25. Nash
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Nash
If there’s one thing Buckhorn knows how to do, it’s change the temperature without touching the thermostat.
Town Hall feels different the second I walk in for our next biweekly meeting, as if the room pulled its shoulders in and decided to watch instead of welcome.
Same scuffed floors. Same long table with its uneven legs and coffee rings ghosted into the wood. Same folding chairs designed by someone who thought comfort was a moral weakness. But the people feel different. Conversations taper off as I pass.
Tessa’s chair at the clerk’s table is empty. Conflict of interest, I assume.
I take my seat anyway.
Notebook on my knee. Pen already moving, sketching arrows and boxes, and half words only I understand. It’s a habit. If my hands are busy, my head doesn’t spiral quite as fast.
Mayor Caldwell sits at the head of the table, posture immaculate, blazer pressed within an inch of its life. She looks the same as she always does: composed, competent, born knowing how to adjourn a meeting. But when she looks at me today, there’s a carefulness behind her eyes.
“Thank you all for coming,” she says, tapping her pen once. “We’re here to continue the discussion of the McCoy Ranch guest ranch proposal.”
I stand when she nods to me, straighten my jacket, and do the thing I’ve learned how to do over years of dinners and town events and conversations that mattered.
Smile. Breathe. Speak steadily.
“Thanks for having me back,” I say. “I know everyone’s time is valuable.”
A couple of nods. No smiles.
I launch into it anyway.
I walk them through the revised timeline. The phased development. How nothing happens fast. How nothing happens without oversight. I talk about local contractors, about limiting cabin numbers, about water usage and conservation, and keeping the creek untouched.
For a few minutes, it feels almost normal. People ask questions I expected. I answer them. I even feel a flicker of something dangerously close to confidence.
Then the questions shift.
“Can you clarify the eastern boundary again?”
I glance down at my notes, then back up. “Sure. The east parcel has been part of McCoy Ranch operations for—”
“Operations,” someone interrupts gently. “But ownership?”
My pen stills.
“The deed records show—”
“And has a new survey been commissioned?” Mayor Caldwell asks, tone polite, neutral, as if she’s asking about parking permits.
“No,” I say slowly. “Not yet. The original survey—”
“Original as in when?” another council member asks.
I swallow. “Mid-century.”
There it is.
The hairline crack.
“Given recent concerns,” Mayor Caldwell says carefully, “the committee would feel more comfortable with updated documentation.”
Concerns.
I glance around the table. See eyes flick toward Hank Lawson.
Hank leans back in his chair, arms crossed, boots stretched out, claiming territory by proximity alone.
“Funny thing about land,” he says mildly. “Everyone thinks it’s simple until someone starts building on it.”
I don’t look at him. If I do, I’ll say something that’ll end up quoted.
Mayor Caldwell lifts a hand. “Mr. Lawson.”
“I’m just saying,” he continues, unbothered. “Would hate for the town to green-light something that turns into a legal mess later.”
“Are there specific disputes you’re referencing?” I ask, and I hear the edge I can’t quite sand down.
Hank smiles, enjoying a private joke. “Just rumors. History has a way of surfacing when money gets involved.”
I feel it then. The thing that’s been humming under my skin since Juniper House. Since the realization that nothing we stand on is as clean as we tell ourselves it is.
Mayor Caldwell clears her throat. “There have been inquiries.”
My stomach tightens.
“Inquiries from whom?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer immediately. She looks at me instead, weighing everything.
“The Long estate,” she says finally.
The room goes quiet.
I blink. “The Longs?”
“Yes,” she says. “Specifically regarding historical access rights along the creek line tied to a property registered under the Long name.”
Damn Thomas.
“Those concerns don’t change the current deed,” I say carefully.
“No,” Mayor Caldwell agrees. “But they do raise questions the committee can’t ignore.”
Someone clears their throat.
“Well,” I declare, finding the words spilling out of my mouth once more. “Me and Tessa are getting married, so…”
That was not the line I planned.
It hangs there anyway.
Mayor Caldwell’s brows lift just a fraction. The way people look when they’re deciding whether to believe you or politely let you keep talking until you tangle yourself up.
Hank Lawson doesn’t bother hiding his smirk.
“Well, congratulations,” he says. “That supposed to settle a hundred years of paperwork?”
I clench my jaw.
“I’m saying,” I continue, forcing my voice back into something calm, “that there’s no appetite on either side for a public dispute. This isn’t a land grab. It’s a development proposal that stays within existing boundaries.”
Mayor Caldwell folds her hands. “The concern isn’t appetite, Mr. McCoy. It’s precedent.”
I nod slowly. “I understand that.”
Do I? I’m not sure anymore. Two weeks ago, precedent meant zoning laws and septic requirements. Now it means men long dead shaking hands in winter and never writing it down.
“We’ll need updated surveys,” she continues. “A full review of historical filings related to the creek line. And if the Long estate continues to raise concerns, we may need county involvement.”
The word county drops hard as a rock in my gut.
Hank leans forward now, elbows on the table. “Sounds reasonable to me.”
I finally look at him.
He doesn’t flinch. Just smiles as if he’s watching a rodeo from the cheap seats.
“I’m not opposed to oversight,” I say, carefully choosing each word. “I just want to make sure we’re not freezing progress based on speculation.”
Mayor Caldwell nods once. “That’s fair. And to be clear, this is not a rejection.”
Not a yes either.
Again.
She glances down at her notes, then back up. “But until these questions are resolved, the committee can’t move forward.”
There it is. The quiet stall.
I sit back down slowly, pen slipping from my fingers and clattering against the notebook. The sound feels too loud in the room.
The meeting wraps up without ceremony. No one hangs back. No one asks about wedding dates or guest lists or how it feels to be engaged to your childhood rival.
Outside, the January air cuts sharp and clean, trying to wake me up.
It doesn’t work.
I stand on the steps of Town Hall, staring at Main Street. The bakery windows still have winter wreaths up. Clara’s probably inside right now, kneading dough and gossip at the same time. Life is rolling on as normal.
My phone buzzes.
Clay.
That brings a smile to my face. My younger brother always does.
I answer before the second buzz can hit.
“Clay, it’s always good to hear from you when life is grim,” I say.
Clay laughs straight into my ear, loud and bright and entirely too cheerful for the state of my nervous system. Wind rushes behind him, engines maybe, the sound of somewhere that isn’t Buckhorn.
“That bad, huh?” he says. “You picked up like I called to tell you the barn burned down.”
“Town Hall,” I say flatly.
“Oof,” he replies immediately. “Say no more.”
I huff a breath. “How’s the circuit?”
“Cold. Loud. Smells like dirt and bad decisions,” he says cheerfully. “I got launched off a bull named Diablo this morning.”
“That tracks.”
“Second place though,” he adds. “Not bad for a guy everyone thought was washed.”
I smile despite myself. “Proud of you.”
“Damn right you are.” There’s a pause, then his tone shifts just a hair. “Mom sounded… weird on the phone yesterday.”
I grimace. “She always sounds weird.”
“No,” he says. “Weird, weird. Like she’s holding back a sermon.”
I glance back at the Town Hall doors, at the place where my future just got put on hold. “Yeah. There’s stuff.”
“Stuff?”
“Land stuff,” I say. “Town stuff.”
“Engagement stuff?” he asks lightly.
My stomach drops.
“Jeez, Clay.”
“What?” he says innocently. “I heard you’re engaged. I’m allowed to ask.”
“Since when do you do innocent?”
He laughs again. “Since my older brother apparently got engaged without telling me.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m starting,” he says. “Because I leave town for five minutes and you’re…” He whistles, “engaged to Tessa Long.”
My heart skips about three beats.
“Did you lose a bet?” he asks. “I thought you guys always fought?”
“It’s not…” I stop. Recalculate. “It’s complicated.”
Clay hums. “That’s what people say right before Thanksgiving turns into a fistfight.”
I rub a hand over my face. “You haven’t even seen her in years.”
“I've seen her plenty,” he says. “She used to correct your homework out of spite.”
“She corrected everyone’s homework.”
“Yeah,” he says. “But she enjoyed yours.”
“She hated me,” I say, reflexively.
Clay snorts. “Brother, if that’s what hate looks like now, I gotta rethink some things.”
I close my eyes. “This is not helping.”
“Hey,” he says, softer. “I’m teasing. Mostly.”
Mostly is doing a lot of work there.
“So,” he continues, “what’s she like now?”
I hesitate.
Which is apparently answer enough.
“Oh,” Clay says slowly. “Oh no.”
“What?”
“You hesitated,” he says. “You don’t hesitate.”
“That’s not—”
“You talk with your whole chest,” he goes on. “You’re a golden retriever in boots. If you liked this for normal reasons, you’d already be halfway through describing her laugh.”
I swallow.
Clay goes quiet for a beat. Then, carefully, “You really have fallen for her. Hard. Harder than anyone that’s ever come before. No wonder you’re marrying her.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t deny it either.”
Shit.
I don’t know if I even can deny it anymore.