15. Nash
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Nash
If I’ve learned anything in the last two weeks, it’s that hope is a dangerous drug.
It hits fast, makes you reckless, and convinces you the world is finally tilting your way, right up until it dumps you flat on your back.
But this morning? This morning, I’ve got a folder under my arm, Faith at my side, and the mayor of Buckhorn looking at my proposal eagerly. She might actually approve it instead of using it as kindling.
I’ll take it.
The Town Hall building always feels as if it’s holding its breath, waiting for somebody to make a mistake so it can write it down in triplicate.
Faith breezes in, scanning her surroundings.
Not in a rude way. In a you people are lucky I’m here way.
She’s wearing a chunky sweater the color of cinnamon and a sleek ponytail, and she’s got her laptop bag slung over her shoulder. Her eyes flick to me, sharp and encouraging.
“You ready?” she asks.
“No,” I say honestly. “But I’m doing it anyway, so let’s call that growth.”
She snorts. “That’s the spirit.”
We head down the hall to the meeting room. The one with the long table and the chairs that were designed to punish your spine for wanting comfort.
The door is open.
Mayor Ruth Caldwell sits at the head of the table, posture straight, hair smooth, blazer crisp enough it could cut glass. She was born holding a clipboard. Beside her is a binder thick enough to stop a bullet.
She looks up when we enter, and for one wild second, I expect skepticism. I expect the polite smile that says you’re cute, Nash, but no.
Instead, she nods. Just once.
“Mr. McCoy. Ms. Ross,” she says. “Thank you for coming.”
Faith gives her a bright professional smile. “Of course, Mayor Caldwell. We appreciate you making time.”
I swallow. My throat is suddenly too dry.
“Yeah,” I manage. “Thank you.”
We take our seats. I set my folder down carefully. I’m afraid that if I move too fast, the whole thing will shatter. Faith opens her laptop with a confident click. Her screen lights up, and I see a neat slideshow title:
McCoy Ranch Guest Ranch Proposal — Phase One
Mayor Caldwell folds her hands. “Alright. Let’s begin. You’ve submitted revised plans. I understand you’ve adjusted your environmental impact details and your projected revenue estimates.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, then immediately hate how small that sounds. I’m a kid asking permission to go outside.
I clear my throat. Sit up straighter.
“Yes,” I repeat, firmer. “We adjusted based on the feedback from the committee. We’re not trying to bulldoze the ranch into a tourist trap. This is controlled expansion. Small at first.”
Faith clicks to the first slide, and just like that, I can breathe again.
Because this isn’t the lie. This is the dream.
This is the thing that’s been living in my head for years, scratching at the inside of my ribs, and it wants out.
“We’re proposing a phased development,” Faith says smoothly, her tone warm but sharp. “Phase One includes renovating the existing guest house on the east edge of the property—”
I jump in, hands moving without permission. “It’s already got a good foundation. We’d update plumbing, add insulation, fix the roof, and make it actually livable year-round.”
Mayor Caldwell makes a note.
Faith clicks again. A rendering of the guest house appears. Not polished enough to impress Portland architects, but clean.
“And Phase Two,” Faith continues, “would be the addition of four small cabins. Limited footprint, set back from the creek line, and built with local materials.”
Mayor Caldwell looks up. “Local materials?”
“We have a mill connection through the county co-op,” Faith says. “And Nash, Mr. McCoy, has already sourced potential contractors who live in Buckhorn.”
I nod quickly. “Tommy Greene. He does half the roofs in town. And the cabins would be small. Like cozy. Not a resort.”
Mayor Caldwell’s mouth twitches, trying not to smile.
“So,” she says, “more ‘ranch experience’ and less… luxury spa.”
“Yes,” I say, too eager. “Exactly.”
Faith gives me a side glance, saying, calm down, golden retriever, then keeps going.
We talk about trails, horse safety, liability insurance, water use, septic systems, parking, and noise regulations.
I answer questions. Faith fills the gaps. The mayor listens, actually considering it.
And the longer it goes, the more I feel emotions I haven’t felt in a while.
Competent.
Not charming. Not lucky. Not Nash McCoy getting away with it again.
Just capable.
I glance down at my notes. At the scribbles and arrows only I can read. At the sketches I drew the night after Founders’ Day, when I couldn’t sleep.
This is what it’s all for.
Not the engagement. Not the performance.
The ranch.
Legacy.
A future where Buckhorn doesn’t bleed people until it’s a ghost town with a diner and a church and no one left to fill the pews.
Mayor Caldwell flips a page in her binder.
“This is more thorough,” she says, surprising me. “Than your original presentation.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I’ve been… working.”
Faith’s smile is sharp with pride. “He has.”
Mayor Caldwell’s gaze holds mine. “Good. Because if this town is going to approve something that changes its landscape, we need to trust the person steering it.”
My chest tightens.
Trust.
That word feels too heavy for me sometimes. It’s something people give Boone. Or Dallas. People who don’t talk themselves into corners and then kiss their high school rival to shut her up.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say softly. “I understand.”
The mayor sets her pen down.
“I’m not promising approval today,” she says. “But I am saying I see potential here.”
Hope surges so hard I almost choke on it.
“Thank you,” I manage, meaning it.
She nods. “Now. There is one concern we need to address before this goes any further.”
My stomach drops.
Of course there is.
Her gaze shifts to Faith, then back to me.
“Land boundaries,” she says.
I blink. “Land boundaries?”
Faith’s posture stays calm, but her fingers still on the trackpad.
Mayor Caldwell taps her binder. “There are questions about a portion of the east parcel where you’ve proposed the cabin sites.”
I frown. “That’s McCoy land.”
“That’s the McCoy claim,” she corrects gently.
The air in the room changes.
“What does that mean?”
Mayor Caldwell exhales, controlled. “It means the Long family has filed concerns regarding historical access rights along the creek line. Specifically related to a property deed connected to the Long estate.”
My brain stutters.
“The Long estate?” I repeat. “You mean Tessa’s house? That’s not anywhere near—”
“No,” she says, and the word feels careful. “Not the house in town. The remote property. Juniper House. The one registered under the Long name on Old Mill Road extension.”
I stare at her.
My mouth goes dry.
Faith’s gaze flicks to me, quick and sharp. You didn’t know about this?
No. I did not.
“The Longs own land out there?” I ask, and I hear how stupid I sound.
Mayor Caldwell watches me carefully. “It’s complicated. Some of it is old record. Some of it is unclear. But the concern is enough that the planning committee can’t ignore it.”
I swallow hard. “Is this because of the engagement?”
Mayor Caldwell folds her hands again. “The town is curious. People assume your engagement to Ms. Long means the families are… resolving old issues.”
My throat tightens.
People assume.
This is some romance novel plot line where love fixes land disputes, and small towns cheer because the future is saved by kissing.
Mayor Caldwell continues, “Some residents are hopeful. Others are skeptical. There are rumors…”
My stomach twists. Thomas Long’s fingerprints are all over that word.
“And,” she adds, very carefully, “there are those who believe the engagement is… convenient.”
The lie sits up inside me as a snake.
Faith’s gaze snaps to mine, a silent question: Is it?
I can’t answer without detonating my whole life.
“So,” Mayor Caldwell says, “will the engagement help?”
Her eyes hold mine.
And I have no idea what to say.
“I… don’t know yet,” I admit, and it tastes of failure.
Mayor Caldwell studies me for a beat, then nods once. She respects honesty even when it’s inconvenient.
“Then we proceed cautiously,” she says. “I’ll need you to provide full documentation of your boundary surveys and any historical filings. We’ll schedule a review with the county recorder if necessary.”
My pulse is pounding.
“Okay,” I say, because that’s all I’ve got.
Faith closes her laptop gently, ending the meeting before I bleed out on the table.
Mayor Caldwell stands. “Thank you both for coming. This isn’t a no, Mr. McCoy.” She pauses. “It’s just… not a simple yes.”
I nod, stiff. “Yes, ma’am.”
Faith shakes the mayor’s hand, all professionalism.
I follow her out of the room, feeling like someone swapped my bones for ice.
We step outside into the cold. The January wind slaps my face.
I stare at the street, at Main Street lights still hanging even though Christmas is long gone, at people walking because their lives are normal.
Mine is made of glass.
“Does Tessa know about this?” I ask, and I hate how much it matters.
Faith’s eyes narrow slightly. “She’s a Long. And she works at Town Hall. If there’s paperwork, she might.”
My stomach drops further.
Or she might not.
Either option is terrifying.
“Go home,” Faith says, nudging me lightly. “Talk to your mom. Get your land records. If there’s something weird, Maggie will know.”
I swallow. “Yeah.”
Faith pauses, then adds, softer, “And Nash… don’t spiral.”
I look at her. “I don’t spiral.”
She squeezes my arm once. “Go. I’ll start pulling public record references I can access. Text me if you find anything.”
I nod.
Then I get in my truck and drive back to the ranch with my hands tight on the wheel and my mind running faster than the tires on the road.
Long property.
Creek line.
Old Mill Road extension.
Handshakes.
Virgil’s warning presses against my ribs.
Ask questions before you build things that wake old fights.
Home is warm when I step inside, the scent of coffee and lemon cleaner mixing with something hearty simmering on the stove. Rusty lifts his head from his bed, looks at me, and immediately decides I’m not okay.
He stands, stretches, and follows me, a furry parole officer.
Mom is at the kitchen table with a stack of papers spread out, waging war against bureaucracy. She looks up when I enter, eyes sharp.
“You’re home early,” she says.
I drop into the chair across from her. “Meeting didn’t go like I thought.”
Mom sets her pen down. “That’s usually how meetings go.”
“Mayor Caldwell was receptive,” I say, then the bitterness catches in my throat. “Until she wasn’t.”
Mom’s gaze narrows. “What happened?”
I take a breath. “She said there’s a Long family property tied to the land I want to build on.”
Silence hits the kitchen.
Her face doesn’t change much. Maggie McCoy doesn’t do dramatic, but emotion tightens around her mouth.
“Long property,” she repeats.
I nod. “Did you know about it?”
Mom looks down at the papers in front of her as if they might offer an escape route.
Then she looks back up and says, very quietly, “I knew there were stories.”
My stomach drops.
“Stories?” I echo.
Mom exhales. “Your father used to say the land wasn’t as clean as the deeds made it look. That there were… old agreements.”
Handshakes.
The word doesn’t leave my mouth, but it burns there.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” I ask, and the edge in my voice surprises even me.
Mom’s gaze hardens. “Because it wasn’t your burden. And because digging at old wounds tends to make them bleed.”
“Well,” I snap, “they’re bleeding now.”
Rusty grunts in agreement.
Mom holds my stare for a long beat.
Then she stands, moves to the cabinet, and pulls out an old binder. Not the neat ones Dallas keeps. This one is battered. She sets it down with a thud.
“McCoy land records,” she says. “Everything we have filed. Everything your father kept. Everything that was ever… questionable.”
My throat tightens. “Questionable?”
Mom’s eyes sharpen. “Nash, if you’re going to build, you need to know what you’re standing on.”
I flip the binder open, hands suddenly trembling.
Maps. Deeds. Survey lines. Old photocopies with dates that make my brain ache.
I scan for the east parcel.
For the creek line.
For anything that says Long.
It takes me five minutes to find it.
A reference in the margin.
A note in my father’s handwriting.
Not much. Just a name.
Long Extension Property — check access rights before development.
My skin goes cold.
I stare at the words until they blur.
Dad knew.
I swallow hard. “Why would the Longs have land tied to our boundary? We’ve run cattle there for decades.”
Mom’s face is tight. “Because decades don’t erase history.”
My mind flashes back to Founders’ Day. Virgil’s voice. Dottie’s story about pride and hunger and choices you don’t talk about later.
I rub a hand over my face.
“Did Tessa know about this?” I ask again, and the way her name leaves my mouth is a fault line.
Mom watches me closely. “I don’t know what Tessa knows.”
That’s not an answer.
I flip another page. Another note. Another reference. Old county filing numbers.
It’s enough to make me feel sick.
Because the more I see, the clearer it becomes: The town taking sides isn’t about me and Tessa being engaged.
It’s bigger than that.
It’s about who people believe. Who they’ve believed for years. Who they’ve built their own identities around.
And the engagement?
It doesn’t cancel it.
It complicates it.