27. Nash
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Nash
“You ready?”
Boone’s voice sends an icy chill down my spine. I might look ready in my suit, ready to perform, but I sure as shit don’t feel it.
Dallas calls from the hallway that Rusty already stole my other boot, Faith chirps from the kitchen about how excited she is for the first barn dance of the year, and my soul tries to crawl out of my body and run away into the pasture.
I’m not in the mood for fiddle music and beer breath, or Mayor Caldwell’s polite smile that says I’m still watching you.
Not for Hank Lawson’s smug face when he sees me walk in like I’m not currently carrying a land dispute in my ribs, and definitely not for Clara Jenkins trying to suck all the gossip out of me.
Maybe not even for Tessa.
Which is the problem.
Because I want her.
And wanting her is standing too close to the edge of something that could collapse.
I drag my hands down my face and stare at myself in the hallway mirror, trying to recognize the guy looking back.
He looks fine. That’s what I’m going for.
Fine is safe. It’s manageable, and it doesn’t make Boone tilt his head and ask questions I can’t answer without detonating everything.
I yank my jacket on and step into the kitchen.
Mom’s ready too. Hair pinned back, earrings in, lipstick a shade that says I survived raising four boys and I will survive this town too. She’s already poured herself coffee, preparing for the barn dance like a battle, not a social event.
Rose is fussing with Ellie’s hair while Wyatt climbs onto a chair he’s not supposed to be on.
Faith is adjusting her earrings in the reflection of the microwave door.
Dallas is checking his phone with the quiet intensity of a man who would rather audit paperwork than socialize as Lila tries to climb up his leg.
Boone looks up when I enter and clocks me in one glance. “You look like you’re headed to a funeral.”
“Barn dance,” I mutter. “Same thing.”
Faith laughs. “Nash, come on. It’ll be fun.”
“Fun,” I echo, because the word feels foreign lately.
Boone’s eyes narrow.
Rose pauses mid-braid. “You don’t sound thrilled.”
“I’m thrilled,” I say, deadpan. “Ecstatic. Overjoyed. Can’t wait for someone’s elbow to go through my ribs while we attempt to line dance.”
Faith snorts. “You’re such a baby.”
“Am I?” I shoot back. “Or do I just have standards?”
Boone’s gaze stays on me. “Where’s Tessa?”
My stomach tightens.
“She’s… meeting us there,” I say.
Dallas’s brow lifts slightly. “Meeting us there?”
“Yeah,” I say too fast. “She had… stuff. Town Hall stuff.”
Mom’s eyes sharpen. She doesn’t say anything, but I feel her attention as a weight.
Boone leans back against the counter, arms crossing. “You two have been weird lately.”
I stare at him. “We’re always weird.”
Boone’s mouth twitches. “Not like this.”
Rose’s voice is gentle, but her eyes are curious. “Is everything okay with you two?”
There it is.
The question the whole town’s been asking in different words for weeks.
Is there trouble in paradise?
“Everything’s fine.”
Faith gives me a look. “That’s what people say right before they break up.”
“We’re not breaking up,” I snap, then immediately regret it because the edge in my voice makes everyone go quiet again.
Dallas’s gaze shifts, subtle but sharp. “You’re not fighting, are you?”
“No,” I say quickly. “We’re not fighting.”
Which is a lie.
We’re not fighting in the way Boone thinks. Over jealousy or commitment or whatever love drama small towns feast on. We’re fighting the kind of fight you don’t realize you’re in until your whole world is lined up on opposite sides of a creek.
Boone studies me, trying to read something written between my ribs.
“You sure?” he says quietly. “Because you’ve been walking around like you’re carrying a dead calf.”
“That’s disgusting,” Faith mutters.
“It’s accurate,” Boone replies.
Dallas steps in. “Nash. If something’s going on…”
I almost say it.
About Juniper House. The journal. The signature. The crack in the land story. The town council stalling my project. The way Hank Lawson is circling as a vulture and Thomas Long is sharpening his knives behind the scenes.
And I almost tell them about Tessa.
About how she’s not my fiancée, not really. About how all of it is fake, aside from what’s going on inside me. About how I can’t stop thinking about her mouth and her hands and the way she looked at me when the storm broke, holding something fragile inside herself and trying not to drop it.
I almost tell them I love her.
The word sits behind my teeth, aching.
But then I see Boone’s face if I say it.
The way he’ll go still. The way his protective instinct will kick in. The way he’ll decide this becomes family business, and suddenly I won’t have any control over the one thing I’ve been trying to prove I can handle.
I swallow hard.
“Nothing’s going on,” I say, forcing a grin. “I’m just tired.”
Mom’s gaze narrows. She doesn’t believe me.
Boone doesn’t either.
But neither of them presses, because the McCoys don’t always talk. We just do.
“Fine,” Boone says finally. “But you’re coming.”
Dallas nods. “And you’re dancing.”
“Absolutely not,” I say.
Faith beams. “Absolutely yes.”
Rusty barks, passing his vote.
I point at him. “Traitor.”
He sneezes.
We pile into trucks, kids bundled, Faith chattering, Rose laughing, Boone calm at the wheel.
I ride in silence, staring out at the snow fields and fence lines, trying to convince myself that tonight is just a barn dance.
Just music, lights, and people.
It isn’t a performance where everyone watches my every move to decide whether I’m lying, failing, or falling apart.
The rodeo grounds are lit up for the event, strings of lights hanging from beams and lanterns shining.
Fiddle music pulses. Boots thud on wood. Laughter and voices and the scent of chili and beer hit me in a wave.
Buckhorn at its most Buckhorn.
We step inside, and immediately someone calls, “McCoys!”
Someone else cheers. Kids dart between legs. Ellie spots Becca Haskins and waves enthusiastically, greeting Buckhorn royalty.
And everywhere I look, there are eyes.
Some smiling. Some curious. Some sharp.
I spot Hank Lawson near the back, leaning against a post, beer in hand. He’s watching the crowd picking his target.
His gaze catches mine, and he smiles.
My stomach twists.
Boone claps my shoulder. “Don’t look like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to bite someone.”
I glance back at Hank and force myself to look away.
“I’m fine,” I say again, because apparently I’m committed to that lie tonight.
Dallas heads toward the food table with Faith and Rose. Boone goes to talk to Sheriff Tate Carson. Maggie is immediately cornered by Virgil Tucker and Clara Jenkins, who’s vibrating with excitement.
And then I see her.
Tessa.
She steps through the barn doors with nerves tearing through her. Structured coat, hair in that tight braid, posture so straight it looks painful. She scans the room once, eyes sharp, taking in faces.
She could be walking into a negotiation or a fight.
My chest tightens.
She catches my gaze across the room.
For a beat, she goes still.
Then she walks toward me.
Every eye in the barn follows her.
“You made it,” she says when she reaches me.
“You sound surprised,” I reply.
She lifts a brow. “You look like you’re regretting your entire existence.”
“That’s just my face,” I say.
“Liar.”
I snort. “Okay, yes. I hate this.”
Tessa’s gaze shifts past me to the crowd. “They’re watching.”
“I noticed,” I mutter.
Her mouth tightens, fighting a smile. “Hold it together.”
“I am holding it together.”
Tessa’s eyes flick back to mine, unimpressed. “Barely.”
A laugh catches in my throat. Damn, she’s good at this. Good at reading me. Good at slicing through whatever I’m trying to pretend.
She turns her head slightly, scanning the room again. “We need to look normal.”
I huff. “Normal is impossible for us.”
She glances at me. “Then fake it.”
I swallow. “Right.”
Tessa steps closer, her hand sliding into the crook of my arm.
My body reacts instantly.
Heat. Memory. The ghost of her mouth.
I stiffen for half a second, then force myself to relax.
We walk into the crowd together, and Buckhorn swallows us whole.
People stop us every three feet.
Clara squeals and demands to see Tessa’s ring again.
Becca Haskins hovers too close, eyes wide and shining in a way that would be cute if I wasn’t such an anxious mess.
Pastor Miller congratulates us and asks about the wedding date.
Dottie Mae Carter narrows her eyes at us, waiting for the scandal to drop.
Then the band shifts into a faster song. People start lining up for a dance.
Faith spots us and waves excitedly. “Nash! Tessa! Get over here!”
I stiffen.
Tessa’s eyes narrow. “No.”
“Yes,” Faith insists, grabbing my sleeve. “You’re dancing. Both of you.”
“I don’t dance.”
Faith snorts. “You absolutely dance. I’ve seen you dance.”
“That was at Boone’s wedding, and I was emotionally compromised.”
Boone appears behind Faith, arms crossed, wearing the face that says he already knows I’m trying to escape.
“Dance,” Boone says.
“I hate all of you,” I mutter.
Tessa’s mouth twitches. “You should’ve stayed home.”
“I tried.”
She lifts a brow. “And yet. Here you are.”
Faith drags us into the line. Tessa stands stiffly beside me, looking about to sue someone.
The music starts.
I move automatically. Because apparently my feet remember line dances even if my soul doesn’t.
Tessa hesitates, then follows.
And it almost feels… easy.
We’re just two people in a barn full of noise, moving in sync.
If only I could stop my heart from absolutely pounding…