Being back in Sutter's Hollow wasn't better. There were a lot of things to hate about this town.
Putting gas in his truck while he got the side-eye from a middle-aged man who'd been a parentback then. Feeling the same shame when he drove past the tiny county courthouse where his life had unraveled. Out here on the No Name, he could feel Mackie's disdain and belief that he'd never amount to anything.
Molly was the only thing that made it bearable. Molly, who cooked for him even though he told her not to. Who played guitar, but only in her room when she thought he was outside. Who smiled behind her coffee mug every morning when he tasted her coffee. Who made him so crazy he couldn't see straight.
He couldn't stay here. But maybe she would go with him. To Houston.
He got in the truck and tossed his gloves on the seat beside him. Fired up the engine and slowly made his way up the rutted path toward the house.
Molly had the place lit up like a Christmas miniature. She must’ve turned every light in the house on.
His stomach grumbled. He'd pushed well past suppertime, and she'd been cooking when he'd left.
When Molly cooked, it made him feel things, things he hadn't felt since before his parents died. She was an amazing cook, but that wasn't it. It was that she cared enough to do it.
Mackie had been an open-the-can-of-beans-and-pour-onto-plate kind of cook—when she'd cared to do it at all.
He was tired of running from his feelings for Molly.
Tired of trying to pretend he didn’t care.
And if he cared, and if he wasn’t going to hide it anymore, what did that mean?
The question sent his heart to pounding as he came in the mudroom door.
The kitchen was quiet, empty. The scent of something savory hovered in the air. A foil-covered plate rested on top of the stove. His dinner.
Molly was playing her guitar in her bedroom, so softly that he almost couldn't hear it.
His need to see her drove him from the kitchen and up the stairs. He hadn't even approached her room—West's old room—before now, hadn't wanted to spook her more than she already was. She deserved her own space, somewhere safe.
She had the bedroom light on, the door wide open. He knocked on the doorjamb to let her know he was there. He didn't go in, even when she looked up at him from where she sat on the edge of the bed, the beat up acoustic tucked against her middle, one leg bent on the bedspread.
Her fingers moved in a rhythm he'd never learned, real music floating from the piece-of-junk instrument.
She looked back down at the bed, her hair falling in front of her face. He didn't know if she was hiding from him or just playing.
It was a sad song. Haunting. Beautiful.
Molly couldn't lookat Cord as her fingers danced over the strings.
He'd been quiet after sharing about his past at Iris's. Hadn't stayed in for supper. He'd left, gone off to who knew where.
The barn, or what was left of it, judging by the state of his boots and his mussed shirt and hair.
He doesn't need my drama.
She'd promised to stay and rebuild the tractors, and she would. Was she putting Cord in danger by staying? Toby had been vocal with his threats toward her roommate, her friends, anyone she dared to see who wasn't him.
Or was she simply imagining the danger? She hadn't actuallyseenToby, just a red Mustang like the one he drove. What if she was freaking out over nothing?
Tears blurred her vision, distorting the quilted bedspread she'd been staring at.
She tapped her palm against the strings, stopping the music instantly.
"Don't quit on my account," Cord said quietly from the doorway. "That was pretty."
She sniffed and then gave a wobbly, "Thanks."
