Closer than it was an hour ago.
Clint glances at the clouds, jaw working. “We should head back soon. Don’t want the cattle spooked.”
Sawyer nods. “And the horses were restless this morning.”
“Everything’s restless today,” I murmur.
Except maybe Jesse, who’s currently trying to coax a cupcake out of his kid’s hand without getting frosting on his shirt. He fails immediately.
Dakota notices my stare and follows it.
“He is… chaotic,” she says fondly.
“Chaotic” is one word for Jesse. “Menace” is another. “Sunshine personified” is a third.
He’s the kind of man who doesn’t understand how much light he throws on other people’s shadows.
Dakota is mid-sentence when Sawyer’s gaze flicks toward the walkway leading from the church steps.
“Oh,” he says softly. “There’s Abilene.”
Her name hits my chest before I even turn.
And then I do, and my breath catches.
Abilene Kentwood stands at the edge of the lawn with the look of someone who accidentally wandered into the wrong universe and is too polite to say so.
She’s holding a glass casserole dish in both hands as a shield, shoulders slightly hunched, chin tucked just enough that the brim of her sunhat shadows her freckles.
Her soft blue dress sways around her calves when the wind nudges it, and her braid, always perfectly neat in the morning, has come loose at the sides, little wisps of golden hair curling against her cheeks.
She must have fought with her courage in the car for ten full minutes before getting out.
And won by half an inch.
Her eyes flick nervously over the crowd, scanning faces, calculating the quickest route to a table where she can set her casserole down and retreat. She edges forward a few tentative steps, trying not to draw attention but somehow doing the exact opposite.
People part for her without even realizing they’re doing it, as if the world softens around her, clearing a path.
“Poor thing looks like she wants to evaporate,” Dakota murmurs, smiling gently.
Yeah. She does.
And then, because this town has terrible timing, someone’s dog barrels past her, barking at a kid with a hot dog. Abilene startles so hard she nearly drops her dish, juggling it with a quiet gasp.
I feel myself about to move.
But then she steadies the glass against her stomach with a soft exhale of relief. No one else even notices.
But I do. I notice everything.
The faint tremble in her fingers.
The way she whispers something to herself, like a little pep talk.
The pink already rising on her cheeks when she realizes she’s standing in the way of the Mercer family trying to get to the lemonade table.
She steps aside too quickly, almost trips, recovers, and gives a tiny apologetic smile she doesn’t actually owe anyone.
