Chapter 14 Delaney
FOURTEEN
DELANEY
It’s been three days of stolen kisses in hallways, shared coffee on the porch, and Nash Hawthorne looking at me like he’s finally done running.
I haven’t been this happy in… I don’t know if I’ve ever been this happy.
Which is exactly why I keep waiting for the universe to remind me it doesn’t do fairytales.
We still haven’t said the hard part out loud—Saint Pierce, distance, what happens when the ranch stops bleeding and I’m not needed here every second. It hangs over us like a storm cloud we’re both pretending is just a nice bit of shade.
But for now?
For now, Nash’s hand finds mine like it belongs there, and my mother hums while she cooks like the whole house is lighter. My dad’s shoulders sit a little higher. The fences are holding. The vendor list is tight. The sponsor banners are hung.
And it’s Rodeo Days.
Coleman Ranch is strung with lights and flags.
People are everywhere—boots, denim, kids with glitter on their cheeks, old men in folding chairs acting like they personally invented fun.
The air smells like dust and barbecue and fried sugar.
Somewhere, a country band is sound-checking too loud and nobody’s mad about it.
I’m in full event-mode, which means I’m holding a clipboard like it’s a weapon and sprint-walking in my boots like my life depends on it.
“Delaney!” Mrs. Landry calls, waving from her craft booth. “My spot is still too close to the porta-potties!”
“I moved you two feet left!” I call back. “That’s all you get!”
She gasps like I’ve insulted her bloodline.
I keep moving.
The sponsors are happy. The kids’ events are set. The chili cook-off tent is already chaotic and it isn’t even noon. I’ve said “Where’s your permit?” so many times it’s becoming my personality.
Nash is nearby—always nearby—pretending he’s just a doting boyfriend while his eyes constantly sweep the crowd. Every time I look up, I find him like my body knows where he is before my mind catches up.
He gives me a small nod across the grounds—I’ve got you.
My chest warms.
I should go tell him the cornhole tournament is missing its brackets.
Instead, my walkie crackles.
“Laney?” It’s Brooke—because of course it is—assigned to vendor wrangling like the universe has jokes. “Corn dog cart’s not where it’s supposed to be.”
I close my eyes. “Where is it?”
“North pasture access, by the old hay bales. It’s… wandering.”
“Corn dogs don’t wander, Brooke.”
“Well this one did.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m on it.”
I make my way through the crowd, waving, smiling, answering questions, dodging children with sticky hands. I cut past the mechanical bull line and the roping demo and head toward the north pasture access.
The farther I get from the center of the festival, the thinner the crowd becomes.
The music fades behind me into a muffled thump.
The sunlight feels hotter out here, more exposed.
The grass sways in the breeze. Beyond the fencing, the north pasture stretches open and wide—beautiful, valuable land that men like the Strouds look at and see dollar signs.
I spot the corn dog cart immediately.
It’s parked crooked, like someone dropped it and walked away. The teenage boy working it is standing beside it, looking nervous, hands shoved in his apron pockets.
“Hey,” I call. “You okay?”
He jolts like I startled him. “Uh—yes, ma’am. Sorry. A guy said we had to move it because it was blocking—”
“A guy?” My stomach tightens. “What guy?”
He points vaguely toward the tree line. “Tall. Fancy boots. Told me he was… with the committee.”
I’m the committee.
My pulse quickens.
I force my voice calm. “Okay. You’re fine. Just—roll it back to where your permit says you’re supposed to be. If anyone tells you to move again, you call me. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I start to turn, already reaching for my walkie to call Nash.
And then I hear it.
Boots on grass behind me.
Slow. Deliberate. Too close.
My body goes cold.
I turn.
Kyle Stroud stands a few feet away like he owns the air between us.
He’s dressed perfect—clean jeans, crisp button-down, hat angled just so. He looks like a man who’s never had to sweat for anything in his life. His smile is the same one he wore in high school when he’d lean close and whisper something nasty just to see if I’d flinch.
I don’t.
“Kyle,” I say flatly. “Leave.”
He tilts his head, amused. “That’s no way to talk to an old friend.”
“We’re not friends.”
His eyes slide over me like I’m inventory. “You always did confuse tension with dislike.”
I glance around, quick. The cart kid watches, worried. There are people in the distance, but not close enough. Not paying attention.
I raise my walkie. “Nash—”
Kyle moves.
Fast.
He grabs my wrist and yanks the walkie out of my hand so hard it skids across the ground.
My breath punches out. “Don’t touch me,” I snap, jerking back.
He keeps hold. His grip is bruising. His smile doesn’t change. “Relax,” he says, like I’m the unreasonable one. “We’re just talking.”
“We have nothing to talk about.”
“We do.” His voice lowers. “You’ve been making my family’s life difficult.”
My skin prickles. “Your family’s life isn’t my problem.”
Kyle takes a step closer, backing me toward the fence post. “It is when you sit on land we need.”
“You don’t need it. You want it.”
He leans in, eyes hard now, the charm dropping away. “Want. Need. Same thing when you have the money to make it happen.”
My heart starts pounding so hard I can hear it. “Let go,” I say through my teeth. “Right now.”
Kyle’s gaze flicks over my shoulder toward the festival. “Where’s your soldier boyfriend?” he asks softly. “Did you leave him to play hero?”
I don’t answer.
I won’t give him the satisfaction.
His grip tightens. “He’s inconvenient.”
My breath turns sharp. “If you’re behind what’s been happening to the ranch—”
Kyle laughs under his breath. “Oh, sweetheart.” He shakes his head. “You really think you’re the center of that story? You think a little cut fence line is about cows?”
His eyes gleam. “It’s about leverage.”
A cold, sick understanding crawls up my spine.
Me.
I pull hard, trying to wrench free.
Kyle’s hand snaps up to clamp around the back of my neck—controlling, possessive. “Stop fighting,” he hisses, the first crack in his smooth mask. “I’m not leaving without you.”
My stomach drops through the ground.
I twist, aiming my knee up the way Daddy taught me when I was fifteen and a boy in town wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Kyle anticipates it. He shoves me back, hard, and I hit the fence post with a sharp jolt that lights pain down my shoulder.
The cart kid gasps.
“Hey!” the kid blurts. “Sir—”
Kyle’s head snaps toward him. The kid freezes.
Kyle doesn’t even raise his voice. “Go sell your corn dogs,” he says, calm and terrifying. “Unless you want your mama crying tonight.”
The kid turns white. He stumbles backward, glancing once at me like he wants to help, then bolts toward the festival.
“No!” I shout after him. “Get Nash!”
Kyle clamps a hand over my mouth. The world shrinks to his palm, the taste of his skin and my own panic.
I bite him—hard.
He snarls and jerks his hand back, swearing under his breath, blood glistening on his knuckle. “You little—” His eyes go feral. He reaches into his pocket.
My body goes rigid.
Whatever he’s holding, I don’t wait to find out.
I shove him with everything I have and sprint along the fence line toward the open pasture, lungs burning, boots thudding, hair whipping my face.
I’m fast.
But fear makes men faster.
Kyle grabs a fistful of my shirt from behind, yanking me back so hard my feet leave the ground for a second. I stumble, catch myself, and swing my elbow—wild.
He catches me around the waist and drags me, my boots scraping furrows in the grass.
I scream.
The sound rips out of me, raw and loud.
Kyle’s arm tightens, crushing. “Shut up!” he growls into my ear. “You’re going to make this harder than it needs to be!”
I thrash, clawing at his arm, trying to break the hold, trying to breathe. My vision blurs at the edges.
Then I see it.
A pickup truck—idling near the tree line where the pasture dips. Dark paint. Tinted windows. Parked like it’s been waiting.
My blood turns to ice.
Kyle hauls me toward it, feet barely touching the ground as he half-carries, half-drags me across the grass.
I twist and slam my heel down on his boot.
He curses and stumbles. For half a second, his grip loosens.
I wrench free, spinning, and I run again—straight toward the festival, toward the sound of music and people and Nash.
I make it three steps.
A second figure appears from the truck.
Big. Broad. Face hidden under a cap.
He intercepts me like a wall, grabbing my arms.
I kick. I bite. I fight like an animal.
It doesn’t matter.
They’re coordinated.
Prepared.
Kyle strides up, breath hard, eyes bright with anger.
He grabs my hair at the base of my skull and yanks my head back just enough to meet his gaze.
“This is what happens,” he says quietly, “when you don’t take the deal.”
I spit at him. It hits his cheek.
His smile returns, slow and vicious. “Good,” he murmurs. “I like you feisty.”
Rage explodes in my chest. “Nash is going to kill you.”
Kyle’s eyes flicker—just a flicker—like the name is a thing he respects more than he wants to admit. Then he leans closer. “Not if you’re gone.”
They move fast after that.
One of them wrenches my arms behind me. Kyle opens the truck door. The interior is dark, swallowing. I try to plant my feet, but the second man lifts me like I weigh nothing and throws me inside. I hit the seat hard, breath knocking out.
Kyle climbs in after me, shoving the door shut. The lock clicks. The sound is final. The truck lurches forward. I scramble for the handle, yanking. Child lock. Of course.
Panic claws up my throat, sharp and hot. I slam my fist against the window, screaming until my voice cracks, but the music in the distance swallows the sound. The festival noise fades as we speed away—Rodeo Days glittering and loud behind me, my ranch, my parents, Nash… shrinking into the horizon.
My hands shake. My lungs burn. I force myself to breathe anyway. Because I know one thing with certainty—stronger than fear, stronger than Kyle Stroud’s grip, stronger than the dark closing in around me:
Nash Hawthorne is going to come.
And when he does… this town will learn what a real cowboy looks like when you take what’s his.