Having a barn on the property definitely made it more desirable to potential buyers. At least that's what the realtor he'd spoken to on the phone had told him.
"Hey." Molly appeared in the doorway. Her feet were bare beneath the hem of her jeans. Her hair was wet, soaking the shoulders of her sweatshirt.
He forced himself to look away. Not compatible.
His head throbbed, and he rubbed the heel of his hand between his eyebrows. It didn't help.
He was aware of her moving around behind him. The oven door squeaked as she opened it. He should tell her not to bother cooking supper. He'd make a sandwich.
But she was already at his elbow. She put a mug in front of him.
"Oh, I—"
"It's not coffee." He didn't look at her but could hear the smile.
She couldn't seem to leave the coffee alone, even though she knew he hated it. Every morning she tweaked it with some spice or another. Or a dab of whipped cream.
A spoon clinked on the table next to his mug before she whirled away.
If it wasn't coffee, what was it? The savory aroma of chicken soup answered him before he could ask. And then she set a plate before him, right on top of his stupid contract. A grilled cheese sandwich. Comfort food.
He looked at her, letting his gaze trace the purple shadows under her eyes, the way her sweatshirt clung to her shoulders, the chapped pink skin of her hands. She'd been upstairs when he'd come inside from the barn, but he'd seen the old sheet she'd spread on the living room floor and the parts she'd laid out in neat rows. Seemed like she'd torn apart all three tractors during the hours he'd been working in the barn.
"You skipped lunch." She actually sounded offended by it.
He shrugged. "It happens."
She crossed her arms. "On a day like today, you burned more calories just keeping warm. You shouldn't skip meals."
He raised his brows at her. "Okay, Mom."
She rolled her eyes. Settled in with her hip against the counter, her arms crossed over her middle. Had they actually shared a meal at the table? No.
The aroma of the soup was getting to him. His stomach gurgled. He didn't waste time with a spoon, just inhaled it from the mug.
It was delicious. Granules of rice danced across his tongue, and the chicken was hearty. It couldn't be from a can. She'd made it?
"Thanks," he said as he set the mug down on the table.
"West called while you were out."
All the pleasure he'd just been feeling whisked away on icy wind. His headache intensified.
"Oh yeah?" he asked.
Why call on the house phone? Cord had had his cell on him all day long. If West had really wanted to talk, he would've called there.
Which meant he was taking the easy way out. As usual.
"He asked how you were doing. Said to tell you he was fine. Not to worry about him."
Cord leveled a glance on her. That sounded nothing like his brother. "If you're going to lie, you have to make it sound like it could be true."
Her eyes narrowed. "I'm not lying."
Uh huh.
At a piercing pain behind his right eye, he put the half-eaten sandwich down. He'd take a Tylenol and go to bed.
"You guys don't get along?" she asked.
He shoved back his chair. "Not in about seven years." Longer. The night of the accident, Cord had ruined everything. His closest friendships, any chance he'd had that Grandma Mackie would fund a college education. He'd even lost his brother, though he hadn't known it at the time. All gone in the space of twelve hours.
"You'd like him," he told her. "He handles a military war dog."
West had always loved animals—especially dogs. When he'd been a boy, if there was a puppy within five miles, he'd sniff it out and go over to see it, even if it meant hiking in bad weather.
"That's a dangerous job."
He nodded. He tried not to think about it. Cord had left town after that fateful night. West had been stuck here for another two years until he'd graduated high school. He'd signed on with the Marines on his eighteenth birthday.
Thinking about his brother intensified his weariness. He pushed up from the table and picked up his plate and empty mug.
She reached for them before he got to the counter.
He held them out of her reach. "I can clean up after myself."
She tipped her head back, looking up into his face, giving him a clear look at her upturned nose, those kissable lips. A flash zipped through him, head to toes.
He squelched it, frowning.
"You look tired," she said. "Let me do it."
He felt beyond tired. He felt like an old man.
Fine. Stubborn woman.
He gave up the plate and mug and crossed to the medicine cabinet above the microwave. Rummaged inside until he found the Tylenol. "I'm going to bed. No sleeping in the mud room," he reminded her.
When he turned back to the kitchen, she'd pulled a face and was miming his words, even as she rinsed the mug in the sink.
She shot him an ornery grin.
He only shook his head. Trudged past her and through the hall.
He stopped on the bottom step and called over his shoulder, "You can take the darn dog up to your room."
What did he care? Keeping the dog outside had been Grandma Mackie's rule. And he was selling the place anyway.
Let Molly get some sleep.
Molly laid curled beneath the quilt in the bed upstairs. Hound Dog was sleeping on her feet, creating an oven of heat in the bed.
The twin was barely big enough for the both of them.
It was late. She'd turned on a late-night sitcom rerun and sat through three
