Page 93 of Tessa and Nash

Then she stills.

“What?”

She swallows. “It’s… your family name.”

I lean closer, and I see it.

Elias McCoy.

My stomach drops, because that name is in our family stories. In my mom’s stories. In the ones Boone told Ellie when she asked why the ranch mattered.

One of the originals.

One of the ones Buckhorn still talks about as if he’s a legend instead of a man who probably smelled of sweat and fear.

Tessa flips a page.

And another.

Her brows knit, her face shifting from guarded to confused.

Then disbelief.

“What does it say?”

Tessa hands it to me without looking away. She can’t hold it and breathe at the same time.

I take it with both hands carefully.

The words swim because my brain is loud.

Then I force myself to focus.

November 19th, 19— The year is smudged. Old.

The winter came early. Lost two head to the creek. Lost three more to sickness. The range is bare where it shouldn’t be. Snow sets in thick, and there’s not enough feed if we don’t move them.

I swallow hard.

Tessa leans close, her shoulder brushing mine, and my whole body goes still because that’s not fake. That’s not for the town. That’s just her being here.

I keep reading.

Elias McCoy came to the line near dusk. Didn’t ride up like a man asking a favor. Rode up like a man who hated that he needed it. Pride’s a foolish thing when cattle are dying, but it’s a powerful one. It keeps a man warm until it burns his house down.

He didn’t beg.

He didn’t have to.

I could see the hunger in the herd. I could see it in his face.

I told him, “You don’t have to beg, Elias. But you do have to be honest.”

My throat tightens.

We shook on it at the fence post by the creek bend. My winter pasture for his herd until thaw. Water access along the line. McCoy men will mend fence, clear brush, keep trespassers off, and we’ll split profit on any cattle run off that range.

And if that land is ever sold or developed, if money ever comes sniffing around what used to be just survival, then the Long name is included. Not as charity. As what’s fair.