Page 76 of Tessa and Nash

Faith clicks again. A rendering of the guest house appears. Not polished enough to impress Portland architects, but clean.

“And Phase Two,” Faith continues, “would be the addition of four small cabins. Limited footprint, set back from the creek line, and built with local materials.”

Mayor Caldwell looks up. “Local materials?”

“We have a mill connection through the county co-op,” Faith says. “And Nash, Mr. McCoy, has already sourced potential contractors who live in Buckhorn.”

I nod quickly. “Tommy Greene. He does half the roofs in town. And the cabins would be small. Like cozy. Not a resort.”

Mayor Caldwell’s mouth twitches, trying not to smile.

“So,” she says, “more ‘ranch experience’ and less… luxury spa.”

“Yes,” I say, too eager. “Exactly.”

Faith gives me a side glance, saying, calm down, golden retriever, then keeps going.

We talk about trails, horse safety, liability insurance, water use, septic systems, parking, and noise regulations.

I answer questions. Faith fills the gaps. The mayor listens, actually considering it.

And the longer it goes, the more I feel emotions I haven’t felt in a while.

Competent.

Not charming. Not lucky. Not Nash McCoy getting away with it again.

Just capable.

I glance down at my notes. At the scribbles and arrows only I can read. At the sketches I drew the night after Founders’ Day, when I couldn’t sleep.

This is what it’s all for.

Not the engagement. Not the performance.

The ranch.

Legacy.

A future where Buckhorn doesn’t bleed people until it’s a ghost town with a diner and a church and no one left to fill the pews.

Mayor Caldwell flips a page in her binder.

“This is more thorough,” she says, surprising me. “Than your original presentation.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “I’ve been… working.”

Faith’s smile is sharp with pride. “He has.”

Mayor Caldwell’s gaze holds mine. “Good. Because if this town is going to approve something that changes its landscape, we need to trust the person steering it.”

My chest tightens.

Trust.

That word feels too heavy for me sometimes. It’s something people give Boone. Or Dallas. People who don’t talk themselves into corners and then kiss their high school rival to shut her up.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say softly. “I understand.”