Chapter 15 Nash
FIFTEEN
NASH
I don’t like crowds.
Not because I’m antisocial—because crowds are cover. Too many bodies, too many blind spots, too many ways for a threat to slide through like it belongs.
So while Delaney runs Rodeo Days like she’s conducting a damn symphony, I do what I do best: I circle the edges and make myself hard to surprise.
I walk the perimeter of the festival grounds, eyes sweeping, ears tuned. My hand rests near my belt like instinct, even though I’m dressed like any other cowboy in town. Hat low. Sunglasses on. “Boyfriend” face engaged when people glance at me.
Inside, I’m running threat matrices and time stamps.
Delaney’s laugh floats across the crowd when Josie Calhoun drags her toward a booth. That sound cuts through the noise and settles my nerves better than any breathing exercise ever did.
I catch a glimpse of Delaney near the sponsor banners. Clipboard in hand. Sun on her hair. Busy, bright, alive.
And then I lose sight of her.
Not unusual. She’s working. Moving. Managing.
But something in my gut tightens anyway, like a wire pulled too fast.
I pivot, scanning.
Where’s her route? Where would she go next? What booth is understaffed? What vendor is “wandering” again?
I’m about to step toward the north access when I hear it—
Footsteps. Fast. Uneven. A kid running like he’s being chased by hell.
He barrels through the crowd, eyes frantic, face pale beneath a dusting of freckles. He nearly trips over a cooler and catches himself, then locks onto me like I’m the only solid thing in his world. “Sir—” he gasps. “Sir, you’re— you’re Nash, right? You’re with Delaney?”
My blood goes cold so fast it’s like my body forgot how to be warm. “Yeah,” I say, already moving. “What happened?”
The kid’s chest heaves. “She— she was at the corn dog cart in the north pasture access. There was this guy. Nice clothes. Fancy boots. He grabbed her and she— she was fighting—”
The last word cracks on him like he can still see it.
Everything inside me snaps into a clean, ruthless line. “Where exactly?” I bark.
He points, arm shaking. “Past the hay bales—near the tree line where the pasture dips.”
I’m already running.
The crowd blurs as I cut through it. People shout my name. Someone calls, “Hey!” like I owe them an explanation.
I don’t.
I bring my phone up as I sprint and hit Gray’s contact.
He answers on the second ring. “Hey, Nash...”
“Delaney’s in trouble,” I cut in, voice clipped. “North pasture access. Possible abduction in progress. I’m moving.”
Gray’s tone changes instantly—cold, sharp, all business. “Confirm.”
“I will,” I snap, then hang up because breathing and running are more useful than talking.
I hit the edge of the festival grounds and the sound drops off behind me, muffled by distance. The world opens up into pasture and sunlight and dangerous space.
My boots pound dirt.
My pulse is steady.
My mind is not.
I cross the fence line at a gap and spot the corn dog cart parked crooked, abandoned like someone dropped it and ran. A teen employee stands there, shaking, staring at the ground like it betrayed him.
“Where is she?” I roar.
The kid points, eyes wide. “They— they went that way—”
I don’t wait.
I follow the line of disturbance like it’s a neon sign.
Grass flattened. Dirt scuffed. A clear skid where boots dragged. Something shiny in the sunlight—
Her walkie.
My throat closes.
I grab it, thumb the button. “Laney—Laney, respond.”
Static.
No voice.
No laugh.
No sharp “I’m fine, stop being dramatic.”
Nothing.
My vision narrows to a ruthless tunnel.
I scan again. Tire tracks cut across the pasture near the tree line. Fresh. Deep. The kind you make when you’re in a hurry and you don’t care who notices. The tracks angle toward the service road. The same goddamn service road that truck used the other night.
I drop to a knee and run my fingers through the dirt. Still loose. Still warm from recent compression.
Minutes.
We’re talking minutes.
I stand so fast the world tilts for half a second.
I call Gray back.
He answers immediately. “Report.”
“She’s gone,” I say. The words taste like metal. “Confirm abduction. I’ve got fresh scuffle marks and tire tracks heading to the back service road. I need a team. Now.”
Gray doesn’t ask questions he doesn’t need answers to. “Any ID on the suspect?”
I glance toward the teen by the cart and motion him over with two fingers.
“Describe him,” I demand.
The kid swallows hard. “Nice shirt. Like… pressed. Fancy boots. Expensive hat. Smelled like cologne. He was— he was real calm when he threatened me. Like he didn’t care.”
That calm threat.
That entitled ease.
A picture snaps into place in my head so sharply it’s like someone clicked a switchblade open behind my ribs.
Kyle Stroud.
I feel my teeth grind. “It was Kyle Stroud,” I say into the phone, voice going lethal. “I’m sure of it.”
Gray exhales, low. “Copy. I’m mobilizing Lone Star. You stay on the track and do not go solo.”
I laugh once, short and humorless. “Tell that to my body.”
“Nash,” Gray warns. “If you go down, she stays gone.”
That lands.
I force myself to breathe. To think.
“Copy,” I say. “I’ll hold. But I’m not stopping.”
“Send me a pin,” Gray says. “And get back to the ranch. We need her parents looped in and we need to control the information before Stroud does.”
I end the call and snap photos of the tracks and the scuffle marks, sending them with location. Then I look at the teen.
“You did good,” I tell him, voice gentler than I feel. “Go find the sheriff. Tell him Delaney Coleman has been taken. Tell him Nash Hawthorne said to lock down the festival and keep her family safe.”
The kid nods like his spine is made of fear and willpower.
I take off toward the ranch. My body is a machine now—moving on purpose, no wasted motion. But inside, something old and violent wakes up.
You don’t touch what’s mine.
Not mine like ownership.
Mine like promised. Like loved. Like held in my arms last night while she slept with her cheek on my chest and I thought, I could do this forever.
Forever doesn’t mean a damn thing if she’s gone.
Delaney’s parents are in the kitchen when I burst in.
Mrs. Coleman’s face goes white the second she sees mine.
Mr. Coleman stands so fast his chair scrapes. “Nash? Where’s Delaney?”
I don’t sugarcoat it. Sugar is for coffee, not disaster. “She’s been taken,” I say, voice steady even as my blood roars. “From the north pasture access near the corn dog cart. It happened minutes ago.”
Mrs. Coleman gasps.
Mr. Coleman’s hands curl into fists. “Taken by who?”
I lock eyes with him. “Kyle Stroud.”
Silence detonates in the room.
Then Mr. Coleman’s face turns a shade of red that scares even me. “That little—” he chokes out. “That little bastard—”
“We need facts,” I cut in. “Not feelings. Feelings can come later.”
Mrs. Coleman stares at me like she might fall apart if she blinks. “Why?” she whispers. “Why would he—”
“Because you told his family no,” I say. “Because he’s entitled. Because he thinks he can force leverage.” My jaw clenches.
Mr. Coleman paces like a caged animal. “We call the police.” He grabs the landline in his hands.
“We have,” I say. “I’ve also called Gray.” I nod. “There’s someone you need to call.”
He glares. “Who?”
“Clay Stroud,” I say.
Mrs. Coleman’s eyes widen. “Why would we call him?”
“Because either Clay knows and he’s complicit,” I say, “or Clay doesn’t know and his son just went rogue. Either way, Clay’s reaction tells us something. And if he’s smart, he’ll want his son found before this turns into a grave.”
No one argues.
Mr. Coleman dials with hands that shake from fury.
The phone rings.
Once. Twice.
Then a smooth voice answers. “Coleman.”
Mr. Coleman’s voice is ice. “Clay. Where’s my daughter?”
A pause.
“What are you talking about?”
I lean in, close enough to hear every breath.
Mr. Coleman’s voice breaks on the edge of restraint. “Kyle took her. Don’t you lie to me.”
Another pause, longer this time. And then Clay Stroud’s tone shifts—sharp, startled, real. “Kyle?” he says. “Kyle isn’t—” He swallows audibly. “Coleman, I swear to you, I don’t know what you’re talking about. My son is… he’s an idiot, but he wouldn’t—”
“He would,” I say, stepping closer to the receiver. My voice drops into something steel. “He already did.”
Silence on the line. Then Clay’s voice comes back, quieter. “Who is this?”
“Nash Hawthorne,” I say.
A beat.
“I heard you were dating Delaney,” Clay says, and there’s something wary there now. “This is— this is serious.”
“It’s past serious,” I tell him. “If you’re behind this, you’re done in this town. If you’re not behind this, you’d better start talking.”
Clay exhales, shaky and angry. “I’m not behind it. I made an offer. A legal offer. I don’t kidnap girls.” His voice hardens. “Kyle has been… unstable lately. He’s been drinking. Acting out. I’ve been trying to rein him in.”
Mr. Coleman’s hands shake so badly the phone rattles. “Where would he take her?”
“I don’t know,” Clay says, and the fear in his voice sounds real now. “But— there’s a place. One of our hunting leases outside of town. A little house on the edge of the quarry road. Kyle used to sneak out there in high school. Parties. Stupid crap. I can give you the address.”
Gray’s text pings my phone at the same time: TEAM EN ROUTE. ETA 5.
I meet Mrs. Coleman’s eyes.
She’s crying silently now, but her gaze is fierce.
We’re all thinking the same thing. We don’t have time to waste.
“Send it,” I tell Clay. “Now.”
Clay rattles off the location. I type it with hands that want to break something. I send it to Gray along with the photos from the scene.
“You’re going to find her,” Clay says, voice hoarse. “You have to. Kyle— he’s not thinking straight.”
“If she’s hurt,” Mr. Coleman growls into the phone, “I will burn your entire legacy to the ground.”
Clay makes a sound like he believes him. “I understand.”
Mr. Coleman hangs up.
The kitchen is thick with fear and fury.
Mrs. Coleman wipes her face with the heel of her palm. “Bring my baby home,” she whispers.
I step in front of both of them, letting them see the part of me that is not joking, not soft, not pretending. “I will,” I say. “I swear it.”
Outside, engines roll up the drive like thunder.
I move to the window.
Two trucks. Dark. Purposeful. Lone Star.
Gray steps out first, all sharp lines and calm control. His daughter Josie isn’t with him—thank God—but his eyes are brutal as they meet mine through the glass.
Behind him: men.
The kind of men who don’t ask twice.
Lone Star Security. Jack steps up, shaking my hand. “We’ll find her, brother.”
Aaron, Maverick, and Cade step up behind him. “We’ve got this.”
I feel better knowing my team’s got my back. These men are more than a team. More than Lone Star Security. These men are my brothers. Not blood. But just as important.
A found family.
My chest tightens with relief and rage in equal measure.
I step out onto the porch.
Gray meets me at the steps, voice low. “Address received. We roll in sixty seconds.”
I nod once. “He took her because they wouldn’t sell.”
Gray’s jaw flexes. “Then we make him regret ever learning her name.”
The men gather behind him, checking radios, loading equipment, faces set.
I look at them and feel something in my blood shift into certainty.
Kyle Stroud thinks he just took leverage.
He has no idea what he just started.
And as the team finishes assembling in the drive—boots on gravel, radios crackling, engines idling like restrained violence—I make myself one promise, clear as a shot: we’re bringing Delaney home.
And when we do… someone is going to pay.