7. Nash
CHAPTER SEVEN
Nash
If you asked me later how long we talked, I wouldn’t be able to tell you.
Time in Buckhorn is usually measured in practical things.
How many bales you hauled before lunch, how long the calves took to settle, how deep the snow drifted against the fence line.
But tonight, time is measured in sips and glances and the slow, inevitable way Tessa Long takes over a room without ever raising her voice.
One drink turns into two.
Two turns into a low burn in my chest that makes the bar feel warmer, the questions from earlier feel farther away, and the lie I told in Town Hall feels less like something waiting to crush me in my sleep.
The noise around us blurs. Penny’s laughter. Tate’s drawl from the corner. Martha Lou’s voice cutting through the jukebox. The Rusty Spur always smells of beer and old wood and stories that should’ve stayed private, but tonight it’s just background.
Even when Penny glances over, eyebrows raised, she doesn’t say anything. Tate’s eyes flick from us to his drink, then back again, like he’s measuring something he’s not sure he wants to know.
Tessa is the only thing in focus.
She sits angled toward me as if she’s been forced into proximity a thousand times before and decided she might as well win at it. Coat draped over the chair, braid still tight, posture stiff even when she relaxes. Control is a religion, and she’s its most loyal disciple.
And somehow, she’s still here.
Still talking.
Still sparring.
Still making me forget, for a few dangerous stretches of seconds at a time, that my mother asked me who my fiancée was and I couldn’t even swallow a lie fast enough to give her a name.
“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” I tell her, tipping my glass toward her in a mock warning.
She lifts her drink, expression flat. “I’m never pleased.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is absolutely true.”
I lean in a little, the alcohol turning courage more reckless. “I’ve seen you pleased.”
Her eyebrow rises. “When?”
“When Mrs. Harrow put that essay grade on the board, and you beat me by two points.”
“It was three points,” she corrects instantly.
I grin. “See? Pleased.”
Her mouth twitches. She wants to argue and hates that she can’t, because she did enjoy it. She enjoyed every win. It proved the world could be controlled if you did everything right.
I used to hate that about her.
Or maybe I just hated that she made me want to do better.
“Are you always like this?” I ask.
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve got a ruler in your spine and a checklist in your head.”
Tessa’s eyes narrow. “Are you always like this?”
I blink. “Like what?”
“Like you’ve got a joke loaded in your mouth at all times, so no one can tell if you’re nervous.”
The words hit closer than they should.
I laugh anyway, because of course I do. “That’s rude.”
“It’s accurate.”
“You’re rude.”
“You’re fragile,” she shoots back without missing a beat.
I set my glass down a little too hard. “I’m not fragile.”
She tilts her head, studying me in that same clinical way she used to look at me when I’d answer questions in class, measuring whether I’d actually done the reading or if I was winging it.
I was always winging it.
Tonight, she’s still measuring.
“You look like someone who’s been holding his breath for hours,” she says.
I don’t answer right away.
Because she’s right, and I hate that she’s right, and I hate that she can see it when I’m trying so damn hard to make sure no one does.
I drag my thumb along the rim of my glass. “You don’t know anything.”
Tessa’s gaze drops to my hand, then back up. “That’s what people say when they’re terrified someone does.”
I swallow.
The bar lights dim a notch without anyone saying anything, the universal signal that time’s up.
Chairs scrape. Empty glasses clink together as Jet helps stack them.
Penny’s laughter fades into yawns. A few people linger to say goodbye, but their glances are too obvious now, like they’re waiting for something to break between us.
Eventually, it’s just us.
And the bartender wiping down the counter with the air of someone who’s seen enough drama for one evening.
“Last call was five minutes ago,” he says, not unkindly.
Tessa glances at her phone, surprised time still exists. “We should go.”
“Yeah,” I say, too quickly. “Yeah, I’ll… I’ll walk you.”
She hesitates. Just enough to remind me she never agrees without calculating the cost.
“Fine,” she says. “But only because it’s icy.”
I grab my coat, toss a few bills on the bar, and follow her out into the night.
The cold hits, sobering in the best way. Snow crunches under our boots as we step onto Main Street, the Christmas lights still strung overhead even though the parade ended days ago. They twinkle against the dark, making Buckhorn feel gentler somehow.
We walk side by side, hands jammed into pockets, breath fogging between us.
For a block, neither of us speaks.
It’s not awkward. That’s the strange part. Silence with Tessa Long has always felt earned. A pause in a chess match, not an absence.
“You ever notice,” I say eventually, staring straight ahead, “how many people in this town are locked in some kind of rivalry?”
She snorts. “You mean besides ours?”
“Besides ours.”
“Buckhorn runs on it,” she says. “Ranch against ranch. Family against family. Past against future.”
“Top of the class against top of the class,” I add.
Her mouth curves despite herself. “You were never top.”
“Second place still haunts my dreams,” I say solemnly.
She bumps my arm with her elbow.
We walk another few steps.
“Do you think,” I say slowly, “that ours was because of our families?”
She glances over at me. “You mean McCoy versus Long?”
“Yeah.”
Her boots scuff the snow.
“Maybe at first. But mostly?” She shrugs. “I think we just hated losing.”
I laugh quietly. “Yeah. That tracks.”
I think about all the times I saw her name above mine on a list. All the times I pretended not to care while quietly swearing I’d beat her next time. All the nights I stayed up later than I wanted to, studying not because I loved it, but because she existed.
“I think,” I say, “you were the only person who ever made me feel like I couldn’t coast.”
She slows a little.
“And I think,” she says carefully, “you were the only person who ever scared me that effort might not be enough.”
That lands heavy.
We turn down a quieter street. Houses line the road, their windows dark and porch lights gleaming. Buckhorn is small enough that walking someone home feels intimate, whether you want it to or not.
Her place comes into view too soon.
She stops near the gate, posture reset, every piece of armor back in place.
“Well,” she says. “Thanks for the escort.”
“Anytime,” I reply, and damn it, I mean it more than I should.
The street is quiet. Snow mutes every sound. Her house sits behind her, a line she’s already drawn. The porch light is on, the door ten steps away, the end of the night neat and controlled.
Very on brand for Tessa Long.
She hesitates, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag, then looks up at me. Really looks at me.
“So.”
There it is.
“So,” I echo, because I’m an idiot who thinks mirroring buys time.
“Your fiancée,” she says. “Who is she, Nash?”
My insides snap.
I’m tired of the looks. The speculation. The way everyone in this town suddenly thinks they’re entitled to a piece of my future because I opened my mouth at the wrong moment. I’m tired of calculating lies on the fly, of watching people reassess me in real time.
And I’m especially tired of doing it in front of her.
I roll my shoulders back, searching for my usual exits.
A joke.
A grin.
Some charming deflection that turns pressure into laughter.
“Tessa…” I start.
She waits, chin lifted slightly, eyes calm.
“No,” she says quietly. “Don’t.”
That one word traps me more effectively than any accusation.
“Don’t what?” I ask, though I already know.
“Don’t dodge,” she says. “Don’t perform. You’ve done enough of that tonight.”
My jaw tightens. “You think I’m performing right now?”
“I think you’re cornered,” she replies. “And you hate that.”
She’s not wrong. That’s the problem.
“You always assume the worst,” I say.
“And you always assume charm will save you,” she fires back. “It won’t. Not with me.”
I laugh, sharp and humorless. “You say that like it’s a threat.”
“It’s a boundary,” she corrects.
I take a step back, then stop myself. Running would only confirm everything she thinks about me.
“You want a name?” I ask. “Is that what this is?”
“I want the truth,” she says. “For once.”
The silence stretches. Cold creeps in through my boots. My breath fogs between us, impossible to hide.
I could lie.
I could invent someone. Portland, maybe. Someone vague enough to never materialize.
I could tell her nothing and walk away, leave this as just another unresolved McCoy Long standoff.
But she’s standing there, watching me same as she always did in school, waiting to see whether I’ll rise or fold.
And suddenly I know, I’m not going to talk my way out of this.
I step closer.
Close enough that her breath stutters before she schools it away. Close enough that I can see the faint freckle near her jaw, the one I remember noticing years ago and pretending I hadn’t.
“What are you doing?”
Buying time, I think. Running out of exits.
I shake my head slightly, trying to clear it. “You always did this.”
“Did what?”
“Back me into a corner and wait,” I say. “Like you knew I’d crack first.”
Her eyes flicker. “Maybe I just didn’t let you get away with things.”
“That too.”
My heart is pounding now.
“Nash,” she says, more carefully now. “If you don’t want to answer, just say so.”
I look at her mouth.
I shouldn’t. I know better.
But my brain is scrambling, grasping for something, anything, that will stop this moment from tipping completely out of my control.
And the only thing I can think of is the worst possible idea.
I step in, close enough now that there’s no pretending this is accidental. I lift a hand, hesitating just long enough to register the heat of her skin before my thumb brushes her cheek.
“Nash…” she starts, warning clear in her voice.
I don’t let her finish.
I kiss her.
It’s meant to be quick. A distraction. A full stop at the end of a sentence I don’t know how to finish.
It’s none of those things.
The second our mouths meet, my chest slams open.
Her breath catches, and for a terrifying half second, I think she’s going to shove me away. Instead, her hand fists in the front of my coat, not pulling me closer, not pushing me back.
The kiss deepens. Her lips are warm despite the cold, unyielding, arguing with me even now. My head spins, the street tilting, the lie, the council, the town, all of it falling away until there’s just this.
Her.
Me.
The way my heart is trying to break free of my ribs.