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. "Parts 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
