Chapter 10
Amy woke to sunlight streaming through the guest room’s curtains, stretching cautiously and testing her ankle. The swelling had gone down significantly overnight, and while there was still tenderness, she could put weight on it without wincing. Progress.
The house was quiet except for the faint sounds of movement from the kitchen. Nash must be up already. She glanced at the neon clock next to the bed. Seven-fifteen a.m. Early for a Sunday.
When she’d lived with her mother, Sundays had always been church days. “If we can’t keep our names,” she’d say, “at least we can keep our faith.”
Amy padded to the attached bathroom, inspecting her reflection.
Her hair was a mess, her eyes still puffy with sleep.
But there was something different about her face—a softness that hadn’t been there in years.
She touched her lips, remembering Nash’s kisses from yesterday, the gentle pressure of his mouth on hers, the way his arms had encircled her waist …
She shook herself from the memory, splashing cold water on her face.
This was dangerous territory. Getting involved with Nash—really involved, not just pretending for Dr. Martinez’s benefit—complicated an already treacherous situation.
And yet, she couldn’t deny the electricity between them, the sense of rightness that settled in her chest whenever he was near.
After a quick shower, Amy pulled on jeans and a sweater, then paused when she heard Nash’s voice from the kitchen. It sounded like he was on the phone.
“… look, I’m just saying we need to be careful how we approach this,” he was saying. “The Ferrantes are just as dangerous as Birch or Banks. They’re organized. They have resources.” A pause. Then Nash said, “Yes, I know. But she’s been through enough already without—”
She. He was talking about her.
Amy moved into the hallway, making no effort to silence her footsteps.
Nash glanced up at her approach, his expression softening immediately. “Porter, I’ve got to go. Yes, I’ll call you back after—no, we’re not—just—” He made an exasperated sound. “Goodbye, Porter.”
He set his phone down on the counter and smiled at her, that warm, genuine smile that made her heart skip a beat. But there was something else there too—a tension at the corners of his eyes, a tightness to his posture that hadn’t been there yesterday.
“Morning,” he greeted her. “How’s the ankle?”
“Better,” she replied, moving to the coffeepot, where a fresh brew awaited. “Much better.” She raised an eyebrow, pouring herself a cup of coffee.
Nash was dressed more formally than she’d seen him before—dark slacks, a crisp button-down shirt, and a tie that matched his eyes.
“Going somewhere?” she asked.
He looked momentarily surprised. “Church,” he said, as if it were obvious. “It’s Sunday.”
Amy blinked. “I don’t have anything to wear to church.”
Nash’s expression brightened. “Actually, you do. Sort of.” He pointed to a garment bag hanging on the pantry door. “My sister, Cheyenne, leaves clothes here sometimes. I think she might have left a dress that would work.”
Touched by his thoughtfulness, Amy retrieved the bag and unzipped it. Inside was a simple, elegant sundress in a soft green fabric. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured, holding it up.
“The color matches your eyes,” Nash observed. He immediately looked embarrassed at the admission, and he cleared his throat. “Service starts at nine, so we have about an hour. There’s eggs and toast if you’re hungry.”
Amy nodded, trying to contain the warmth spreading through her chest. “Thank you. I’ll get changed after breakfast.”
They ate in companionable silence, the events of yesterday—the cave, the bats, Dr. Martinez, their kiss—hovering unspoken between them. Several times Amy caught Nash watching her, his gaze quickly shifting away when she noticed.
“So,” she finally said, unable to bear the tension, “about yesterday …”
Nash set down his fork. “Which part?”
“The kissing part.” She felt her cheeks warm, but pressed on. “Nash, I—”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he interrupted gently.
“I know this is complicated. You’re in witness protection.
We’re hunting gold that might be connected to the people who killed your father.
My family is involved. Your job is at risk.
” He reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers.
“But I meant what I said yesterday. I’d like to try—really try—with you. If you want that too.”
Amy looked at their hands, his larger one covering hers, and felt a sense of rightness that terrified her. “I do,” she admitted softly. “But it scares me.”
“Me too,” Nash confided, surprising her. “But some things are worth being scared for.”
Her eyes met his, and for a moment, Amy felt as though they were the only two people in the world—no gold, no Ferrantes, no witness protection, just Nash and Amy and this fragile, beautiful thing growing between them.
“I should get ready for church,” she said finally, not trusting herself to say more.
Nash smiled, understanding in his eyes. “I’ll clean up while you change.”
Forty minutes later, they were in Nash’s truck, headed toward a modest church building in a quiet Salt Lake neighborhood. Amy smoothed the green dress over her knees, feeling strangely nervous.
“You look beautiful,” Nash said, glancing at her as he drove. “Green really is your color.”
She smiled, pleased by the compliment. “Thanks for letting me borrow the dress. Does your sister leave clothes at your place often?”
Nash chuckled. “All my siblings leave stuff here. When you’re the only one in the family who lives away from the ranch, you become the designated Salt Lake crash pad.” His expression softened. “Not that I mind. I miss them, honestly.”
Amy studied his profile, struck by the tenderness in his voice when he spoke of his family. “Catch me up on them,” she prompted.
Nash grinned. “Well, Porter’s the oldest—he runs the ranch now. He’s married to Sadie, which is funny, considering …” He glanced at her, then continued. “They have a little girl named Arkansas.”
“Arkansas?” Amy couldn’t help but laugh. “Like the state?”
“Yep. But they call her Little Rock for short. Colt’s next—he’s our cattle operations guy.
Married to Sierra, who’s the town doctor.
Then there’s Blaze, the vet. He married Eden last year—she’s an artist. And Chance is our sheriff, married to Kelly, who does pottery.
” His smile grew impossibly fond. “And Cheyenne’s the baby of the family.
Well, not a baby anymore. I told you she just married Micah Jamison—Trey Stone’s stepson. ”
The warmth in his voice as he described his siblings made Amy’s chest ache with a mixture of happiness for him and a deep, personal longing. “They sound wonderful,” she said sincerely.
Nash nodded, pulling into the church parking lot. “They are. Annoying as hell sometimes, but I wouldn’t trade them for anything.” He put the truck in park and turned to her. “Ready?”
Amy took a deep breath. “Ready.”
Nash came around to her side, opening the door and offering his hand to help her down. His fingers interlaced with hers naturally, and they walked into the church hand in hand.
The service was already filling with people, families settling into pews, friends greeting each other with smiles and handshakes.
Amy felt a momentary pang of anxiety—she’d grown accustomed to anonymity, to blending in and being overlooked.
But with Nash beside her, his hand warm in hers, she found herself relaxing.
Several people greeted Nash by name, their curious glances at Amy poorly disguised. Nash introduced her simply as Sadie, his tone warm with affection, and she found herself slipping seamlessly into the role—not just his pretend girlfriend, but someone who belonged at his side.
They settled into a pew near the middle, Nash’s thumb absently stroking the back of her hand as the worship music began.
Amy let the familiar rhythms of the service wash over her, finding comfort in rituals she’d nearly forgotten. Nash sang beside her, his deep voice blending with the congregation’s, and Amy found herself singing too, the words returning as if they’d never left.
Midway through the sermon, which focused on Jesus’ sacrifice and unconditional love, Nash’s phone vibrated. He discreetly checked it, frowned slightly, then put it away. A few minutes later, it vibrated again. And again.
After the fifth text, Amy leaned over and whispered, “Everything okay?”
Nash nodded, slipping the phone into his pocket. “Just my family,” he whispered back. “I’ll talk to them after church.”
His attention returned to the pastor, who was speaking passionately about redemption and second chances.
Amy found herself unexpectedly moved by the message, by the pastor’s emphasis on how God’s love could transform even the most broken paths into something beautiful.
“‘Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here!’” the pastor said, quoting from 2 Corinthians. “That means your past doesn’t define you. Your mistakes, your pain, your regrets—they’re not who you are anymore.”
Amy felt tears prick at her eyes, and Nash’s hand tightened around hers as if he sensed her emotion.
Her past had defined her for so long—shaped her choices, dictated her movements, determined her identity.
The idea that she could be something new, something undefined by fear and loss, felt simultaneously terrifying and liberating.
When the service ended, Nash kept her hand in his as they made their way outside, stopping occasionally to exchange pleasantries with people he knew.
Amy was impressed by how easily he navigated these social waters, his friendly demeanor never seeming forced or false.
They were almost to the parking lot when a familiar voice stopped Amy in her tracks. “Professor Blair! What a pleasant surprise.”