swirling in my head like a hurricane.
Even with the benefit concert, it might not be enough. Without it? The ranch was as good as gone. I didn’t have a choice left.
I navigated toward the village tavern through the crowd walking in the middle of the street—drunks struggling to stay upright after days of drinking and people carefully avoiding road apples.
I knew where I’d find him. Rebel Rose was the closing band of the festival, now reduced to playing for a crowd packing up and leaving.
As I made my way inside the bar, the stale scent of leftover beer and cigarettes hit me. The dark interior was lit only by red fluorescents and old flashing ads for a discontinued beer brand. The barman nodded politely at me as he dried glasses with a towel.
The familiar chords of a popular country song resonated through the place. Nash was sitting beside famous guitarist Easton Reed, playing the bridge of one of their hits. He looked tired, sitting on the small stool, looking at his partner with a frown. He approached the microphone and sang the chorus, his deep, gravelly voice ringing out as he closed his eyes.
The man was beautiful. With his jaw-length brown hair, thick mustache hiding his upper lip, and muscular build filling up his black T-shirt, he truly embodied the country music star look.
The duo ended the song and exited the stage quickly, without taking the time to thank the audience—if you could call the tired barman and a janitor passing the mop an audience.
I followed the men outside through the back exit of the tavern. I found Nash leaning against the side of a tour van in the parking lot, scrolling through his phone. He didn’t look like a slick country star right now—just a guy in jeans and a worn-out Wrangler’s cap.
He looked up as I approached, slipping his phone into his back pocket. “Dawn,” he said, straightening. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
I crossed my arms and stopped a few feet away. “I’ve been thinking about your offer.” I didn’t bother to beat around the bush—my mare was waiting for me to get back home.
He raised an eyebrow, straightening even more. “And?”
“I hate it,” I admitted bluntly. “I hate the idea of turning my ranch into some kind of pity project. But…” I hesitated, taking a deep breath. “But I can’t keep losing my races. And I can’t lose this place. So, if the offer’s still on the table, Rebel Rose can do a benefit concert for Skyline Acres.”
His expression shifted to a mix of surprise and something that looked suspiciously like relief.
“But there’s one condition,” I added quickly.
“Of course, there is,” he said, smirking.
“You’re not just going to show up, play your set, and leave,” I said, pointing a finger at him. “If we’re doing this, you’re giving more than just a concert. Our care aide had to leave, and I’m stretched thin. You’re going to help with the ranch. Full commitment.”
His smirk widened into a grin. “You’re putting me to work, eh?”
“Damn right I am,” I said, crossing my arms again. “If you want to help, then help for real. The ranch isn’t just a backdrop for your redemption arc, Nash. It’s my home. My family’s home. If you’re in, you’re in all the way.”
He uncrossed his arms, dusted off his jeans, and nodded. “Alright, Dawn. You’ve got yourself a deal.”
I didn’t say anything as he held out his hand. After a long moment, I took it, shaking firmly.
This wasn’t the way I wanted to save the ranch, but if it was the only way, then so be it. I’d figure out how to deal with my pride later. Right now, there was work to do.
“See you tomorrow,” I said quickly before turning my back to him.
“Wait! Tomorrow?” he shouted as I was leaving.
* * *
The following day, light stretched over the ranch, painting everything in golden hues as the dew clung to the blades of grass. I was halfway through mucking out the stalls when I heard the unmistakable hum of a truck engine approaching—an unfamiliar sound that didn’t belong here.
I looked up to see a silver Ford F-150 pulling into the driveway, its shiny exterior looking wildly out of place amid the mud and hay bales. The door creaked open, and out stepped Nash. He looked like he’d been pulled right out of a magazine—clean jeans that seemed to have never seen dirt, a crisp white T-shirt, and boots so spotless they reflected the sunlight.
“Morning!” he called out, his voice far too cheerful for someone who didn’t know what they were in for.
I leaned on my shovel, suppressing a smirk. “Morning. Are you ready to get started?”
He hesitated for a moment, putting his sunglasses on top of his cap. Then he clapped his hands as if mustering courage and energy. “Yeah, absolutely. Let’s do this.”
Before putting him to work, Nash needed an introduction to the residents. I couldn’t say I was at ease with him here, feeling as if he might disturb the peaceful environment of the ranch. I didn’t know him very well, but gossip in the country world spread quickly. Nash Rhodes was known for his partying, his drinking, and, as of last year, his assault. I wasn’t one to waste time reading headlines, too preoccupied with my day-to-day life, but the thought still lingered as we walked.
We strolled toward the main barn, where Clara was already brushing down Sugar, our oldest horse. She was always the first outside to begin her work, even before breakfast. Clara turned as she heard us approach, her round face lighting up in a smile that could brighten any day.
“Hello, Dawn!” she said, her words full of excitement. Clara had Down syndrome, just like Ben, and she was the heart of the ranch—always ready to welcome anyone with open arms. “My name is Clara. Welcome!”
“Hi, Clara,” Nash said, his smile softening. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Clara giggled and brushed her blond bangs out of her eyes, clearly flustered. “If you need help, just ask me, okay? I know everything about the ranch.”
“Everything, huh?” Nash replied, playing along.
“Everything!” she said confidently, beaming.
I nudged him lightly. “You’ll find Clara’s usually right about that.”
We moved on to the main house, where Simon was rocking in his chair on the porch. He usually spent the first hours of the morning simply taking in the fresh air. Simon had autism, and his routine was his way of finding peace in the day. He didn’t look up when we arrived, focused entirely on the light wind dancing in the fields ahead.
“Simon,” I said gently, “this is Nash. He’s going to be helping us out for some time.”
Simon paused, glanced briefly at Nash, and slightly nodded before returning to his world. He wasn’t the talkative type; he was just happy to listen to Clara’s monologues or silently help with the chores. Simon had moved to the ranch five years ago. His parents were getting older, and they wanted a different life for him. They couldn’t accept the only other option: to place him in an elderly facility. Like many parents of children with disabilities, they wanted a place where Simon could be himself and participate actively in his life.
“Hi, Simon,” Nash said, keeping his tone quiet and respectful.
Simon didn’t answer, but he adjusted his stance carefully on the rocking chair as if to say, I’m busy, but welcome.
“That’s Simon,” I explained as we walked away. “He might not say much, but he’s always paying attention. Don’t take it personally.”
“Got it,” Nash said, looking thoughtful.
Finally, we found Benjamin near the chicken coop. He was sitting cross-legged on the ground, happily feeding the chickens by hand. When he saw us, he jumped up, scattering the birds.
“Hey! New guy!” he called out, bounding over with the kind of energy that was contagious. “I’m Benjamin. You’re Nash Rhodes, right? The guy on TV?”
“Just Nash will be okay,” he said, shaking Benjamin’s hand.
Ben grinned, putting his hands on his hips, just like my father used to when greeting newcomers. “Cool name! Do you know how to ride a horse? Can you do tricks? I bet you don’t know how to feed the chickens!”
“Not yet,” Nash admitted, laughing. “But I’m willing to learn.”
“Good! I’ll teach you,” my sibling declared, puffing out his chest proudly.
“Ben is my brother. He’s the specialist here!” I winked at Ben, smiling softly. He did know everything about the ranch and the work to be done here.
Taking on the teacher role, Ben handed Nash a bucket of feed and pointed toward the coop.
“They’re just chickens,” I said, noting the skeptical look Nash gave the flock.
“They’re... staring at me,” he replied, holding the bucket like it was about to explode.
“They’re hungry. Go on.”
He took a tentative step forward, then another. As soon as he scattered the feed, the chickens swarmed him like a feathered mob. Nash yelped again, holding the bucket above his head as if they might take that too.
“Oh, god! They’re attacking!”
“They’re eating,” I corrected, leaning forward to grab a hen and show him they were harmless.
“Same thing!” he shouted, backing away.
Clara appeared at my side, barely suppressing her laughter. “You’re doing great, Nash!”
He gave her a look that said, Seriously? But didn’t say it aloud. This was going to be a long day for him.
We progressed slowly with the day’s tasks. Clara and Ben stayed close, their voices filled with curiosity and genuine amusement. Nash was trying his best, but the truth was, he really was a city country musician—not a cowboy.
We taught him the routine, punctuated with serious explanations and happy chatter. The day went by quickly, and I surprised myself by feeling comfortable with his presence, glancing at him every now and then.
As he let out a frustrated sigh and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, I noticed something. The way his jaw tightened, the little muscle in his neck flexing, and the way his shirt clung to his sweaty chest—it wasn’t just the effort; there was something else.
I took a deep breath, shaking my head and trying to refocus. But the truth was—I couldn’t stop looking. I had to admit it: Nash was cute.
Not just in the way a guy looks when he’s sweaty and covered in dirt, either. There was something in the way he carried himself, his awkwardness mixed with quiet confidence, like he was doing his best to fit in. And honestly, there was something about how real he was. He wasn’t putting on a show—he was genuinely here, trying to learn, trying to help, and somehow managing to make it all look... endearing.
By the time dinner rolled around, Nash was a walking disaster—dirt smudged on his face, hay in his hair, and tiredness in his step that I recognized as the ranch-life initiation.
Clara had set the table with the help of Willow, arranging the plates and utensils perfectly. She’d even picked some wildflowers for the centerpiece, her way of making sure everything felt special for Nash’s first evening.
“Here, Nash,” she said, pulling out a chair next to hers. “You can sit here!”
“Thanks, Clara,” he said, taking the seat with a warm smile.
Benjamin peppered him with questions throughout the meal while Simon sat quietly but seemed to be observing Nash’s every move. Clara, meanwhile, kept passing him extra helpings of potatoes.
I sat back, watching the scene unfold like I was observing some kind of social experiment. Nash was holding up well under Benjamin’s rapid-fire questions, Clara’s not-so-subtle attention, and Simon’s quiet, unblinking curiosity.
“Billie loves you. She always sings your songs in the shower, you know. She knows them by heart. I don’t really like them.” Benjamin’s honesty was irresistible.
“Billie’s our sister. She had to go take care of some paperwork at her college in town today,” I clarified.
“And what kind of music do you like, Ben?” Nash answered, not phased by Ben’s comment about his songs.
“Celine Dion, of course! She’s so beautiful. I love her voice.” Ben’s passion for Celine Dion really showed through his comment. My mare was even named after the singer at Ben’s request.
Clara clapped her hands, her face lighting up with delight. “Oh my gosh, Nash! Are you famous like Celine? Were you on stage with lights and a big crowd? I saw you on TV once.”
Benjamin chimed in, not letting go of his passion for Celine in his comments. “You should sing for us! Please? Do you know some Celine Dion?”
I could see the tension building in Nash’s shoulders, the way his fingers fidgeted slightly on the edge of the table. He wasn’t used to this—Benjamin’s excitement, Clara’s open admiration, Simon’s quiet but intense gaze.
“Guys,” I said gently, stepping in, “maybe let Nash settle in first? He’s had a long day.”
Benjamin’s face fell, but he nodded reluctantly. “Okay. But... maybe later? Like, if you want to?”
Nash gave him a small, tight smile. “Yeah. Maybe later.”
The room fell quiet for a beat, and I thought we were in the clear. But then Clara leaned closer, her voice softer now.
“Do you like singing?” she asked, her big brown eyes full of genuine curiosity. “It must be amazing to make people happy like that.”
For a moment, Nash didn’t answer. His gaze dropped to his plate, and his smile faded just a little.
“Sometimes,” he said finally. “But it’s not... it’s not the same anymore. I still play, though. I do it for a friend.”
His voice grew quieter at the last part, and I had to resist the urge to press him for more. Clara, however, just nodded, her smile warm and understanding.
“That’s really nice of you,” she said. “You must really like your friend.”
“Yeah,” Nash said, his voice distant now. “I do.”
The conversation shifted after that, Ben launching into one of his long-winded stories about a runaway chicken, but I couldn’t stop glancing at Nash. His words lingered, heavy and bittersweet, like there was more to the story he wasn’t ready to share.
I wondered what it would take to hear him sing—not for a crowd, not for fame, but just for himself.