But even as he said it, he straightened. Lifted the plate to his lap, steadied the wobbling bowl.
She went back to the tree. Only two more parts to separate, and it would be completely down.
"I couldn't stand it anymore," she said, as if he'd asked her opinion. "It was a really depressing tree."
He grunted as he took a bite of her stew. Agreeing, she assumed.
"Don't worry, I saved your gift." She pointed to the wrapped rectangle she'd set on the windowsill. She might've spent several minutes feeling up the package. She was certain it was a framed picture. But of what?
He downed the Tylenol and gulped the water, emptying the glass in a few swallows. She made another trip to the kitchen for more.
"Where'd you get this bread?" he asked when she returned and set the glass on the coffee table.
"I made it." Pounding the dough had been a therapeutic way to assuage her worries.
"It's good," he mumbled around another bite.
The praise made her warm and gooey inside. She'd make the bread every day if he liked it that much.
She stuffed the piece of pipe and paper needles into a box. It didn't fit, no matter how much she shoved.
"I'm taking this hideous tree to the dump tomorrow," she said. "Unless you have a sentimental attachment to it."
He stared at her for a long moment, chewing and then swallowing his bite of stew. "Unless I have a…" He shook his head, his smile a shade bitter. "I've always hated that tree."
That was that, then.
He set his plate on the coffee table and reclined against the couch again, still upright but allowing his head to fall back on the cushions. As if just the act of eating had exhausted him.
"Do you have a real tree at Christmas?" she asked. “Back in Houston?”
"Hmm? No."
She tossed the strand of lights she'd pulled from the tree on top of the box. They were at least ten years old, half the lights out, just like she'd guessed from the beginning.
"I know they make a mess, but I love real trees," she said. "I guess an artificial tree can be nice, too, though."
He pulled the top blanket across his lap. "I don't usually decorate for the holiday. Too busy with work." He paused. "And no one to decorate for."
"That's really sad." She and her roommate had found a tiny potted evergreen for sale outside a hardware store near campus and had overloaded their dorm room with paper stars and lights hung along the ceiling.
"My guess is you're one of those guys who breaks off a relationship before the holiday gets too close. That way, you can save your money and not waste it on girlfriend gifts."
He laughed, his eyes widening. "I seem like that kind of guy?"
"No." She shoved the two big boxes of fake tree toward the front door. Hound Dog got up and moved, rounding the boxes cautiously. "You seem like the kind of guy a smart woman wouldn't let get away."
He considered her for a long moment, eyes at half-mast. "Tell that to my ex girlfriend," he mumbled.
Ex. Some part of her couldn't help but wonder if it had been serious.
Not that it was her business.
"You also seem like someone who knows better than to keep holding on to some old grudge. You should make up with Iris and Jilly." When she'd called Iris earlier, the other woman had been genuinely concerned about Cord.
Now his eyes slid closed. Tired, or didn't want to admit she was right?
"It's not my grudge," he said quietly.
With a groan, he pushed himself off the sofa. "I'm going to sleep in my own bed."
"I don't…" Know if that's a great idea. Think you should climb to the second floor. Want to be alone.
He didn't wait for her permission, just headed for the stairs, his steps slow and feet dragging.
11
Cord dreamed of that June night ten years ago. In his dream, he and Callum and Noah and West went to the lake, which would have been a better choice than what really happened. They were splashing and having fun as the sun went down, and then West suggested jumping off Bluebonnet Point. The rock outcropping was frequented by teens. When Cord had been in grade school, someone'd broken his neck on an underwater stump or rock. Teenagers still came, still jumped the forty feet into the lake below.
And Cord's vocal cords refused to work. Dream Cord was screaming at West, screaming at his friends not to go up there. Not to jump.
And then he was flying over the edge of the rock, tumbling headfirst toward the water.
Everything went dark. He was underwater.
He couldn't breathe.
It was so cold, surrounding him.
He thrashed—
And woke up in his own bed, sweating through his sheets and the quilt, shivering with fever.
Had he shouted in his delirium?
His throat was parched. He needed a drink. There was a glass on the bedside table. He didn't remember it being there before. It was empty.
The house was silent. It was the dead of night.
He groaned as he pushed up out of his bed. His muscles felt weak. It was an effort just to stand.
He moved down the hall, memories burying him deep as he kept one hand on the wall, just in case.
The bathroom light flipped on, feet away, illuminating the hallway. And Molly, who was standing in front of him. She squinted against the light.
"I thought I heard you up," she murmured softly. "What do you need?"
You.
The thought came unbidden, dangerous.
And he stumbled, his toe catching against a frayed seam in the old carpet runner.
She caught him, or he caught himself on the wall, with her trapped in the circle of his arms. Somehow, he'd managed to snug one arm around her waist. His other forearm rested against the wall above her head.
Her hands had lifted to meet his body and rested loosely against his hipbones.
She was warm and tousled, obviously just out of bed.
And he really wanted to kiss her.
Bad idea. So bad.
Not just because he was one thousand percent sure she didn't want whatever sickness he had, but also because she trusted him.
He closed his eyes, let his forehead rest against the cool plaster wall.
She obviously thought he could barely hold himself upright—she wasn't wrong—because she didn't move, didn't abandon him.
"I need some water," he whispered roughly. The bathroom tap was good enough for him.
He just had to let her go.
But he didn't move.
And neither did she.
"It's okay to ask for help," she whispered, her breath hot on his neck.
He shook his head, the movement brushing his jaw against the softness of her hair. Grandma Mackie had drilled into him from the very beginning that asking for help meant you were weak.
And he was tired of being weak.
"I'm here," she whispered. "And I'm not walking away."
Because she needed a place to stay. Not because she had any tender feelings toward him. He didn't want her to.
He didn't need any more complications. Didn't need to be responsible for anyone else.
But he was still holding onto her.
What was he doing?
He forced his arm away from her softness. Forced his aching body to straighten, to hold his weight. "Could you get me some more Tylenol?"
She looked at him, her eyes tracking down his face. From this close, there was no escaping.
He didn't want to know what she saw.
Was the want aching in his gut showing through? Leaking out, though he was doing his best to squash it?
He ducked into the bathroom, too chicken to stay and find out.
Molly sat in Cord's truck in the grocery store parking lot and stared at the storefront. She knew what she'd find in the mom 'n pop country store. Narrow aisles, linoleum floors, carts with rickety wheels. A limited selection of brands. A long-time cashier who knew everyone in town by name.
She just ha
d to get herself in there.
Her hands clenched on the steering wheel.
Cord was depending on her. Even if he didn't know it, even if he was still out of it from the fever burning through him.
She'd used up every fresh scrap of food in his refrigerator. And almost all the canned goods in his pantry. The Tylenol bottle was empty. And she was hoping they'd let her post the handwritten flyer she'd made. Free kittens.
It was midmorning in a sleepy country town. There were only two other cars in the lot. She'd driven Cord's truck, not hers. She had a ball cap pulled low over her eyes, her hair poking out of the back in a ponytail. She was wearing a nondescript black hooded sweatshirt over her jeans.
No one was watching her. No one was going to come after her here.
She was safe.
She had her burner phone stashed in her pocket. Dialing 911 would only take a few seconds.
Every locked-up muscle in her body begged her to run back to the ranch.
As she stared at the store, an older model minivan pulled in to a nearby spot. A woman got out, glancing curiously at Molly. The woman rounded her vehicle and opened a back door, where she took several minutes to get a toddler and an infant untangled from their car seats.
While Molly waited in the truck.
The mother kept glancing over the top of her vehicle at Molly.
She was acting the fool. She wasn't getting out of the truck to walk inside the store. She wasn't putting the car in reverse to back out of the lot. She wasn't even scrolling a social media site on a cell phone.
She must have looked like a crazy person.
Maybe she was a crazy person. Imagining shadows behind every corner.
She'd overcome her fear at the winter festival with Cord by her side. She had to do this.
For Cord.
She pushed open the truck door and got out on shaking legs.
The mother was walking toward the store, her infant in one arm, clutching the toddler's hand with the other hand. She looked over her shoulder at Molly.
Molly gave a halfhearted wave. "Had to psych myself up to go inside."
The mother gave a faint smile.
Molly took a cart from just inside the sliding glass doors. So far, so good.
The produce was much better than she'd expected.
As she went through the familiar motions of shopping, the choking fear faded.
She passed by the young mother every other aisle. And even that felt comforting, seeing a familiar face, a kind face.
Was this what it would take to overcome her fear entirely? Just moving through life like a spoon through thick molasses? Rinse, and repeat.
The cashier greeted her warmly, asked too-pointed questions. Who was she? What was all this food for? She was staying where?
Molly smiled and evaded, even though her natural instinct was to open up. By now she knew why Cord didn't want anybody nosing into his business.
For a small-town girl, that was the hardest part.
And then she was back outside, a cart full of bagged goods in her possession.
She'd done it! Elation soared through her as she loaded the paper bags in the bed of the pickup and closed the tailgate.
She could do this. She could be normal again. Maybe not today, but eventually.
She'd returned the cart to the storefront and was on her way back to Cord's truck when she spotted the familiar red Mustang at the stoplight two blocks down.
No.
No, no, no.
Her heartbeat went into overdrive, and her pulse beat in her throat as her flight instinct kicked in. She sprinted the last few feet to Cord's pickup and vaulted into the driver's side.
Shaking, she ducked down, making herself as small as possible. It meant she couldn't see over the dash, but maybe it meant someone looking from the street wouldn't see her either. Had he spotted her? If it was Toby, he wouldn't recognize Cord's pickup. She still had the ball cap pulled low over her face.
Was it Toby?
Her hand was trembling so badly that it took two tries to turn the key. The truck rumbled to life beneath her.
What now?
Should she just drive off?
What if he was coming toward her right now?
She reached to slap the door locks, engaging them.
If he was heading this way, she should leave.
But she didn't hear an engine driving closer.
Phone.
It was difficult to think straight with panic clogging her throat. She patted her hip pocket. Not there.
Then she remembered she'd shoved it into one of the shopping bags when she'd been checking out.
Stupid.
If Toby was on the street, or waiting in a nearby parking lot, he'd see her when she drove by. She couldn't stay ducked down beneath the window line and drive, not unless she wanted to drive blind.
If he cornered her now, she'd have no way to call for help.
She counted to one hundred. Slowly.
Each passing number felt like a thunderclap.
She wanted the No Name, the peace she'd found there.
She wanted Cord.
When she reached one hundred, she straightened and reached for her seatbelt. She put the truck in gear and barely looked for pedestrians as she backed out of the parking spot. She turned the opposite way out of the lot onto Main Street.
There was no red Mustang in sight, but she wasn't taking any chances. If Toby was following her, she'd lead him on a merry chase before she returned to the No Name.
Something had spooked Molly.
Cord finally felt more himself a week after he'd come down with the flu.
He showered away the sick and sweat, pulled together all his nasty T-shirts and sweatpants and sheets and blankets, and ran a load of laundry.
Just that effort cost him. After a week of being off his feet, he felt weak and worn out by such a little job.
But he was determined to do some outside work. He couldn't afford any more days off. The clock was ticking. He had to get the ranch in shape to sell.
And he needed to find out what had happened with Molly. She'd brushed him off every time he tried to ask over the past two days.
She'd gone to town. He'd come downstairs for food only to find the house empty and a note stuck to the fridge with a magnet. Half the tractor parts had disappeared from the living room, presumably back where they belonged. She'd accomplished a lot, even while she'd been caring for him.
He'd been sleeping when she'd returned from town. That afternoon, she'd jumped at every shadow, been as nervous as a wild mustang seeing its first saddle. Even the dog had sensed it, ears back and underfoot more than normal.
And her nerves hadn't faded since.
He hadn't been able to get out of her what had happened. She'd brushed him off.
But today he was back to full-strength. Or most-strength.
And he was going to find out.
He owed her that much for taking care of him while he'd been sick. He hadn't been down like that in years, sick as a dog and so weak. And he couldn't remember a time when someone had waited on him. Brought him food, water, medicine. Checked in to make sure he was all right.
Maybe when he’d been a little guy. Before his parents had died. Lord knew, Grandma Mackie never had. If he or West got sick, she left it to them to take care of themselves.
In the kitchen, a pot of coffee waited. He poured a cup and sniffed, trying to determine whether she'd poisoned it with some weird spice.
He sipped.
It was black. Normal.
He drank deeply.
She'd left a plate covered in tin foil on the stove. He pressed one finger against it. Still hot.
Under the foil he found two sticky homemade cinnamon rolls and several scrambled eggs.
He downed it all in minutes, humming his appreciation over the sticky buns. Where was she?
He bundled up and fought his way through the kittens—more active now—to the back porch. He walked o
ut toward the ruined barn, feeling the stretch of every unused muscle. The milder weather felt like heaven. He left his coat unzipped.
From a distance, he saw Molly on her back on the ground—still wearing that horrible jean jacket—buried beneath one of the tractors. Hound Dog was roaming in the field not far away.
As he got closer, he could hear her talking to herself, though he couldn't make out the words.
He made sure to make plenty of noise, his boots crunching in the dried winter grasses. "Morning—"
Molly shrieked, flipping a wrench loose so that it clanged against the underside of the tractor and then fell to the ground with a thud.
He stood there, ready to laugh at her overblown reaction. A smile was starting to bloom across his lips.
Until he got a look at her. Her face was a pale splash of white against her hair.
She was still spooked. More than spooked, she was terrified. Shaking.
But not running.
"Sorry," she mumbled. She pushed out from under the tractor and tried to turn away, piling up tools on an old towel she'd laid out on the ground beside her.
He squatted, putting himself at the same level. He reached out and stilled her frantic movements with one hand at her wrist.
She jerked away from his touch, looking up at him with too-wide eyes.
Like she had in the beginning.
"What's going on?" he asked.
She ducked her head, hiding her face from him. Shook her head.
"Molly." He didn't try to touch her again. But he wasn't letting this go. Something had scared her. Terrified her.
She stood, turning so all he could see was her profile.
But he still saw more than she probably wanted.
She'd let him in close before.
So he stepped over the tools toward her.
Danger!
He ignored the warning flares his brain was sending up and crowded her in against the side of the tractor with both arms. Careful not to touch her.
Yet.
"Cord—" She could've ducked beneath either of his arms and escaped. He wasn't trapping her, not really. But he wanted answers.
He wanted to go back three days, to the way she'd looked at him in the upstairs hallway. Now, she had her walls up high. She wouldn't even look him in the eye, just stared at his chin.
His Small-Town Girl (Sutter's Hollow Book 1) Page 8