NASH
I don’t like crowds.
Not because I’m antisocial—because crowds are cover. Too many bodies, too many blind spots, too many ways for a threat to slide through like it belongs.
So while Delaney runs Rodeo Days like she’s conducting a damn symphony, I do what I do best: I circle the edges and make myself hard to surprise.
I walk the perimeter of the festival grounds, eyes sweeping, ears tuned. My hand rests near my belt like instinct, even though I’m dressed like any other cowboy in town. Hat low. Sunglasses on. “Boyfriend” face engaged when people glance at me.
Inside, I’m running threat matrices and time stamps.
Delaney’s laugh floats across the crowd when Josie Calhoun drags her toward a booth. That sound cuts through the noise and settles my nerves better than any breathing exercise ever did.
I catch a glimpse of Delaney near the sponsor banners. Clipboard in hand. Sun on her hair. Busy, bright, alive.
And then I lose sight of her.
Not unusual. She’s working. Moving. Managing.
But something in my gut tightens anyway, like a wire pulled too fast.
I pivot, scanning.
Where’s her route? Where would she go next? What booth is understaffed? What vendor is “wandering” again?
I’m about to step toward the north access when I hear it?—
Footsteps. Fast. Uneven. A kid running like he’s being chased by hell.
He barrels through the crowd, eyes frantic, face pale beneath a dusting of freckles. He nearly trips over a cooler and catches himself, then locks onto me like I’m the only solid thing in his world. “Sir—” he gasps. “Sir, you’re— you’re Nash, right? You’re with Delaney?”
My blood goes cold so fast it’s like my body forgot how to be warm. “Yeah,” I say, already moving. “What happened?”
The kid’s chest heaves. “She— she was at the corn dog cart in the north pasture access. There was this guy. Nice clothes. Fancy boots. He grabbed her and she— she was fighting?—”
The last word cracks on him like he can still see it.
Everything inside me snaps into a clean, ruthless line. “Where exactly?” I bark.
He points, arm shaking. “Past the hay bales—near the tree line where the pasture dips.”
I’m already running.
The crowd blurs as I cut through it. People shout my name. Someone calls, “Hey!” like I owe them an explanation.
I don’t.
I bring my phone up as I sprint and hit Gray’s contact.
He answers on the second ring. “Hey, Nash...”
“Delaney’s in trouble,” I cut in, voice clipped. “North pasture access. Possible abduction in progress. I’m moving.”
Gray’s tone changes instantly—cold, sharp, all business. “Confirm.”
“I will,” I snap, then hang up because breathing and running are more useful than talking.
I hit the edge of the festival grounds and the sound drops off behind me, muffled by distance. The world opens up into pasture and sunlight and dangerous space.
