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
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.
"I—"
"Not sleeping in the mud room." This wasn't up for discussion. She would have to adjust to
