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."
Mollyhmphedat 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?"
