Mr. Calhoun gives us a slight discount “because y’all are young and in love and under attack,” which is his way of caring without saying he’s worried.
Then we hit the co-op, the hardware store, and the bakery, where I buy cinnamon rolls for the crew and the lady at the counter gives us a free extra “for the happy couple.”
By the time we reach Main Street and park in front of the coffee shop, my cheeks hurt from smiling.
Fake smiling.
Real smiling.
Some unholy mix.
We grab iced coffees and claim a small table outside. It’s shaded, and the breeze channels up the sidewalk, carrying the sounds of town—music from someone’s truck, laughter, the metallic thunk of someone closing a tailgate.
Nash sits opposite me, long legs stretched out, one ankle crossed over the other. He’s relaxed in that way that isn’t actually relaxed at all. I’ve come to recognize it in the last few days. It’s a coiled stillness, like his muscles have gone on low power, not off.
“So,” I say, tracing my straw in a circle over the condensation ring. “Strouds.”
He sobers. “Gray says public records show three attempted acquisitions within a fifty-mile radius where owners ‘suddenly’ changed their minds after ‘unfortunate incidents.’”
I frown. “Unfortunate like what?”
“Break-ins. Fires. Livestock ‘accidents.’” His jaw tightens. “Nothing they could pin on anyone. But the pattern smells.”
My stomach turns. “So we’re not special. We’re just next.”
“You’re special,” he says automatically.
The words hang there.
His face shifts as he hears them.
“That’s not—” he starts.
“It’s fine,” I say quickly, heart doing weird aerobics. “We’ll be careful. And annoying. And extremely public.”
He relaxes a fraction. “That last part we can manage.”
As if summoned by the gossip gods, Brooke Jenkins appears with two other women flanking her like bridesmaids on patrol.
“Delaney!” she chirps. “Oh good, I was hoping I’d run into you.”
Nash mutters, “You manifested that.”
I kick him under the table.
Brooke swoops in, ponytail bouncing, eyes taking everything in—the coffee cups, our seating arrangement, the way Nash’s hand is resting on the table like it might migrate over to mine any second.
“Well,” she says, smile bright and sharp. “You two look cozy.”
I paste on my polite face. “Morning, Brooke.”
“I mean, who would’ve guessed?” she goes on. “You leaving town, talking all those years about ‘getting out’ and ‘being more than a ranch girl,’ and then you come back and you’re…” Her gaze flicks to Nash and smirks. “…right back where you started.”
There’s something bitter under the sugar.
Something old and sharp.
I feel my spine straighten. “Life’s not a one-way road,” I say. “You can go out and come back. You can be more than one thing.”
