PROLOGUE
Delaney — Age 11
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 bigenough 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.
