2
Molly strummed her guitar lightly, the squeak and pull of the strings familiar and comforting.
But not enough to relax her to the point where she could close her eyes and sleep.
Nothing was these days.
She had her shoulder wedged against her driver's side door, her body turned sideways, and one booted foot up on the seat. Counting the minutes until they turned into hours.
It wasn't that late. Eight. Maybe eight-thirty.
From where her truck had died in his drive, she'd seen the rancher's truck—its headlights, rather—drive up behind the ranch house and then shut off. Lights had gone on inside the ranch house in a sort of pattern. Her imagination told her he'd stopped in the kitchen to wash up. Maybe feed the dog. He'd moved into the living room next. Watched a sitcom. No, a cop drama. A sitcom might make him smile, and that wouldn't do.
The living room light had gone off, too, and then an upstairs light had gone on.
Lots of nightlife for the rancher. Cord.
She let her head loll back against the seat, her fingers going lax on the frets so the next strum was a jangle of wrong notes.
It was going to be a long night.
Her thoughts began to unravel. Her breathing sped up as her anxiety spiked.
No.
She was safe here.
No one knew where she was. No one except the rancher.
She was parked plenty far back from the road. If anyone turned in the drive, she'd see them. She'd have time to react.
There were two empty fields on either side of her truck. Grass as far as the eye could see. No one could sneak up on her here.
She could worry about her future tomorrow. Figure out what to do about the dwindling loaf of bread and jar of peanut butter she'd been rationing for days.
She jumped when a flash of light came through the windshield. It glared right in her eyes, temporarily blinding her.
She scrambled to get the guitar out of the way. It echoed discordant notes as it hit the dash. She'd picked up a small canister of pepper spray at a gas station a hundred miles ago. Where had she put it—?
The light was gone, and she blinked against the hazy afterimages burned into her vision.
It was the rancher. His shoulders filled the driver's side window, and he tapped the butt of his flashlight on the glass.
She took her sweet time rolling it down—the hand crank helped with that—using the moments to try to slow her frantic breathing.
"What're you doing out here?"
His voice was harsh and demanding. And somehow comforting. He'd been gruff and dismissive earlier. She'd trusted him. Maybe that was stupid.
"You can't stay here," he said.
"I can't leave." She tapped the steering wheel. "This puppy is dead."
Skepticism was written all over his face.
"You want me to prove it?" She gave the key a twist. Nothing happened. Not even a click.
His expression didn't change from the frown he'd appeared with. “Call a tow truck."
