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 out 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
