Chapter 2
Nash had been taken for a fool on more than one occasion, but if this particular venture paid off the way he hoped it might, it was worth a shot.
Of course, hoped might be a strong word this early on.
Nash’s scheme was more like a pipe dream.
But what man Nash’s age hadn’t dreamed of getting a shot with actress Ellie Blaire?
He glanced at the horse trailer in his rearview to check on Copper.
The director said it wasn’t necessary to bring his own horse since the ranch had plenty of their own, but if Ellie Blaire really was there like Grandma C’s tabloid suggested, Nash might just get the chance to impress the woman with Copper’s tricks and charm.
If Ellie wasn't there…well, that went back to the whole being-played-for-a-fool part. It wouldn’t be the first time, and, as young as he was, it wouldn’t be the last.
Before signing up to volunteer—which was a process in itself, by the way—Nash searched online, trying to find confirmation of Ellie's supposed exile to Wild Buck’s Ranch, a center that offered getaways ranging from tent and trailer excursions to luxury stays in private cabins.
Beyond that, Wild Buck’s was widely known for its rehabilitation programs for recovering addicts—hence, the nickname Rehab Ranch.
When he was young, Nash used to volunteer at the ranch with his parents in another program offered at Wild Buck’s, one close to his mama’s heart—Riding Free, where children with physical disabilities could experience the freedom and joy of riding like the wind on a well-trained horse.
The near-forgotten memories stirred up a range of emotions as they played out in his mind—gratitude that his own arms and legs worked, happiness from the expressed joy on each child’s face and stifled squeal, and humility for being able to take part in such a thing.
Nash hated admitting that he hadn’t volunteered there since Mom and Dad had died, which is why he’d been so surprised to discover the grueling process involved in merely donating one’s time.
Nash had to take an online class to officially certify but—lucky him—now he could also donate his time at a list of facilities in the state.
Other qualifications included a background check—something Nash already had—and three personal referrals, which meant he had to tell Papa Lloyd, Grandma C, and Pastor Dean that he’d encountered a sudden, burning desire to volunteer eighty whopping hours of his time at the ranch because, yes, they had minimum requirements for volunteer hours and designated shifts.
While Grandma C was totally onto him—she’s the one who showed Nash the tabloid, after all—his conversations with Papa Lloyd and Pastor Dean made Nash squirm.
So much, in fact, that Nash had almost rewritten his own narrative; he did want to volunteer his time to a good cause, even if he did run himself ragged on the ranch from sunup to sundown most days.
This wasn’t all about the chance to meet Ellie Blaire.
Nash shook his head and moved his thoughts back to his failed internet search.
He hadn’t been able to find even one other article saying she might be there, which meant Nash may get stuck putting in the hours without even getting to meet her.
But if Ellie did prove to be there, he guessed it was a good thing that news of her whereabouts hadn’t spread to other media outlets; Ellie didn't need people chasing her down with ulterior motives, sneaking photos for the tabloids with heaven only knew what sort of headline.
Sure, some might accuse Nash of having ulterior motives himself since he’d signed up in hopes of meeting her, but he didn’t want to use or expose the actress. On the contrary, Nash hoped to show her that chivalry, which was likely nonexistent in Tinseltown, was alive and well in these parts.
Of course, Nash once had the reputation of being somewhat of a player, but that had changed since Thatcher, his ride-or-die, got married.
In fact, there’d been three weddings in the Copeland family in the last two years, which had given Nash an up-close-and-personal view of that lovey-dovey honeymoon phase.
At first, it was rather nauseating. But as Nash watched his family members sink deeper into marital bliss, he found himself drawn in that direction himself. Finally, after all this time, he was ready to settle down with the right one.
Not that Ellie Blaire would be the right one with her Hollywood ties and celebrity lifestyle, but a man could dream. Besides, there was no harm in a bit of sparking in the moonlight if the circumstances allowed.
Nash pulled his truck up to the gated entrance of the ranch, where an old intercom waited. He rolled down his window and pressed the buzzer.
"Can I help you?" came a female voice that sounded more frustrated than friendly.
"Yeah, I’m Nash Copeland. I’m here to volunteer."
"Key phrase, please."
Nash patted his pockets while glancing down at his seat. He didn't know what he was looking for, however, since he didn't remember getting a key phrase. "Uh…"
"I'm just messing with you. There is no key phrase. Just your name, which you already gave. Come on through."
A buzz sounded, and the iron gates retracted.
"There’s not anyone behind you, is there?" came the voice again.
Nash leaned far over to see past the trailer and onto the dirt road. "Nope. It's just me."
"Goody."
Nash proceeded through the open gateway and watched it slowly close behind him. "Goody? That was weird," he mumbled.
"I heard that," the woman said.
Nash rolled up the window and flipped his air conditioning on full blast. He wasn't sure if it was the odd interaction at the entrance or the fact that he might meet the one and only Ellie Blair, but he was sweating up a storm.
He pinched the front of his shirt and gave it a few tugs.
Couldn't show up sweating like a sow on his first day.
He thought of all the Hollywood actors Ellie had worked with over the years. Sure, she’d worked opposite some good-looking dudes; he was man enough to admit that. But he was confident enough to say that he wasn't bad to look at himself. Just ask any of the ladies in town, he mused proudly.
He pulled up to the main entrance labeled front desk. He parked his truck so that the trailer sat in the shade and hurried inside to see about watering Copper and getting set up.
Nash pushed open the glass door and rolled back his shoulders as he strode toward the receptionist, a redhead in her early 30s, he guessed, probably the one he'd been talking to through the intercom. The desk plaque read ‘Fern Phillips, Front Desk Manager.’
"Uh-oh, it's Mr. I don't have a keyword."
Nash stopped in his tracks and looked from one side to the next. "It is,” he said with a shrug. “But you mispronounced my name."
The woman arched a brow. "Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. My name is actually Mr. never got a keyword." His face went red at the sound of his own lame joke.
"Buh-dump-bump." The redhead deadpanned.
“You’re Fern?” he reached out to shake her hand across the desk.
She shook it. "And you’re here to donate eighty full hours of your time.”
Just then, somebody cleared their throat from the far corner of the room. Nash stiffened and jerked a look over his shoulder. He hadn't seen anyone else as he walked in, but he hadn't looked over either.
An attractive middle-aged woman in a pair of fancy-looking Levis and pink Western boots flicked through a magazine. Whoa—not just any magazine, he realized. It was the very tabloid that gave away Ellie Blaire’s supposed whereabouts.
It took a moment for Nash to drag his gaze off of the cover of that tabloid. His face broke out with sweat as he caught eyes with the woman holding it. He meant for it to be a mere glance, but the look on her face made him somehow feel caught.
He cleared his throat and tipped his hat to the woman before turning back to Fern.
"I want you to know,” Fern said, “that we’ve had thirty-six calls about volunteering in the last week alone."
The phone rang, and she picked it up, eyes set on Nash.
“Wild Buck’s Ranch.” Her nails drummed. “Oh yeah? You must be an angel straight from heaven,” she said in a monotone voice.
“Fill out our online form, complete the steps noted there, and be prepared to donate a minimum of eighty hours of your time.”
The man on the other line stammered, but Fern spoke up again.
“Bye now.” She hung up. “Make that thirty-seven volunteer inquiries.”
Nash gulped. "Oh?" It came out in a squeak.
The deadpan face was back. "Mmm, hmm."
The woman with the magazine cleared her throat again.
Nash was starting to feel cornered. "That's odd. Maybe folks are just…feeling extra generous these days."
Fern studied him wordlessly.
"Well,” Nash said while scratching the back of his neck. “Should I head on back there? My horse needs water—"
"Not so fast,” she blurted. “You read the article that said a certain somebody would be here, didn't you?"
Nash’s eyes doubled in size. He remembered Aunt Jackie complaining about the time she went through menopause. My face is a furnace, she’d griped while fanning incessantly. Forget the furnace; Nash had volcano face, erupting with guilty heat.
He began shaking that lava head of his rapidly, feeling like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar. "No, not at all. I don’t know who you’re talking about."
"You didn't suddenly gain great interest in volunteering because you heard a certain somebody was going to be here?"
Nash resisted the kneejerk reaction to ask if that somebody really was there.
"You already asked that,” he said. “And the answer is still no.
" His heart hammered in guilty succession.
He hated lying, even if he was convinced this was more of a white lie type of thing.
No one would get harmed by it, and the fact was, Nash would donate eighty full hours of his time either way.
"Good." A broad smile crossed Fern’s bright red lips.