Wyatt’s mouth twitches. “You can take that up with the ballot box, Firecracker.” He eyes the frosting constellation on Jack’s chest. “We doing dessert-based security now?”
“Trial run,” Jack says dryly. “Initial results are sticky.”
“Look at you, being funny.” I beam, then realize I’m beaming and dial it back to ‘acceptable female human smile.’ “Jack saved the cupcakes and probably my elbow. We’re fans.”
Wyatt gives Jack that older-brother head tilt that translates to: I carry a badge and a shovel and I’m not afraid to use either.“Appreciate the assist.” Then, to me: “Stay near the gazebo, okay? There was some idiot joyriding down County Route Six last night. Might be in town. Keep your head up.”
My smile stalls. “I’m always on guard,” I lie. “I’m like an owl.”
Wyatt lifts a brow. “Owls have excellent survival rates. Be an owl.” He nods at Jack in a way that says conversation To Be Continued and jogs off toward the barbecue pavilion.
“Protective,” Jack observes.
“Bossy,” I amend, balancing the boxes. “But yes. He means well. He just forgets I am technically an adult with…taxes.”
“Taxes,” Jack repeats, like he’s cataloging my skills. “And cupcakes.”
“And stickers,” I add. “And existential yeehaw questions. And also—uh—if you hear a rumor at the diner about someone’s brake line mysteriously…um. Never mind.” I laugh too brightly. “Gotta get these to the bake sale. Thank you, Jack. For catching my desserts. And me.”
His gaze warms by a degree. “You’re welcome, Miss Hart.”
“Stella,” I correct, because his “Miss Hart” makes my insides turn to mush.
“Stella,” he says, testing it like a piece of gear. “Watch your step.”
I pivot—watch my step—and nearly step into a pallet jack left abandoned behind the gazebo. “I’m fine!” I announce to no one, dignity flapping like a bunting streamer. I hustle to the bake-sale table, deposit the boxes, and inhale like I just outran a longhorn.
“Those your famous cherry bombs?” Mrs. Kershaw, head of the PTA and benevolent queen of the bake sale, snaps lids open withclinical satisfaction. “Lord, girl, you’ve outdone yourself. Did you hear about the fireworks delay?”
“Fireworks? No, I was busy with a cupcake disaster.” I repeat, reorganizing napkins that don’t need reorganizing. “What about them?”
“Supply truck broke down outside of town.” She clucks. “Parade marshal says it’s fine, but you know me—if the good Lord wanted us to trust men with clipboards, He’d have given them common sense. And—oh!” She leans in, eyes bright. “Are you bringing a date to the two-step tonight? Your brother says he knows a nice accountant from over Abilene way?—”
Over Mrs. Kershaw’s shoulder, I catch a flash of charcoal henley and the glint of a star patch. Jack stands a few yards away with two other men from Lone Star, all attention, all stillness, the kind of stillness you learn when movement gets you noticed. He scans the block again. His gaze snags on me and holds. I lift my hand in a little wave. He nods, almost imperceptible. Heat zips through me, fast and baffling.
“I am absolutely not bringing an accountant,” I tell Mrs. Kershaw, who believes no woman’s social life is complete without someone to discuss deductions with. “Tonight I’m supervising five-year-olds with glow sticks.”
“Bring the accountant next time,” she says. “Men who can balance a ledger are God’s gift.”
“Is there a verse for that?”
“Proverbs.” She winks. “Probably.”
I laugh and wipe a smear of frosting off my wrist. The square hums—vendors calling, kids squealing, a fiddler testingnotes under the gazebo. Across the way, a stack of hay bales looms behind the parade float staging area, bound with twine, a cheerful backdrop for the “Valor Springs Welcomes You” banner. A teenager on a ladder yanks at the banner’s cord. It sticks. He yanks harder. The cord gives. So does the stack.
Time does a weird, syrupy slow.
The top bale tips. The stack shivers. The ladder wobbles.
I don’t think. I move.
“Hey—” I lunge toward the kid as the top bale lets go— an arm bands around my waist and yanks me back, hard. I spin into a chest I already know is unreasonably capable. The bale slams to the ground where my toes were, bursting in a puff of golden chaos. The ladder clatters. The kid squawks, hopping down like a caffeinated cricket.
“You all right?” Jack’s breath brushes my temple, steady and unruffled, like he didn’t just pull me out from under potential hay doom.
“I—yes,” I pant, adrenaline fizzing. “Ten out of ten. Would recommend not being pancaked.”
He releases me slowly, palms skimming my sides with a care that makes my skin go hot and my brain gooh. “You always run toward falling objects?”
