Then I see it.
A pickup truck—idling near the tree line where the pasture dips. Dark paint. Tinted windows. Parked like it’s been waiting.
My blood turns to ice.
Kyle hauls me toward it, feet barely touching the ground as he half-carries, half-drags me across the grass.
I twist and slam my heel down on his boot.
He curses and stumbles. For half a second, his grip loosens.
I wrench free, spinning, and I run again—straight toward the festival, toward the sound of music and people and Nash.
I make it three steps.
A second figure appears from the truck.
Big. Broad. Face hidden under a cap.
He intercepts me like a wall, grabbing my arms.
I kick. I bite. I fight like an animal.
It doesn’t matter.
They’re coordinated.
Prepared.
Kyle strides up, breath hard, eyes bright with anger.
He grabs my hair at the base of my skull and yanks my head back just enough to meet his gaze.
“This is what happens,” he says quietly, “when you don’t take the deal.”
I spit at him. It hits his cheek.
His smile returns, slow and vicious. “Good,” he murmurs. “I like you feisty.”
Rage explodes in my chest. “Nash is going to kill you.”
Kyle’s eyes flicker—just a flicker—like the name is a thing he respects more than he wants to admit. Then he leans closer. “Not if you’re gone.”
They move fast after that.
One of them wrenches my arms behind me. Kyle opens the truck door. The interior is dark, swallowing. I try to plant my feet, but the second man lifts me like I weigh nothing and throws me inside. I hit the seat hard, breath knocking out.
Kyle climbs in after me, shoving the door shut. The lock clicks. The sound is final. The truck lurches forward. I scramble for the handle, yanking. Child lock. Of course.
Panic claws up my throat, sharp and hot. I slam my fist against the window, screaming until my voice cracks, but the music in the distance swallows the sound. The festival noise fades as we speed away—Rodeo Days glittering and loud behind me, my ranch, my parents, Nash… shrinking into the horizon.
My hands shake. My lungs burn. I force myself to breathe anyway. Because I know one thing with certainty—stronger than fear, stronger than Kyle Stroud’s grip, stronger than the dark closing in around me:
Nash Hawthorne is going to come.
And when he does… this town will learn what a real cowboy looks like when you take what’s his.
FIFTEEN
