His Small-Town Girl

by Lacy Williams

  She exhaled noisily. "He started making threats. Saying things like I belonged to him. That I couldn't leave him."

  She was shaking so badly now that her legs weren't going to support her. She lowered herself to the floor right there, putting her back to the cabinets.

  Cord sat next to her, careful that they weren't touching. "Did you tell anyone?"

  She nodded. One hot tear spilled over her cheek. "My dad. He didn't believe me. I w-wanted to go home."

  She brushed the tear away. Her dad had remarried when she'd been a sophomore in high school. Her stepmother, Sandy, had only waited a few weeks before she'd started manipulating Molly's father. She used every tool in her arsenal to turn him against Molly.

  It had been five years of Dad slipping away, falling further under Sandy’s spell.

  When Molly had been crying on the phone with her dad, she'd heard her stepmother in the background. "She's probably making it up. She's an attention-seeker, you know."

  She'd known then that she wasn't going to receive any help from that quarter.

  She took a shaky breath. "I filed a restraining order. He disappeared for a few days, and I started to feel safe again. I took my finals."

  She inhaled a shaky breath. "And then he came back. Trapped me in the bathroom of the little cafe where I worked."

  He'd hit her once across the face. She'd fought back with everything in her, and the commotion had brought a manager in.

  Toby had fled. The police had been called.

  "The policeman couldn't find him. And if the restraining order hadn't protected me in the first place, what was I supposed to do?"

  She'd called home again. She'd had to try. Her father had flat out refused to let her come home without finishing the semester.

  "I left in the middle of the night." She'd left most of her stuff in the dorm room. She hadn't dropped any of her classes. She'd just run.

  * * *

  Molly had a stalker.

  Cord was surprised at the strength of the fury burning inside him as she revealed the truth.

  He didn't know her well, but he saw her gentle spirit with Hound Dog. Had seen the way her eyes lit those first hours when she'd looked around the ranch.

  Someone was targeting her. Had assaulted her. Had threatened her.

  No wonder she'd had such a strong reaction in town.

  He was just as furious with her family. Why would her father refuse to help her? He didn't have to know the answer. Some people—like Mackie—didn't deserve to be parents.

  He had the weirdest urge to grab her and hold on. He hadn't felt anything like it since he'd been a boy and West had gotten into a scuffle on the playground at school.

  Sure, he'd seen his share of tears from the women he'd dated, but they'd always been used as a way to manipulate him.

  Molly was trying to hold it together all by herself. Trying not to cry.

  He rubbed one hand on his bent knee. "Do you really know how to fix up those piece-of-junk tractors?"

  She still wasn't looking at him, but her head turned slightly in his direction. Like maybe he'd piqued her curiosity. "I've done repairs on my truck since I was fifteen. And some tractor repairs on our ranch. Anything I don't know, I'll bet I can find a video online. Why?"

  Was he really going to do this?

  He cleared his throat. "Turns out the ranch is underwater. It's... bad."

  He was so angry with Mackie that he felt it flush his face.

  "The bank won't make any further extensions on the mortgage, which means I need cash sooner rather than later."

  She laid her cheek on her knee, finally making eye contact with him. "It's gonna cost money to buy parts. And take some time to track them down."

  He nodded. "I need to be back in Houston by the end of the month. If you can get three or four of them in good condition, it would get my head above water.” If he could find a buyer who wouldn't mind this place in the condition it was in… Maybe he could get out from under the No Name with his credit and bank account intact.

  It was a glimmer of light on the top of the ocean. Unfortunately, he felt like he was drowning in the depths. It was a chance, even if it was a slim one.

  "Don't you have anyone you can call?" It was as if she were turning his earlier inquiry back on him. Didn't you tell anyone? "I thought... Iris asked about your brother, didn't she? How come he isn't here?"

  West.

  Cord gritted his teeth. "He's in the military. And the ranch is in my name, not his."

  "Wouldn't he help, if you asked?"

  Probably not. "It's complicated. I doubt he can get leave. And it's complicated."

  Her raised eyebrows reminded him he was repeating himself. He'd barely spoken to his brother in a half-dozen years. West might help him if Cord begged on bended knee.

  Or he might laugh in Cord's face.

  He tapped his thumb on his thigh. "You can stay through the end of the month. Rent-free. If you rebuild the tractors for me. And as long as trouble didn't follow you here."

  She frowned. "I don't think h-he followed me. I watched for his car, in traffic. For about two hundred miles."

  Good. Then the three weeks until his deadline might allow her to regain her equilibrium. Get back on her feet.

  She suddenly brushed her hair over her shoulder and stood, leaving him to push to his feet, too.

  "I'll think about it," she said.

  What was there to think about? Oh.

  "Molly."

  He felt hot under the collar as she glanced his way. But he met her curious gaze head-on.

  "I want you to know you don't have to worry about me."

  She wrinkled her brows.

  "You know. About me coming on to you." He didn't think his face could get any warmer.

  The last thing he wanted was for her to feel afraid here.

  Her eyes were huge in her face, and he couldn't keep his mouth shut. "We're not compatible. Like that."

  Liar, liar.

  7

  Main Street was packed, and Cord had to bite back a groan as he pulled the truck into a tight spot between a beat-up pickup and a badly-parked minivan.

  Almost as if she could sense his dismay, Molly glanced his way from the passenger seat.

  "It's the Winter Festival," he said. He'd purposely chosen midmorning to avoid traffic in town.

  One raised eyebrow from her, and he knew she'd read his emotions accurately.

  We're not compatible. Like that. His words from three days before flashed through his head even as awareness clenched in his belly.

  Stupid.

  As soon as he'd uttered the words, their gazes had caught, and there'd been an instant flare of attraction between them. There was something about her that called him. It wasn't all physical either. She was whip-smart, even if she was too young for him.

  But he'd told her they weren't a good fit. And he would never forget the look of utter terror on her face in the parts store parking lot. Molly needed a friend. Not a boyfriend.

  So he did the same thing he'd been doing for three days. He shoved the inconvenient attraction into a box, promptly slammed the lid on it, and pushed it into the dark recesses of his brain.

  She was squinting through the passenger window now, probably wondering why he was making such a big deal of what was basically a small-town swap meet.

  It was the people he'd rather avoid. Not the junk.

  "It might take a little longer,” he said, “but chances are, most of the crowd won't be in the store."

  She frowned at him. "You don't want to check out the festival?"

  "You do?" Three days ago, she'd freaked out because of a stranger on the sidewalk. Today, she wanted to join the throngs of shoppers looking at handmade trinkets and jars of jam?

  Her smile was tight, her knuckles white on the door handle. But she nodded. "You might run into someone you know."

  That's what he was worried about.

  He followed her out of the truck and onto the sidewalk. "Pa
rts store first," he muttered.

  She'd been systematically dismantling the tractors and, every time he crossed paths with her in the ranch house kitchen, she had something exciting to tell him. Like some rusty part he didn't know the name of was salvageable. She'd spread them across an old sheet covering the living room floor. So far, the list of parts he needed to purchase was longer than his arm.

  If he was lucky, she'd get distracted by the new parts, and they could skip the festival altogether.

  He wasn't lucky.

  Molly had him haul the backbreaking cardboard box to the truck and then talked him into a quick stop at the festival.

  The fairgrounds behind the hardware store and bank had been transformed into a craft show slash swap meet, with booths set up inside the expo building—a fancy name for the wide open metal-sided building.

  Two food trucks were parked at the curb, both with lines of people waiting to order.

  "You hungry?" he asked.

  She shook her head. She was pale and, if he weren’t mistaken, holding her breath.

  He pulled her out of the foot traffic just outside the expo center doors. His hand on her forearm, he could feel she was trembling under his touch.

  "There's no reason for us to go in there," he said.

  She hiked her chin. Her eyes sparked up at him. "Yes, there is."

  He was about ready to throw up his hands. Exasperating woman.

  She ducked her head. "If I shut myself up, he wins."

  Her words didn't make sense.

  She took a deep breath. "When I told you what I told you"—another breath that cost her—"if I stay in hiding all the time, then he wins. What kind of life would that be? To be frightened all the time? It wouldn't be living."

  Said the woman whose mouth was bracketed with lines of strain.

  He couldn't help the tiny spike of amazement that pulsed through him.

  She was incredibly brave. Facing a very real terror to be here today. Because she refused to live in fear.

  "Besides, how could he have followed me to Sutter's Hollow?" This said on a rush of air, as if she were trying to convince herself. "He couldn't have."

  But she didn't sound sure.

  And he knew he shouldn't, but he let his hand slide down from where he still touched her forearm. He took her hand in his, the slide of her palm cool and electric.

  Friends could hold hands, couldn't they?

  Right. But why did he take it a step further? He threaded his fingers through hers, the friction of skin against skin completely new and somehow terrifying.

  Friends.

  But no matter how many times he repeated the word in his mind, it didn't stop the almost painful thrum of his heart.

  * * *

  Cord was freaking out.

  Molly couldn't help but take a weird sort of satisfaction in it. He was the one who'd offered the comfort and connection of his hand.

  But from the moment she'd accepted, she could feel his tension rising.

  How high would he let it go? Until the little vein pulsing at his temple burst? Until his head exploded?

  Focusing on him, on the tension he carried, was a nice diversion from the choking fear.

  Their elbows brushed as they moved past a couple perusing a booth filled with woven baskets.

  "Cord Coulter?"

  She didn't think it was possible for him to become wound even tighter, but he did.

  An older woman with slate-gray hair cut short and a stained T-shirt and jeans approached, almost knocking over a toddler girl holding her dad's hand. The man shot a glare, which the woman ignored.

  "Thought that was you. Ain't seen you in forever." There was an undertone in the words that Molly couldn't understand. One she didn't like.

  The woman narrowed her eyes on their linked hands, and Cord dropped Molly's hand like it burned him.

  "Who's your friend?" the woman asked.

  "Nobody."

  Molly hmphed at Cord's rudeness and gave him a sideways glare. "I'm Molly. A friend of Cord's." She offered her hand.

  "Reba Buchannon. I was friends with Mackie. Knew the boy"—she nodded to Cord—"since he was this high." She raised her hand to the middle of her ribs. "He was a handful for his Grannie, that's for sure. Always getting into scrapes."

  When Molly glanced at him, a muscle was jumping in Cord's cheek.

  Reba seemed gleeful at his tension. "You back in town to take care of your grannie's ranch?"

  "I'm making some repairs," Cord said coolly. "Looking for a buyer."

  Reba looked shocked. "You can't sell the No Name."

  "Sure I can. The sooner the better." Cord took Molly's elbow. "We've gotta—"

  Reba's face flushed. "Your grandma slaved away to make that ranch your family legacy. You can't just throw it away."

  Cord's lips twisted into a cruel look she'd never seen on him before. "C'mon, Molly."

  "Cord Coulter."

  But he ignored the older woman and ushered Molly away.

  Of course she couldn't just leave it. "What was that about?" she whispered.

  He shook his head, leading her deeper into the labyrinth of booths. In a little alcove behind a tall quilt stand, he finally let her go. "This was a bad idea," he mumbled.

  "Because one old lady said you were throwing your family legacy away?"

  His expression turned thunderous. "There was no family legacy," he said in a deadly voice. "Not any kind of legacy that I want to be a part of. Mackie was—" He shook his head.

  His face was white. He was almost shaking with the force of his emotion.

  And beneath the anger, she saw the hurt. Whatever his grandma had done to him had left scars.

  And then it was as if he shut off his emotions. He was obviously embarrassed that she'd seen it. He laughed a little and shook his head. "Never mind. What else do you want to look at?"

  She thought about challenging him. But she was conscious of the patience and space he'd given her when she'd needed it.

  "Where to next?" He nudged her back into the flow of traffic.

  If he wanted to pretend everything was fine, she'd go along with it. For now.

  She perused several booths, including one with a display of lovely dangly silver earrings. Her mama had once had a similar pair.

  It was hard to focus on the things when she found herself constantly watching for Toby. Cord's presence nearby was a balm.

  Even if he didn't try to hold her hand again.

  She was opening her mouth to tell Cord she was ready to go when someone materialized out of the crowd and approached. A younger woman this time, close to Cord's age.

  "Iris told me she'd seen you. I didn't entirely believe her, but here you are."

  The woman bore a passing resembling to Iris, but the most noticeable thing about her was the colorful scarf she wore tied over her head. Molly knew what the scarf meant. Mama had worn one just like in during her treatments in those long months before the cancer had stolen her away.

  For a broken moment, Cord didn't seem to know what to do. Where he'd held Iris at arms' length, he stepped forward and embraced her sister. His greeting of, "Jilly. Look at you," was muffled.

  When he let the woman go, the haunted look Molly had seen on him once before was back.

  "You like it? It's all the rage." Jilly patted her scarf, a little laugh meant to distract, but Molly heard the hollowness beneath it. It was a good distraction, but Molly knew she was making sure the scarf hadn't shifted.

  Mama had been self-conscious, too.

  Molly was hit with a pang of homesickness so powerful that she lost track of the conversation between the two.

  Until Jilly said, "You should go see Noah. Maybe he’d open the door for you. He won’t talk to anyone."

  And Cord slipped his emotionless mask back into place. "I'll think about it."

  Jilly nodded, giving him a small, sad smile that said she knew his answer would be no.

  Who was Noah?

  8

&nbs
p; The next morning, Cord almost stepped on Molly on the floor of the mudroom.

  It was a good thing he'd flicked on the light and caught a glimpse of her sleeping curled around the dog, both of them wedged on the dog bed in the tiny space.

  She came awake instantly, and he saw the panic flare in her eyes momentarily before it cleared.

  She sat up and pushed her sleep-tousled hair out of her face.

  He had to work really hard to ignore her wrinkled T-shirt and the plaid flannel pants she wore as pajamas.

  "What are you doing?" he demanded.

  "Napping." Awareness sparked between them, and he couldn't help but notice the flush climbing in her cheeks.

  "You can't sleep in the mudroom." Maybe the words were a little sharp, but geez Louise. There was a draft coming in under the back door. Fixing the door frame had gotten pushed low on his priorities list.

  She stood, careful not to look at him. "Hound is warm."

  She slipped past Cord to go into the dark kitchen. The weatherman had predicted another ice storm today, and he'd gotten up early to feed the cattle before it hit. He'd left all the lights off, thinking she was asleep upstairs in West's bedroom. Now she flipped on the light and went to the coffee maker.

  Hound is warm.

  She'd had one arm wrapped around the mutt, who now nosed at the door, wanting outside. He let the dog out, getting a cold blast of wind in the face.

  He turned right back to the kitchen, determined that she listen to him. "You can't sleep in the mud room," he repeated.

  She had her back to him as she scooped coffee into a new filter.

  "Hound helps me sleep," she said simply. As if it was a done deal and she didn't care what he said.

  How desperate had she been to catch some sleep with the dog, to sleep on its cushion?

  He was in over his head. His gut churned. "If you have trouble sleeping, what about some medication? Something herbal, maybe."

  She gave him a sharp look. "No, thanks."

  He shook his head. "You're not sleeping in the mud room. And the dog isn't coming inside."

  She faced him head-on, but he'd crossed his arms over his chest. Her hands went to her waist.