Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
“Someone’s gettin’ dicked down on the daily,” Crusher replied sullenly. “Meanwhile I’m out here bein’ called forgettable.”
“Aw, Crush—I’m sorry Luey couldn’t find the wonder. I’m sure you were very…adequate.”
Boone choked on his beer, while Crusher turned slowly toward Cassie, wounded disbelief written all over his face.
“Adequate?” he repeated. “Woman, I risked a hamstring for that fuckin’ ass.”
As the ribbing continued, the sound from the stage began to pick up, drawing people in that direction. Cassie found herself drifting with them, already picking apart the notes—half-formed chords, a progression just shy of familiar, something sitting just out of reach.
She turned with the flow of people, barely paying attention as the tents gave way to folding tables…
and there it was—the sheriff’s booth. Crowding the entrance to the main stage, a banner stretched across the front; a large poster board leaned against it, the headline blown up—Hero Deputies Die in Ridge Fire.
The noise of the festival dulled, her steps slowing before she could stop them, something cold sliding through her chest.
Tate looked up mid-sentence, and the second their eyes met, Cassie felt her pulse kick into overdrive.
In spite of that—or maybe just to spite him—she squared her shoulders, plastered on a bright smile, and strode straight over.
“Hey there, Sheriff,” she said loudly enough that the ongoing conversations around the table paused.
“Ms. Berry,” Tate replied tightly. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Wouldn’t miss it. Community event and all.”
“Settlin’ in, are you?”
“Still visiting.”
“Sure is a long visit.”
“Guess I must like the scenery.” She kept her smile, digging inside her pocket. Pulling out some bills, she slipped them in the donation box.
Tate’s mouth tightened. “Appreciated.”
“There you are.” Nash’s hand closed over her hip as he stepped in beside her. “Been lookin’ all over, and here I find you cozyin’ up to the law…”
Cassie gestured to the sign with a dramatic sigh.
“I got distracted—it’s just such a good cause.
You should give ’em some money.” She was reaching for Nash’s wallet before he could stop her, shoving a thick stack in the box.
“There we go,” she drawled, giving it a little pat.
“Good clean money for a good clean cause. Maybe now they’ll have enough to do their jobs… ”
Nash choked over his laughter. “I ever tell you how much I like you in cutoffs?” he murmured, turning her away.
“Gosh, let me think.” She pressed into him, letting her attention drift from the sheriff. “Nope. Not nearly enough.”
“Favorite part,” he murmured into her hair, sliding along the curve where her ass met her leg. “Second favorite,” he added, switching cheeks.
“Careful,” she said, eyeing him. “Don’t be startin’ somethin’ you can’t finish.”
His mouth brushed her ear. “Wouldn’t be the first time you tackled me in a crowd.”
She turned into him like she meant to shove him off—
—and he caught her mouth, teeth grazing her lower lip.
The violin case knocked against her leg, fingers twisting in his shirt while she dragged him closer, kissing him harder.
“Jesus, get a goddamn room, ya sluts!”
Luanne’s voice carried from behind them, followed by a sharp smack across Cassie’s ass.
Cassie jerked, breath breaking as she twisted. “Mind your business!” she shot, Nash still clutching her close.
“Easy to mind it when it ain’t right in front of God and everybody,” Luanne hollered back, spinning just out of reach.
Becca was already in the grass, snapping a blanket out before lowering the baby onto it.
Brady came up behind her, dragging the cooler, the toddlers riding on top.
Boone followed a few steps back, favoring his leg.
Crusher wasn’t far off, his attention still locked on Luanne, who was making a point of not looking at the guy.
“Cold one?” Brady asked, popping the cooler.
“Got sandwiches, too, y’all,” Becca called.
“Who is it?” Junie pushed up on her toes beside Margie, craning toward the stage. “Do we know yet?”
The music swelled fuller, a guitar line carrying across the field before a fiddle joined in, conversations around them dropping off as heads turned toward the stage.
“Hey there, Redwater County—how we doin’ tonight?”
The answering roar rolled through the fairgrounds as a figure in a flowy dress stepped into the lights.
“Oh my god,” Cassie breathed, her grip catching in Nash’s shirt. “Holy shit, that’s Sierra-fuckin'-Ferrell.”
The crowd had shifted hours ago. Families gone, kids hauled home half-asleep, the fairgrounds settling into something freer, a little meaner.
What remained of River Days circled the bonfire—a second concert in the making, smoke lifting into a clear stretch of night where the stars sat sharp overhead.
Nash stood just outside the ring with a bottle of somebody’s shine, watching bodies press in, hands clasping, turning.
Darlene stood near the center, mason jar in one hand, the other cutting through the air as she sang, her deep voice rolling over the strings and thump of boots in the dirt—
“—don’t you wait up, darlin’, I ain’t comin’ home—”
A banjo picked up beside her, bright and driving. A guitar answered low. Another voice slid in, grittier, catching harmony just off the beat. All around them, bones slapped together, the dry clack threading through it.
Then the fiddle rose—loud, fast, riding the edge of control.
Just like the woman wielding it.
“Stay with her!” someone barked.
“Hell, I’m tryin’!”
“Run it, Berry!”
She wasn’t playing perfect, not like she had at Con’s funeral—but it didn’t matter.
It was fast, damn near feverish, always one step from coming apart but never quite tipping over.
The way she leaned into it—back and forth, side to side—sweat shining at her temples and along her collarbone, bow biting as she drove the tempo higher while the rest of them scrambled to keep up—
It hit harder than any fancy-ass concert hall ever could.
Because this was the real thing. Dirt and fire and people who didn’t give a damn if it rang out clean, long as it rang true.
Nash took another swallow, though he didn’t need it. He had the sudden, stupid urge to lock this moment down—keep it right here, before anything else had a chance to touch it.
Summer was already slipping away from them. He knew that much.
Knew she had a life waiting on her the second it was done.
What came after she left—
Hell no. He wasn’t gonna do that shit to himself. Not yet, at least.
The banjo player stumbled through a run while the guitar dug in deeper, and still Cassie pushed, teeth set, dragging them along whether they could hold it or not.
The crowd, waiting for the break, packed in tighter—bodies twisting faster, hands catching and letting go.
Laughter broke through the noise, voices rising and folding back into the music as the tempo started to give.
A curse broke from the banjo player when he missed another run, the guitar player stumbling back a step right after him. Someone whooped, somebody clapped off-beat, and the whole thing unraveled the way it always did—in laughter and half-finished notes.
Cassie held out a second longer—just her and the fiddle—shoulders tight, forearm straining as she forced that last note through the break—
—and promptly dropped out, bending at the waist, bow hanging loose from her fingers.
The circle erupted—hands clasping shoulders, voices calling out in celebration—until Cassie pushed free, dragging a hand through her hair as she made her way toward him.
“Show-off,” Nash murmured, handing her the bottle.
“You know it.”
She took a long pull before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “You ready to dance?”
Behind her, the music had already shifted—slower now, stretched out. The guitar softened, each note dragging sweet and low, Darlene’s voice following it down. The dancers changed with it: less spin, more sway, bodies drawing closer.
“Hell no.”
“Nash.”
“Ain’t happenin’, Cas. You know how I feel.”
She held his gaze a beat, then rolled her eyes. “So it’s like prom night all over again. Fine.”
And just like that, she was dancing her way back into the circle.
Nash leaned back against a tree, lifting the bottle again, watching her move—hips rolling slow and easy, sexy as all get out, moving like the music belonged to her.
Looking unguarded in a way he hadn’t seen since…
Hell, maybe ever.
The ride back to Clifton was quiet, the radio playing low under the hum of the engine—Nash behind the wheel, Cassie stretched out across the seat, head in his lap, sneakers kicked off, bare feet tapping in time with the song against the window.
Normally, Nash would have given her an earful about dirtying up the glass on his old man’s truck.
Only each time he glanced down, he found her looking back at him—eyes still lit with the fire from the fairgrounds, lips moving along with the song—and suddenly he couldn’t bring himself to care what her feet were doing.
So he slipped his hand beneath the hem of her shirt, giving himself something else to focus on.
By the time they pulled into the clubhouse lot, it was empty and dark, save for the lights over the doors throwing a dull glow across the gravel. Nash killed the engine and got out, already moving for the door.
“You comin’?” he called over his shoulder.
He didn’t wait to see if she followed. Left the driver’s door open, same as the clubhouse, and headed straight for the bar, only bothering with the lights over it.
He was at the jukebox when she finally came in, looking a hell of a lot less relaxed than she had in the truck.
Could’ve been the memories. Hell, could’ve been the rebuilt bar. Nash didn’t know. Only knew she needed to get goddamn past it.
Cassie leaned against a stool, glancing around, lips pressed tight. “What are we here for—” she trailed off, attention catching on Connor’s cut, the plaque pulling the eye whether you wanted it to or not.
“We’re here,” he said, pushing off the juke as a slow song rolled through the speakers, “’cause it ain’t like prom night all over again.”
He jerked his chin at her. “Now get your ass over here, Strawberry, and dance with me. Willie’s waitin’.”
Cassie blinked, surprised—and then she was grinning, coming toward him with an exaggerated swagger.
“Well, it’s about damn time,” she said, her arms coming up around his neck.
His hands settled at her waist, pulling her in close. He let her set the pace, the steps coming easier than he’d expected…or at least easier than he’d ever admit.
She leaned her head back, peering up at him. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Don’t,” he muttered, half a smile slipping through. “This never happened. You say anything and I’ll deny it.”
She huffed, shifting closer, fingers toying with his hair. “I know you didn’t dance at prom…” her voice dropped just enough to carry between them. “What about your wedding?”
The question caught Nash off guard.
She huffed, shifting closer, fingers toying with his hair. “I know you didn’t dance at prom…” Her voice dropped just enough to carry between them. “What about your wedding?”
The question caught Nash off guard.
It wasn’t as if Addison had been avoidable this past month—not with Junie always coming and going—but Cassie never lingered there. Never asked outright.
“Now, prom woulda been different,” he said. “Might’ve danced if you made a big thing about it. But all I remember is you bein’ real comfortable on my lap.”
“It’s a pretty great lap.”
“Yeah?” Nash’s hands slid lower, settling at her hips. “You sure do make good use of it.”
She laughed softly, settling into him a little more, the top of her head brushing his beard as they moved.
“You didn’t answer me,” she said after a moment. “About the wedding.”
“Ain’t much to answer. Did a lot of drinkin’.”
“You really don’t remember?”
“I remember enough.”
“So? Did you dance?”
He looked past her for a second before letting out a slow breath.
“Maybe,” he said. “Didn’t feel like this.”
Cassie’s fingers stilled in his hair.
She tipped her face toward his, like she hadn’t expected that. Like she didn’t quite know what to do with how honest it sounded.
But just as quickly, her attention dropped away again.
“…Fall season starts soon,” she mumbled after a moment, not looking at him. “Program workups, sectionals…donor events…
“They’ll want me back before the first full run through.”
Nash didn’t speak—didn’t even look at her. Hell, he didn’t even know what half that shit meant. Instead, he tightened his grip and sent her out in a slow turn, letting the movement blunt the worst of it.
“I know you gotta go,” he said, rougher now, drawing her back against him. “And I ain’t gonna make this harder on you.”
They kept dancing, the music stretching out around them, filling the space he wasn’t about to.
“Just tell me one thing,” he eventually muttered.
Her fingers curled a little tighter at the back of his neck. “What?”
“You gonna come back this time?”
Cassie didn’t reply right away. Instead, she studied him, like she was trying to figure out what he meant by it…or maybe whether he meant it at all.
Then, softly—
“Do you want me to?”
Nash let out a low, frustrated sound.
“Cassie—goddamn—Berry.”
She laughed at that, the tension breaking just enough to let the warmth back through.
He didn’t say anything else—just pulled her in closer and dipped her back, bringing her up again slow. Their eyes met, and for a second, neither of them moved.
And then they were kissing.