17. Nash
Chapter 17
Nash
T he sound of Dawn’s voice—sharp, tense, and a little too loud—carried across the ranch. I could see her in the ring, reins gripped tight, a horse that should’ve been flowing through the barrel pattern instead rearing its head in protest. Her body was rigid, frustration emanating from her like heat from sun-baked asphalt. Even from here, I could feel it—the tension, thick and palpable.
She tugged the reins again, but the horse balked, its hooves stamping into the dirt. I leaned against the railing, watching as she struggled to control both the horse and the whirl of emotions beneath the surface. This wasn’t just about training—there was something deeper in the way she carried herself.
“C’mon, princess,” I muttered under my breath. “Ease up.”
When she threw her hands up in exasperation and slid off the horse, muttering curses, I figured it was time to step in. She leaned against the horse’s neck, pressing her forehead to its mane, her chest rising and falling, fighting for breath. I hopped the fence, walking toward her.
“You know, getting frustrated with everything around you won’t make it any easier,” I said, my voice light but careful, keeping it low enough not to startle her.
She stiffened but didn’t turn. “Not now, Nash.”
“Not now what?” I asked, stopping a few feet away. “Not now for advice? Not now for company? Or not now because you’re about to let this frustration chew you up and spit you out?”
She sighed heavily and turned to me, her eyes reddened—not from tears, but from exhaustion. The kind that digs deep. “What do you want?”
“To see if you need someone to talk to,” I answered. I gestured toward the fence. “And maybe a reason to sit for a while before you wear yourself out.”
Her shoulders sagged just slightly, and after a beat, she gave a small, defeated nod. Together, we led the horse back to the fence, tying it off before settling on the edge of the rail. Dawn sat beside me, arms crossed, staring at the horizon.
Her figure, usually so lithe and strong, seemed folded inward, the weight of responsibilities pulling her down. The joyful Dawn I had seen at the last rodeo had been replaced by the quiet woman I knew too well—one whose smile seemed locked away, tucked beneath layers of practicality and resolve.
“It’s just not working,” she said after a moment of silence. “Nothing’s working.”
“Training?” I asked softly.
“Training. Bills. Life.” She shook her head, clenching her jaw. “Got a notice of default from the bank this morning. Apparently, I’m behind on the mortgage—I didn’t even know. I was saving up for the roof, but now I have to use that to cover this. And even if I make it to the next barrel race, the prize money won’t be enough to fix everything.”
I let out a low sigh, scratching the back of my neck. “I don’t know how you manage all this.”
She let out a bitter laugh. “I wasn’t given a choice.”
The wind picked up and brushed a stray strand of hair across her face. Without thinking, I reached out and tucked it behind her ear. She turned, startled, and for a moment, the air between us seemed to thrum, heavy with unspoken words.
“I miss my parents. It’s hard to explain. Sometimes, I resent them for leaving me with all this. And sometimes, I’m just sad that they aren’t here to see our lives now. I didn’t even have time to really process their loss before the responsibilities fell on me, you know?” She let out a long, drawn-out sigh, tilting her head back to catch the breeze.
I didn’t say anything, just letting her speak. It felt right to offer her that space. In response, I reached over, resting my hand on her knee in a quiet gesture of comfort.
“I never wanted to be a mother. I’m not built for nurturing,” she continued, her voice strained as the words spilled out. “I’m being forced to play every role at once now. I need to be the CEO of the ranch, the leader in my family’s life. Bills need paying. Repairs need to happen. Horses need training. Residents need to be supported. My sister needs to feel heard, and I need to hold it all together. It’s been two years, but sometimes I can’t even remember who I was before all of this.” She sighed again, shaking her head, trying to absorb it all.
“I just feel so alone. So tired.” Her voice dropped, barely a whisper. “I’m exhausted from carrying everyone, from being the anchor. I can’t be weak. I can’t let anyone down.”
“You’re not alone,” I said gently. “You know that, right? It’s okay to feel how you’re feeling. This weight, it’s real. But you’ve got your family here. They’re ready to support you. Clara and Ben, they’re handling the ranch, making solid choices with the schedules. And Simon? He’s a quiet strength, always there. Your sister, and Willow—they’re with you, supporting you in every way they know how.” I paused, meeting her eyes. “And I may not be the best with tools, but I want to help you, Dawn.”
She blinked and looked away, her voice softening as she met my gaze again. “I’m not used to letting people in. I don’t need anyone to do that for me.”
“Yes, you do,” I countered with a slight shrug. “Maybe life brought me here so I could be part of this… So I could give something back to you all. This place—it feels like something real, something I want to invest in.”
Dawn tilted her head, looking at me as if seeing me in a new light. “What do you mean?”
I shrugged again, my eyes falling on Simon and Clara, playing with the barn cats in the distance. “For a long time, I felt like I was just noise. Nash Rhodes, the guy with the guitar and a reputation. The drunk, the idiot who couldn’t keep his fists in check. And for a while, I believed them. It was easier to play the part than prove everyone wrong.”
Soon in my career, I became the party man. The country singer that you would call for a good time, but that you could not trust. It was okay. I was playing the act they wanted me to. That earned me my career in the industry. I fulfilled the role they cast for me. Until they decided it wasn’t digestible anymore. Until they all turned their backs, scared I’d shadow their reputation.
Dawn’s face softened, but she didn’t interrupt. She was listening.
“The night everything changed, I was at a Nashville bar, celebrating the Country Artist of the Year award with Easton. I was already known as the party guy. Always up for a drink, never shying away from an invite.” I drifted into the memory, the pivotal moment vivid in my mind.
“There was this guy. He was drunk, taunting everyone, picking fights and making crude comments. It didn’t bother me until I saw him manhandle a woman—grabbing her waist, saying things that made her uncomfortable. I didn’t think twice. I pulled him off her by the collar, and when he spat in my face, I lost it. One punch, and he was out. The whole thing got filmed. Within hours, I was cancelled.”
“Nash…” Dawn’s touch was light on my back, her hand making slow, comforting circles.
“Easton stayed. Didn’t matter to him what the tabloids said. He saw me—me, not the mess I’d become. He stuck around, even when I pushed everyone away. He was there for every bit of the fallout. Now I need to show him that I’m capable of something better. I need to prove to him that I’m worth this second chance.” I met her eyes, my voice hushed as the gravity of those words sank in.
Even if going back meant losing myself again. Even if the thought of performing in front of thousands made me sick. Even if this dream now belonged to him, and I wasn’t sure where I fit anymore.
Dawn reached over and brushed her fingers across mine. “You’re worth it, Nash. That’s why Easton’s still here. You don’t have to fight this alone.”
Her words caught me off guard, and I found myself searching her face, trying to find doubt, or pity—but all I saw was sincerity.
“And you’re not alone,” I said softly, squeezing her hand lightly. “Whatever’s happening with the bank, the training—whatever it is, you’ve got me here.”
For the first time in a long while, her shoulders relaxed, a subtle ease filling her features. It wasn’t a smile, exactly—but the tension melted away just enough.
“Thanks,” she said quietly, her voice carrying gratitude in the smallest of ways.
“Anytime,” I replied just as softly.
We sat together in silence, watching the sun dip lower behind the horizon. The air between us wasn’t heavy anymore—just steady, like the calm that follows a storm. We didn’t have all the answers, but at least we didn’t have to carry our burdens alone.