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.
