36. Tessa #2
“After what he did?” another voice replies, quieter.
“At least he told the truth,” a third cuts in. “Eventually.”
The stage lights catch on the brim of his hat and the familiar crooked smile that used to drive half the women in Buckhorn slightly insane. He rests one boot on the edge of the platform with easy confidence, leaning against the microphone stand while the auctioneer claps him on the shoulder.
“Well now,” the announcer says loudly, “if this one doesn’t bring in some bids tonight, I’ll eat my hat.”
The room laughs.
Maeve goes very still beside me.
“Oh no,” she murmurs.
I don’t answer, because suddenly the entire room feels tilted.
Nash looks exactly like himself.
Relaxed.
Amused.
Perfectly comfortable standing in front of half the town after all that happened.
Like nothing has shifted beneath his feet.
Like the last two days didn’t fracture anything at all.
Is this real? Is anything he does real, or is it all a performance? How can I tell? Especially when he isn’t looking for me.
The man who stood on Old Mill Road two weeks ago with his voice shaking as he told me he loved me now looks like someone who has already forgotten the entire conversation. Same as the drama with the town council.
How the hell is that even possible?
The auctioneer gestures grandly toward him.
“Mr. Nash McCoy is offering a full-day ranch date, ladies and gentlemen! Trail riding, lunch by the creek, and stories that get better with every mile.”
Nash leans toward the microphone, his eyes shining with a false joy I can’t stand to see.
“Stories get better after lunch,” he says.
The crowd laughs again. He knows exactly how to hold them there. How to give them just enough charm to forget whatever they were thinking before.
The sound hits me like a small explosion inside my chest.
Maeve glances at me carefully. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
I am absolutely not fine.
Bidding starts immediately.
“Fifty dollars!”
“Seventy-five!”
“One hundred!”
Hands go up across the room while the auctioneer points dramatically between bidders. “Now that’s what I like to see!”
Nash tips his hat toward someone near the front row.
“Careful,” he calls. “You’re going to start a bidding war.”
Laughter ripples through the crowd.
A woman near the stage raises her hand again, grinning. “Oh, I fully intend to.”
Nash leans toward the microphone with exaggerated seriousness. “Well now,” he says, resting his forearms on the podium, “I should warn everyone that the trail ride includes steep hills, questionable campfire cooking, and a guide who talks too much.”
“Sounds perfect!” someone calls from the back.
He laughs. “See? That’s exactly the kind of poor decision-making I like to encourage.”
The auctioneer claps him on the shoulder. “You hear that, folks? Charm and humility. This one’s practically a bargain.”
“Careful,” Nash replies easily, flashing a crooked smile toward the crowd. “If you oversell me, people are going to want refunds.”
He looks effortless. The exact same charming, impossible cowboy Buckhorn has always adored.
And slowly, piece by piece, it starts to feel obvious what this means.
Of course he’s fine.
Of course he moved on.
Why wouldn’t he?
He’s exactly where he belongs. In front of a crowd. Being liked. Being easy.
The man confessed his love while standing half-drunk under a tree during a snowstorm. It was impulsive, reckless, and wildly inconvenient.
Now the moment has passed, and he’s back to being Nash McCoy. The version of him that belongs to everyone. Not the one I thought, stupidly, might belong to me.
Maeve shifts closer to me. “You’re gripping the table.”
I look down.
My fingers are wrapped so tightly around the edge of the drinks table that my knuckles have turned white.
I loosen my grip slowly.
No one looks at him like he’s done something unforgivable. No one questions why he’s standing up there like nothing happened. No one asks if any of it mattered.
“I’m fine,” I repeat.
But the word feels brittle.
On stage, the auctioneer raises his voice. “Two hundred dollars!”
The crowd cheers.
Nash laughs and rubs the back of his neck, playing along with the attention.
That laugh is what does it.
Because it’s easy.
Unburdened.
There is no hesitation in it.
No trace of the raw honesty he showed me that night on Old Mill Road.
I wonder if I imagined that entire conversation.
Maybe the exhaustion and adrenaline of the council meeting blurred the memory.
Maybe the cold air and the quiet road made everything feel bigger than it really was.
Maybe I simply heard what I wanted to hear.
Nash tips his hat again, flashing that easy smile as he steps down from the stage and disappears into the crowd of people congratulating the winning bidder.
The room suddenly feels too loud.
Too full of people who might be watching my face closely enough to see exactly what I’m thinking.
Maeve turns toward me. “Tessa—”
“I need some air.”
Before she can stop me, I turn and push through the crowd toward the exit, weaving past laughing couples and auction tables until the doors finally swing open.
Cold night air hits my face.
I stand on the wooden porch outside the hall, breathing hard as the laughter and music spill faintly through the doors behind me.
I manage to hold it together for exactly three seconds.
Then the tears arrive anyway.
Hot.
Humiliating.
Unavoidable.
I press my hands over my face and lean against the railing, my shoulders shaking despite my best effort to stay composed.
Because for one reckless moment on Old Mill Road…
I believed him, even if it terrified me. I let myself believe I wasn’t the only one standing on unstable ground.
And now it feels painfully obvious that he never meant a word of it.