His Small-Town Girl
Lacy Williams
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Coming soon!
Exclusive invitation
Also by Lacy Williams
1
Mackie was punishing Cord from the grave.
Even after a decade away, everything on the ranch reminded him of Grandma Mackie's cruelty and indifference. The dilapidated state of the barn reflected the same neglect she'd shown to two young brothers reeling from the loss of their parents.
He'd been thirteen, a kid with a hole blown in his heart, and his brother West in tow. Mackie had worked him to the bone for five years, until he'd graduated and escaped to Houston.
Ten years later, he was back and doing dirty, backbreaking work. Mackie had left old hay bales in the barn so long that they'd started to decompose and turn back into earth. Cord was hauling out the rich, dark compost with the wheelbarrow and pitching it in to his truck bed. He'd spread it on the south field, where she'd planted wheat for so many years that the red dust that was left had been leeched of all nutrients. The barn itself already looked like a strong wind could blow it over, but it would show better when it was empty and ready for a few horses.
When he sold this place, he would have the last laugh.
Mackie had finally drunk herself to death. Maybe she'd smiled on her deathbed, imagining the mess she was leaving him to clean up. The house was in almost as bad shape as the barn. Shingles missing, paint faded.
He could fix all of that. He was a general contractor, and he'd always been good with tools. And he had four weeks until he had to be back in Houston to bid the Howard job.
He was going to laugh himself to the bank once he got this place cleaned up a little. And he was past caring if the bank staff in town gave him the cold shoulder. Good old Sutter's Hollow. Memories longer than an elephant’s.
Good riddance. He was gonna pocket the cash from selling this place and knock the dust off his boots.
He managed to miss the funeral, thanks to a phone number change after he'd left town. Probably for the best, because he wouldn’t grieve for the woman. He'd been on the ranch for two days, cataloging every repair. It was a long list. Maybe too long. He was supposed to meet with the attorney tomorrow.
He grunted as he flipped a shovel-full of the compost into his truck bed. He had to stop and tug up the collar of his lined coat. A bitter January wind was blowing across the Texas plain today, though the forecast had called for mild weather.
Tomorrow he'd stop by the local hardware store and see about getting some supplies to shore up the barn. The structure creaked and groaned as if it might blow away with a good strong wind. He wasn't going to rebuild the thing, but with a few replaced studs, it could be useful again. As long as he could do the work fast. The last thing he needed was to stick around Sutter's Hollow long enough to feel the same suffocating pressure he'd felt during high school.
Hound Dog—ironically named, as he was at least half Border Collie—gave a low woof from where he lay in the grass next to Cord's truck.
Cord followed the dog's line of sight. What the—?
Someone was walking up the cow path.
The barn was out of sight of the house, down a small incline and sheltered by a line of oaks and cedars, half hidden behind a jumble of dilapidated old tractors. Neighbors would've known to drive down from the house.
Not that any neighbor was going to check on him, even if the barn burnt down. Not after what had happened with Noah, not after they’d run both Cord and his friend Callum out of town.
So who was this?
It was a slip of a girl. Couldn't be more than eighteen. Maybe nineteen. Her hair was pulled back from her face and tied in a tail. She wasn't wearing makeup, from what he could tell, and her fresh-faced, youthful mien made him feel ancient. He was ancient compared to her. Ten years her senior. Or more.
She wore jeans and a faded denim jacket over her pink T-shirt. Boots, worn in and stained from work.
He'd been away from Sutter's Hollow too long to recognize a kid like her.
Hound Dog stood up but didn't bristle. He wandered toward the stranger, offering a slow wag.
Cord opened his mouth to warn her off, but she'd already knelt in the grass and patted her thigh, giving the dog a wordless invitation.
And Hound walked right up to her, sniffed the hand she extended. The dog acquiesced to her scratching under its chin and, when the girl stroked his chest, his tail turned into a tornado of wagging. He pushed forward, nudging his whole body into the girl and giving a joyful bark.
It had taken a good forty-eight hours for the dog to stop growling at Cord, and that only because Cord was feeding him twice a day.
The girl stood, wiping her hands against her thighs. When she stood and approached Cord, Hound stuck to her side, his tongue lolling happily.
"Help you?" he asked, when what he really wanted to grunt was no trespassing.
Grandma Mackie's signs might be faded, but they were still readable. And applicable.
"I'm Molly." She stuck out her hand.
He didn’t offer his in return, but it seemed the girl couldn't take a hint.
* * *
Molly English wasn't going to let the rancher intimidate her.
Even if he was three decades younger than she'd expected.
She kept her arm outstretched, kept her smile fixed in place, even though it meant clamping down on her back teeth. Hopefully, he wouldn't notice the tremble in her hand.
She needed this job. Badly.
She'd escaped. Now she needed a place to land.
Somehow, she was going to convince him to give her the job.
"It's Mr. Coulter, right?" she asked, when he still hadn't responded.
He winced. "It's Cord."
Finally, finally, he took off one leather work glove and shook her hand. His was cool and chapped. Like hers.
"I'm here about the job," she said.
The angle of the afternoon sun meant his hat was shading his face. His expression was inscrutable.
"The hired hand," she went on. She didn't see a line of applicants, so that gave her a little confidence boost. She pulled her own pair of work gloves out of the back pockets of her jeans, and they flopped over her hand as she motioned to the barn. "We're doing some cleaning?"
He held out one arm before she could start toward the barn. "We're not doing anything." He shook his head. "I think you've got the wrong place. I'm not hiring."
Her smile faltered, but she wasn't giving up. Couldn't.
She put on her sweetest smile, the one that had always worked on Mama. At least when Molly was little. "I might not look it, but I can carry my own weight. More than."
He shook his head, his eyes shuttered. She was losing her chance. The fear boiling in her belly made her blurt, "Gender discrimination is illegal, you know. And unethical."
He huffed out a disbelieving laugh. "I'm not discriminating. I don't need a hired hand."
Really? The barn listed to one side, its boards so bleached they were more white than gray. The far field was overgrown, no sign of winter wheat green shoots. And the barbed wire fence running nearby was badly mended. Get one horse or cow to
lean on it, and the whole fence line would fall.
He obviously needed help.
He just didn't want hers.
That wasn't going to deter her. She set an expectant gaze on him.
His hands went to his hips. "Let me rephrase. I can't afford hired help."
Yeah, right. "Then why'd you post that flyer? At the superstore. On the community bulletin board...?" She went on when he just stared at her blankly.
"I didn't post any flyer."
She growled under her breath and dug in her front pocket to pull out the burner phone. She pulled up the photo she'd snapped, the red flyer against the bulletin board, and turned the phone in his direction.
He took it reluctantly and stared at it, his expression registering disbelief and then a quickly-banked anger.
"That is your address, isn't it?" she asked.
His mouth was drawn in a tight line. "I don't know who made that, but it wasn't me. I really can't afford to hire anyone."
He handed her the phone back, and the tightness of his expression hadn't lightened. He wasn't joking.
Oh.
Oh.
Snot nuggets.
She clamped her trembling lips together and let her eyes roam as she blinked back threatening tears.
Sure the place was rough, but... the little pond off in the distance was nice. The cattle would have water year-round. Somebody'd obviously built the place with care. With the gently rolling hills... Someone would get a nice view of the sunrise every morning during chores.
The No Name ranch would've been the perfect place for her to hide.
The rancher scratched his forehead beneath his hat. His glove left a streak of soot across his skin.
She should go. She was turning to do just that when he asked, "Where'd you come from, anyway?"
She didn't owe him an answer but... "My truck gave up the ghost in your drive." She'd gotten halfway down the winding drive toward the drab ranch house when the old Chevy had sputtered and died. It'd been a long time coming. She'd just hoped to be settled before it had.
Now what was she supposed to do?
She didn't wait for the rancher to tell her. He wasn't going to be a bit of help.
She was on her own. Still.
* * *
She was joking. Had to be.
My truck gave up the ghost in your drive.
Hound had followed the girl half the distance up the hill to the house before Cord whistled him back.
The dog stopped in its tracks. Looked back to Cord. He could almost see him thinking it over. Follow the girl, or stay with his meal-provider?
Cord won out, but it was a near thing. Hound settled back in the grass near the truck, looking longingly back toward the house. After the girl.
He didn’t feel guilty about sending her away. Couldn’t afford to.
A cold wind blew dust and bits of hay into his face. He gritted his teeth against it as he returned to the barn. One more wheelbarrow of rotten hay. His shoulders were aching with the strain.
Molly.
What kind of name was that anyway? Molly.
Not a hired hand's name.
Cord's mind whirled as he tried to make sense of it all. Something had spooked the girl. She was hiding it well, but he'd had years of looking in the mirror after one of Mackie's tirades. Even an award-winning actress wouldn't be able to fool him. He’d seen the bleakness in her eyes when he’d insisted he couldn’t afford to hire her.
Could Molly have crafted the poster she'd shown him on her cheap phone? Why would she? She didn't know him from Adam.
Which meant... it must've been someone else in Sutter's Hollow. Who would do it? Why? Whoever it was, had they put up the poster to help him or as some sort of warped punishment?
He'd never gotten help from Sutter's Hollow. Why would he start expecting it now? He never would've asked, never would've posted something like that.
His brain still chugged and spun, trying to figure it out.
Trying to figure her out.
He'd had a handful of girlfriends. Enough to convince him that maybe the tremble of Molly's lips was an act. Trying to manipulate him.
No thanks.
If he'd had a little sister, it might've worked.
But he'd had West, and younger brothers used their fists instead of tears to try and get their way.
Younger brothers left.
He slammed the tailgate on the last load of fertilizer and on the thoughts of his brother. Their relationship was a fracture that was never going to mend.
The winter sky was already darkening. He hated this time of year, working out in the dark. Or being stuck in the house with Grandma Mackie. Except Grandma wasn't there anymore. Just the memories.
He returned the wheelbarrow to the barn. As he parked it, he accidentally kicked over a bale of hay, knocking it from a pile. The hay bale split open at his feet. And left uncovered a barn cat and five mewling kittens. Newborns, judging by their closed eyes and tiny size.
No.
Just... no.
He couldn't handle one more mouth—or six—to care for.
No.
He hightailed it out of the barn. Got in his pickup and turned over the engine. He was going to take this load up to the pasture and spread the fertilizer and then turn in.
Molly, whoever she was, had better be a memory by the time he got there.
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 earli
er. 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."
He had to be kidding. A tow from the little town she'd passed would be expensive.
"Who's gonna come all the way out here tonight?" she asked. "Plus, I'm dead broke."
"Well, you can't stay out here." Was that her imagination, or was there a little bit of the same desperation she felt leaking out of the man.
"It's fifteen miles to Sutter's Hollow," she said. "You want me to walk? In the dark?"
"What about your family?"
"Don't have any." It wasn't a lie. She didn't have any family that would help her.
Even in the dim light from the flashlight, she could see a muscle jumping in his cheek. He ducked his head and mumbled something too low for her to make out.
"Get out of the truck."
She bristled at this order. She wasn't walking down those winding dirt roads in the dark.
"You're not sleeping in your truck. You can stay the night. Tomorrow morning, I'll drive you to town. You're on your own from there. And you better figure out a way to get your truck off my land."
"Really?" She grabbed her backpack and guitar from the passenger floorboard and then juggled both on her lap as she rolled up the crank window. The door made an awful metal creak when she moved to hop out. She caught the cowboy's wince in the dim light from his flashlight.
"That truck is older than you are."
"I know. Ain't it great?" She tried to cover up her nerves by giving the hood an affectionate pat as she shifted her backpack onto her shoulder. Maybe he wouldn't see how white her knuckles were as she clutched her guitar. "She was my mom's. Back before I was born."
His Small-Town Girl Page 1
