3. Nash
CHAPTER THREE
Nash
Town Hall smells of old paper, burnt coffee, and the kind of polish that tries too hard to feel official.
I roll my shoulders once before stepping inside the council chamber, as if that might shake loose the nerves crawling up my spine.
The room is already half full. Council members seated behind the long table at the front, a handful of locals scattered in folding chairs, boredom and curiosity warring on their faces.
This is it.
I grip the rolled-up renderings under my arm and head toward the podium, boots echoing louder than they should on the tile floor. My palms itch. My fingers twitch. If I don’t let them move, I might actually vibrate apart.
At least no one else is here.
I told them not to come.
Boone frowned, Dallas watched me too carefully, deciding whether to push, but I’d shut it down before either of them could argue.
This isn’t a family pitch. It’s mine.
I spot her before I reach the front.
Tessa Long sits at the narrow desk off to the side, already in work mode. Hair braided tight, posture straight, pen moving with efficient purpose as she organizes papers. She doesn’t look up when I enter, not even a flicker of acknowledgment.
Good. Fine. Whatever.
Of course it’s her.
Tessa Long has been haunting my peripheral vision since we were sixteen.
Always two rows over in class, always raising her hand just a second before I did.
Valedictorian speeches turned into unspoken competitions.
Group projects turned into battlegrounds.
She never cheated, never cut corners. She just outworked everyone. Including me.
Especially me.
We were rivals before I even knew why. Before I understood that our last names carried more weight than we did. Before Buckhorn decided we were supposed to be on opposite sides of everything.
She used to look at me the same way she’s looking at her paperwork now. Sharp, unimpressed, already braced for disappointment. I’d crack jokes just to see if I could make her crack too. Sometimes I did. Sometimes she’d roll her eyes so hard it felt like a personal victory anyway.
I can’t count how many times I’d walked into a classroom confident, only to realize she’d already turned something in. Already finished. Already planned three steps ahead.
It pissed me off.
It pushed me harder.
And standing here now, watching her pen move with the same precise control it always had, my chest tightens. The version of me who used to measure himself against her never really went away. He just learned how to smile better.
She doesn’t look up.
Doesn’t acknowledge me.
Still winning, Long.
I turn back toward the podium, jaw setting. If she’s taking notes today, I’ll give her something worth writing down.
Mayor Caldwell clears her throat. “Mr. McCoy. You may begin.”
I nod and step up to the podium.
“Thank you, Mayor. Council members.” I glance around, meeting eyes where I can. “I’m here to present a proposal for a limited guest ranch expansion on the McCoy property.”
I unroll the first rendering and smooth it flat with my palm, anchoring it before it can curl back in on itself.
“This is the west edge of the property,” I say, tapping the corner with my finger. “It’s already set back from the main pasture. We don’t move a single head of cattle to make this work.”
My hands start moving, tracing fence lines, circling empty space, mapping it the way I’ve walked it a hundred times in my head.
“The building here?” I add, pointing to the rough sketch of the old structure. “That’s not new construction. We renovate instead of building out, which keeps costs down and impact low.”
I flip to the next page, the paper whispering in the quiet room.
“These are buffer zones,” I continue, outlining the shaded areas. “Natural breaks. The creek stays untouched. No cabins, no trails, nothing within the setback. Ever.”
I pause, letting that sit.
“This isn’t about scale,” I say, quieter now. “It’s about balance.”
I step away from the podium and slide a single-page handout with typed numbers across the council table. Then I glance down at my own battered notebook, the one with the messy math I trust.
I turn the notebook sideways and jab a finger at the rough columns of numbers scrawled in the margin.
“Startup’s phased. One cabin first. Weekend bookings only. If it works, we add another. If it doesn’t, we stop.” I glance up, meeting a few eyes. “No debt spiral. No land sales.”
Someone shifts in their chair.
“Cattle prices go up and down,” I continue, pulse ticking faster now. “Feed costs don’t. Weather doesn’t care how long your family’s been ranching. This gives us another leg to stand on without cutting corners.”
I take a breath, forcing myself not to rush.
“We’d keep guest numbers limited and access controlled. People would come for real work and real experiences, not some staged show.”
The room stays quiet.
My fingers curl around the edge of the podium, steadying me.
“This isn’t about turning Buckhorn into a theme park,” I say, glancing at the audience. “It’s about giving people a reason to stay. To spend money locally. To keep this town alive without selling off pieces of it.”
Someone coughs. Someone shifts in their chair.
I push on.
“The cabins would have solar panels, the trails would be low impact, and there’d be no construction near the water.” I tap the rendering for emphasis. “We’re already doing half of this on the ranch. This just gives it structure.”
For a second, just a second, I think maybe it’s landing.
Councilwoman Price nods once, slow and thoughtful.
“I like the phased approach,” she says. “Starting small shows restraint.”
A ripple of interest moves through the room.
My chest loosens a fraction. Just enough to hurt when it tightens again.
Then Councilman Harris leans forward, fingers steepled. “Mr. McCoy, how old are you again?”
The question lands as a pebble in my shoe. Small. Irritating. Impossible to ignore.
“Twenty-three,” I say evenly.
A murmur ripples through the room.
“And how long have you been managing large-scale operations?”
“I work full time on the ranch,” I reply. “Have for years.
“That’s not what I asked,” he says. “This is a business venture in hospitality and tourism. Do you have any experience seeing something like this through over the long term?”
I open my mouth.
Close it.
“I’ve done my research,” I say instead. “And I’ve got support. From my family. From—”
Councilwoman Price cuts in. “You’ve had ideas before, Nash.”
She says my name as if she’s known me since I was in diapers. Which she has.
“Big ideas,” she continues. “And they’re always exciting. But they don’t always… stick.”
Heat crawls up my neck.
The self-serve produce stand I sketched out at seventeen, abandoned after one summer when the highway traffic dried up.
The weekend trail ride idea that fizzled once calving season hit, and no one had time to spare.
The half-built website Rose still teases me about, full of photos and no follow-through.
None of them were failures, not really, but none of them were finished either.
“This isn’t that,” I say. “I’m not asking you to approve a whim. I’m asking you to consider a plan.”
Hank Lawson clears his throat loudly from the back row.
Oh hell.
“Plans are only as good as the people behind them,” he drawls. “And the McCoys have a long history of biting off more than they can chew.”
A few heads nod. A few don’t.
I grit my teeth. “With respect, Hank, McCoy Ranch has been operating continuously for—”
“On land that’s always been a little… flexible,” he says smoothly. “Depending on who you ask.”
My gaze flicks, without meaning to, to Tessa.
Her pen pauses.
Just for a heartbeat.
Then it moves again, writing faster.
Mayor Caldwell lifts a hand. “Let’s stay focused on the proposal.”
Councilman Harris looks back at me. “Commitment is the concern here, Mr. McCoy. This town has seen enthusiasm before. What assurance do we have that this won’t be another project that fizzles once the novelty wears off?”
The words pile on top of each other, pressing down.
Too young. Too impulsive. Too much as always.
I feel it happening. The walls closing in, the familiar itch to perform, to say something clever, bold, words that make them stop looking at me as a gamble they don’t want to take.
Don’t panic.
Don’t perform.
Just tell the truth.
My mouth opens anyway.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I blurt. “I’m settling down.”
The room stills.
I hear my own heartbeat, loud as a drum in my ears.
“I mean… I’m…” I swallow. “I’m putting down roots. Building a family. I’m engaged.”
Silence crashes down hard.
Even Hank Lawson shuts up.
Mayor Caldwell’s eyebrows lift. Councilwoman Price’s mouth parts slightly. Someone in the audience gasps, then clamps a hand over it because they’ve been caught enjoying it too much.
Engaged.
The word hangs there, heavy and irreversible.
I don’t look at Tessa.
I don’t dare.
“Well,” Mayor Caldwell says carefully, after a beat too long. “That’s… news.”
Mayor Caldwell’s gaze sharpens, calculating. “Stability matters in proposals like this.”
“I take this seriously,” I say, because I have to keep going now. “All of it. The ranch. The town. My future.”
It’s not a lie. Not entirely.
Councilman Harris leans back in his chair, reassessing. “Given this new information,” he says, “the council will table the decision pending further review.”
Not approval.
Not rejection.
A limbo I didn’t know I’d be grateful for.
Mayor Caldwell nods. “We’ll reconvene once additional considerations are addressed.”
The gavel taps.
Meeting adjourned.
I roll the renderings back up with hands that belong to someone else. As I turn, my eyes finally flick to the side.
Tessa is staring at me.
I walk out of Town Hall into the cold January air, lungs burning as I suck in a breath that feels too big for my chest.
I got what I wanted.
Time. A chance. A door not fully closed.
And in exchange, I told a lie big enough to swallow me whole.
I stare down Main Street, heart pounding.
What the hell did I just do?