In the “COLEMAN RANCH — LEGAL” drawer there are thick envelopes from the drought year when the Keenes tried to divert our share of river water and the county court slapped them so hard they still flinch when they see a judge. There are letters from small-time developers who sent glossy brochures and got dusty boots in response. And then there’s a thin, crisp folder stamped with a name I’ve been trying not to think about:
STROUD HOLDINGS.
I open it.
Inside: a purchase offer for the north pasture from four years ago. Generous numbers. “Win-win language.” A hand-signed letter from Clay Stroud himself, promising jobs, infrastructure, and “a legacy your grandchildren will thank you for.”
At the bottom, in my father’s own handwriting, there’s a single word scrawled across the signature line:
NO.
I huff out a humorless breath.
Beneath that: a photocopy of a complaint filed by the Strouds about “unfair interference” in their development plan. Nothing came of it. The Colemans have land and history while the Strouds have money. Sometimes those things balance. Sometimes they don’t.
I flip further.
There’s a note from Daddy to himself, tucked in the back.
Keene + Stroud mtg @ county — water corridor? leverage?
No follow-up.
No resolution.
Just a question mark that feels louder than the words.
I close the file, put it at the top of the stack that I’m going to show Nash, and try not to let the weight of it sink too deep.
By the time dinner rolls around, my brain is a stew of what-ifs and oh-no’s. Mama serves chili like it’s armor, Josie andGray swing by for exactly ten minutes of “just checking in,” and Nash sits at the table looking entirely too calm for a man who rearranged his bed to hear my door last night.
(I heard him. The scrape of wood. The way the house shifted around his instincts. My heart hasn’t decided what to do with that information yet.)
“Town’s buzzing,” Daddy says, lifting his spoon. “Apparently my daughter has a bodyguard boyfriend now.”
“He’s not—” I start.
Nash cuts in smoothly. “She’s stuck with me a little while, sir.”
My mother tries very hard not to smile into her cornbread.
After dinner, I start stacking bowls, ready to spend my Friday night elbow-deep in suds and old files.
“Laney,” Nash says, leaning against the counter like a problem in a worn t-shirt. “We should go out.”
My eyebrows try to climb off my face. “We what?”
“Eager Beaver.” He tips his chin toward town. “Line dancing. Cheap beer. People. You know, the whole ‘convince the locals we’re a thing’ package.”
“I hate the Eager Beaver.”
“You used to love it.”
“I loved leaving it at midnight in your truck.”
Mama chokes on a laugh.
Nash’s eyes crinkle. “Exactly,” he says. “People remember that. They’ll remember us now. Together.”
