Wrangling With The Bodyguard (Lone Star Security #1)

Prologue

The rope swing hangs over the creek like a dare.

“Chicken?” I call, toes gripping the sun-warm plank of the little dock Daddy built before Mom says he forgot how.

Fireflies blink between the pecans like sparks from the forge at the blacksmith’s tent during Rodeo Days.

It’s late enough that the cicadas have a steady hum going.

Late enough Mama would holler if she knew I’d snuck out.

Late enough that the water looks like spilled ink.

Nash Hawthorne squints at me from the bank, all elbows and stubborn jaw. He’s twelve and thinks that’s basically grown. “I ain’t chicken, Laney.”

“Prove it.”

He snatches the rope, runs three steps, and launches.

For a heartbeat he’s flying, hands high, bare feet pointed like he’s part comet.

He lets go at the peak, hits the water with a splash big enough to rattle the minnows.

I whoop, because I can’t help it, because it’s summer and Valor Springs belongs to us.

His head pops up, hair slicked back, grin brighter than the lightning bugs. “You comin’ or you just gonna stand there flappin’ your jaw?”

“I am a lady,” I say, even as I grab the rope. “And ladies make an entrance.”

“Ladies stall,” he says, laughing.

I run, swing, let go. The creek grabs me cold and perfect, and we both come up hollering at the sky.

By the time we swim to the bank, we’re snorting creek water and spitting laughter.

I flop onto the grass, dress clinging, boots abandoned on the dock.

Nash rolls beside me. The night smells like wet earth and honeysuckle and the smoke from somebody’s barbecue a pasture over.

“Pinky swear,” I blurt, sticking out my little finger.

He blinks. “On what?”

“If we ever get lost,” I say, because the thought has been living in my chest lately, the way grown-ups whisper when bills show up and the pasture needs reseeding, “we meet back here. Always.”

Nash considers that like it’s a mission. Then he hooks his finger with mine. His hand’s warm. “Always,” he says, solemn as a judge.

I sit up, dig in my pocket for the treasure I stole from Uncle Buck’s junk drawer: a pocketknife, dull from cutting twine. “Help me.”

“You’ll get tanned.”

“Only if I get caught.” I flip the blade open, tongue peeking out the corner of my mouth like it helps me aim. On the dock post, where the rope’s tied, I scratch slow, careful letters. N + D—come home.

Nash leans in, shoulder bumping mine. When I finish, he touches the groove with a thumb, like pressing a brand. “Looks good,” he says softly. For a second he’s not elbows and bluffs—he’s a boy who wants a promise to be true.

“You goin’ to the rodeo practice tomorrow?” I ask, light again, because heavy makes my throat tight.

“Maybe.” He looks out over the black water.

“Daddy says I got to toughen up. Says Hawthornes serve. Crewe says he’s gonna do pararescue.

Mack talks Army all day.” He rattles off his brothers like a string of beads.

“Sin—Sinclaire—won’t say nothin’ but he stares at the river like it’s an ocean.

Banks says he’s too smart for all of us and he’s gonna get rich and buy Valor Springs.

Jace’s into anything that smells like gun oil.

Colt wants to disappear into the mountains like a ghost.”

“What about you?” I ask.

He shrugs one shoulder. “Daddy wants me to enlist. A Hawthorne with a plan. I ain’t sure what mine is, ‘cept…” He flicks a look at the engraving. “‘Cept I like it here.”

“You can go,” I say, throat tight again. “But you come back. I’ll keep the ranch good till you do. I’ll fix what’s broke and plant winter rye and teach the calves not to be dumb. I’ll—”

“You’ll boss everybody ‘til they cry?”

“Probably.” That makes us both grin.

The rope creaks when the breeze shifts. Fireflies pulse. Somewhere a cow lows, soft, like she’s telling a bedtime story. Nash steals another look at the crooked heart I carved like he’s taking a picture with his eyes.

“Always,” he says again.

“Always,” I echo.

We don’t tell anyone we sealed it with a pinky swear. It feels like the kind of thing that only works if nobody else hears.

Nash — Age 12

The creek’s the only place quiet enough to hear my own thinking.

At home it’s all boots and brothers and Daddy’s voice, that grit-through-gravel kind that sounds like orders even when he’s saying pass the salt.

Mama’s soft but tired. Crewe runs us like a squad.

Mack bets chores on dares. Sin watches everything.

Banks is already scheming about flipping junk trucks.

Jace will sign up for the Marines the day they’ll take him, I can see it.

Colt’s half wild and already talking about living in the mountains.

Me? I don’t know what I am besides the oldest. (Crewe calls that “the pack mule.”)

But here with Delaney, everything lines up.

The rope, the dock, the slow water. Her laugh.

The way she looks at the future like a fence she’s going to build straight and true with her own two hands.

When she said she’d keep the ranch good, it got under my ribs and lodged there.

I don’t have words for it, so I say what I can: Always.

I flip the pocketknife closed for her, careful of fingers.

We sit hip to hip and make up names for constellations that only make sense in Valor Springs—Bootspur, Longhorn, The Stubborn Heifer.

When the coyotes yip far off, she leans into my shoulder like I’m a post that won’t give. I let her. I want to be.

I trace the carving once more. N + D—come home. It ain’t pretty. It’s permanent. That’s enough.

“See you tomorrow,” she says.

“Yep.”

We say it like it’s nothing. Like there aren’t a thousand ways to lose a promise between now and grown.

I walk her up the path, keep my flashlight low so we don’t spook the horses. At the fence line I lift my hand. She lifts hers. I think about kissing her and my stomach flips like I’m at the top of the swing again. I don’t. Not tonight. Not yet.

Later, I think. Later I’ll have a plan.

Delaney — Graduation Night

The creek looks smaller now, or maybe I got bigger.

There’s a paper hat from the diner on my head because my friends insisted on milkshakes after the ceremony, and I’m still wearing the white dress Mama pressed twice.

It’s hot and the air tastes like June. The fireflies came back, lighting up the shadows under the pecans. The rope swing is frayed and familiar.

Nash is waiting on the dock post, tall now, shoulders broad enough to block out half the stars. He’s got that calm he gets before a bronc opens the chute—quiet and sure, even if the world bucks.

“You made it,” he says.

“You think I’d miss it?” I tease, but my voice shakes. We’ve been circling this for weeks. Months. Maybe years.

He reaches up and adjusts the dumb paper hat like it’s a crown. I swat his hand and he catches mine like he was hoping I’d try. His palm is warm and callused and the whole world narrows to the point where our fingers touch. He looks at my mouth. I look at his.

“Laney,” he says, like a warning.

“Nash.”

We lean in. The rope creaks. The creek hums. Our noses bump. We laugh against each other’s breath. He cups my cheek, and I curl my free hand into his shirt. We tip toward that first kiss— and the flashing lights rip the night open.

A cop rushes toward us. “Nash, you need to head home now,” he screams out.

Nash closes his eyes, lets his forehead rest against mine for a beat that is not long enough. When he opens them, they’re all business, Hawthorne steel with a soft edge that’s only for me.

“What’s going on?” Nash asks the cop.

The cop stalls for a second before answering, “It’s your dad. There’s been an accident.”

We run for our trucks. Heading toward the Hawthorne house at the edge of town. Cops litter the driveway, and I hold Nash’s hand as he’s told his father’s dead. An accident. Down by the river’s mouth.

I hold his hand the entire time. And then the next day he’s decided he’s leaving. Enlisting. Needs to prove himself.

“I’ve got to go,” he says.

“Of course.” I’m already turning.

He squeezes my hand once, hard. “Later.”

“Later,” I promise.

He ships out before the dew dries. He doesn’t kiss me. I don’t ask him to, because I know how he is with promises—he keeps the ones he makes. If he kissed me, he’d be tied in a knot neither of us could cut.

Later, I tell myself, watching the tailgate bounce over the cattle guard. Later, when he comes home.

I walk to the creek after, alone, and lay my fingers on the engraving. Sap and splinter and old metal smell. N + D—come home. The letters are crooked, but they’re ours.

“Always,” I whisper to the water.

The fireflies blink, bright then gone, bright then gone, like a code I almost remember. Somewhere far off, sirens wind down to silence. Somewhere farther, a bus rumbles east.

Later never comes. Not for a long time. Not the way we meant it.

But the dock keeps our secret, the rope keeps its creak, and the creek keeps moving, carrying all our beginnings forward whether we’re ready or not.