26. Tessa
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Tessa
“They were just staring at me like I’d lost my head!”
Nash says it the second I step out onto Main Street, like he’s been holding it in his chest too long and might combust if he doesn’t get it out now.
I blink at him. “Good afternoon to you too. I guess this ‘date’ is much needed, huh?”
He’s pacing, full on pacing, hands shoving through his hair, jacket half unzipped like he forgot how weather works. He looks like a man who walked into a meeting with a plan and walked out carrying everyone else’s suspicion instead.
“I’m serious,” he says, stopping in front of me. “I swear, Tessa, I said one thing about the land boundaries, and suddenly it was like…” He makes a vague circling motion with his hands, “like I’d stood up and announced I was going to build a water park on the cemetery.”
I purse my lips. “That would explain the looks.”
He huffs. “Don’t.”
I fall into step beside him as he starts walking again, because apparently this is how our fake engagement operates now: spontaneous public strolls through Buckhorn while emotionally unraveling.
Main Street is busy in that winter slow way, people loitering because there’s nowhere else to be, boots crunching on old snow while the hardware store door swings open and shut.
Clara Jenkins is already visible through the bakery window, moving with purpose like she’s about to commit a festive crime.
Nash gestures wildly as we walk. “They kept asking about surveys. About precedent. Hank Lawson wouldn’t shut up.”
“Hank never shuts up,” I say. “That’s his whole personality.”
“And,” he continues, “I swear I heard someone actually say ‘convenient’ out loud. About us.”
I stop walking.
Nash takes two more steps before realizing I’m no longer beside him. He turns, eyes searching my face.
“They think you’re manipulating them.”
“They think I’m manipulating you.”
A flicker of sharpness moves through me.
“That’s not—”
“I know,” he cuts in quickly. “I know. I just…” He exhales, dragging a hand down his face. “It felt like I was standing there saying words and none of them mattered.”
I start walking again, and he matches me immediately, relief flickering across his face like he was worried I might bolt.
“That’s Buckhorn,” I say quietly. “They decide first. Then they listen.”
He snorts. “Well, they decided I’m either an idiot or a criminal.”
“Why not both?” I mutter.
That gets a weak laugh out of him.
We pass the gazebo, still draped in sad, leftover Christmas lights. Dottie Carter and her sister are on a bench pretending not to stare. I straighten my posture automatically.
Public.
This is public.
Which means everything matters.
Nash notices too, his hand drifting closer to mine. I don’t look at him when I lace my fingers through his.
The reaction is immediate; he stiffens for half a second before relaxing, thumb brushing the side of my hand in a way that’s probably supposed to look natural.
It does. Annoyingly.
“Smile,” he murmurs. “They’re eating this alive.”
“I don’t smile on command,” I whisper back.
“Your scowl reads as ‘intimidating fiancée,’” he says. “Which might actually help.”
I tilt my head slightly, letting my gaze sweep Main Street. “Good.”
We reach Buttercup Bakery, and the bell over the door jingles, alerting the entire town to our presence.
Clara looks up from behind the counter, flour on her cheek, eyes lighting up like Christmas morning.
“Good afternoon, Clara.”
She gestures toward the case. “Snack?”
I glance at Nash. He looks like he might collapse if someone hands him anything but sugar.
“Yes,” I say. “We’re having a snack.”
Clara beams as she slides two pastries onto a plate shaped suspiciously like a heart.
“On the house,” she adds.
“No,” I say.
“Yes,” she replies.
Nash reaches for his wallet. Clara swats his hand away.
“Just consider us for the wedding, that’s all I ask.”
We end up at the small table by the window, the one strategically placed for maximum visibility. I can feel eyes through the glass before I even sit, while Nash stares down at his pastry.
“So,” I say lightly, “tell me exactly how bad it was.”
He snorts. “Your uncle is utterly determined to destroy me.”
Heat flares in my chest. “I need to talk to him.”
Although I don’t know what I can do…
Nash’s jaw tightens. “Be careful.”
“I’ll handle it.”
He hesitates. “Text me.”
I nod.
We finish the snack in tense, public silence, then walk back out into the cold, hands still linked, the town watching us like a slow-burning fuse.
When I get home, I head straight down the hall toward Thomas’s office, spine straight, questions lined up as ammunition I refuse to fire recklessly.
I knock.
“What is it?” he asks. “I’m busy.”
“I have questions,” I say.
His gaze sharpens.
And this time, I don’t back down. I take a seat and stare at him.
“I need to know what’s going on with the McCoy deal… on your end.”
He shakes his head. “You’re the one who needs to report to me.”
A tremor tears down my spine, but I won’t back down.
“What’s happening with Juniper House?” I push. “Why does it seem so relevant to the McCoy plan?”
Thomas’s gaze hardens. “Because the McCoys are trying to build on land they never properly earned. Don’t forget what side you’re on here.”
There it is.
The line he always returns to.
I nod slowly like I’m considering it. I’m still his obedient niece, the administrator in training.
“What about agreements?” I ask casually, “that were never filed. Promises that were supposed to be made official later.”
His eyes flash.
“Where are you hearing this?”
“From Town Hall. From people who think the engagement means things are resolved.”
Thomas’s jaw tightens at the word engagement like it’s a stain. “You being engaged doesn’t mean I’m giving the McCoys anything. There won’t even be a damn wedding.”
“I know, I just want to know—”
Thomas’s eyes go cold. “Careful.”
I hold his stare. “I’m asking questions.”
He exhales, controlled. “Questions are fine, Tessa. Doubt is fine. But you need to remember what’s at stake.”
“What’s at stake?” I repeat.
He leans forward. “Our family’s legacy. Our land. Our security. Everything your grandmother built to keep you safe.”
I swallow.
He knows exactly which lever to pull.
“Then help me understand,” I say softly. “Why now? Why push this now?”
Thomas snorts with irritation. “Because the McCoys are expanding.”
“That’s the obvious answer.”
“It’s the only answer.”
“No,” I say quietly. “It’s not.”
Thomas stills. “Excuse me.”
“You’ve hated the McCoys my whole life. I’ve heard the stories. I’ve seen the way you look at them at Founders’ Day, like you’d rather spit than speak. But you’ve never pushed like this before.”
Thomas’s expression tightens. “You were a child.”
“I’m not anymore.”
The silence between us sharpens.
Thomas’s smile returns, small and dangerous. “Be very careful, Tessa.”
I lift my chin. “I am being careful. That’s why I’m asking you.”
He stands slowly. He needs height to feel in control.
“The McCoys can’t be trusted,” he says, each word clipped. “They never could. They never will. Reopening old wounds will only cost the Longs everything.”
“Everything?”
“Yes,” he snaps. “Do you think the town will be fair? Do you think they’ll side with us over their golden ranch family? They’ll paint us as greedy. Vindictive. They’ll make us the villains for wanting what’s ours.”
His voice is rising now.
“The McCoys will smile and shrug and say they didn’t know,” he continues. “And Buckhorn will let them keep whatever they’ve taken, because Buckhorn has always protected them.”
My stomach twists.
Because some of that is true.
And some of it is a story he needs to believe to justify what he’s doing.
I take a careful step closer. “What was the agreement, Thomas?”
His eyes flash. “There was no agreement.”
My pulse spikes.
That’s a lie.
“You’re sure?” I say.
“Yes.”
I keep my face neutral even as my hands curl into fists at my sides.
“Then why are there promises that were supposed to be made official later?”
“You’re getting too close to them,” he finally snarls.
My throat tightens. “I’m doing what you asked. I’m staying close.”
“Not like that.”
“You’re asking me to lie.”
“I’m asking you to protect your family,” he corrects coldly.
“And if the truth doesn’t match what you want,” I press, “then what?”
Thomas’s gaze hardens into an expression I don’t recognize.
“Then we do what we have to,” he says.
The room feels suddenly too small.
I stare at him, at the man who raised his voice at me once when I was fourteen, and I cried for an hour because I thought I’d disappointed him.
I stare at the man who took me under his wing after my mother died, who paid for my schooling, who taught me to file deeds and keep my spine straight and never let Buckhorn see me bend.
I stare at him and realize I don’t know where loyalty ends, and control begins.
“You want to know why now?” He throws his hands in the air in frustration.
“Because if the McCoys build that guest ranch, they cement themselves. They become untouchable. They bring money. Tourists. Attention. The town will wrap itself around them like it always does, and then anything the Longs say will be dismissed as bitterness.”
His chest rises with his breath. He’s worked up now.
“And because,” he continues, “I am tired of swallowing it. I am tired of watching them thrive on what was built from our loss.”
My throat tightens.
Because there it is. Resentment.
A long, festering ache that has become his identity.
“And you,” he says, gaze sharp, “are a Long. Do you understand me?”
I swallow hard.
“Yes,” I say, because I do understand him.
That’s what scares me.
Because I also understand Nash.
And those two understandings are tearing me in half.