Page 63 of The County Line
The preacher approaches, offering me a warm smile and an outstretched hand. My family’s never been religious, but this is Whitewood Creek—everyone knows everyone. I know he’s seen me helping out at the community center with Lydia and I’m sure he’s heard about my past.
“Good to see you here today, Colt,” he says with an easy smile.
He’s a tall man who looks like he’s in his early fifties with a strong build. I can feel the strength behind him when he shakes my hand, and it surprise me. He’s nothing like the meek and mild preachers who used to come to the prison to witness to us heathens. We’d joke that if they wanted to get through to us, they’d need a few more tattoos and some actual understanding of the hell we were living through.
My other arm stays curled protectively around Molly, shielding her from the lingering stares of the few attendees who haven’t yet left. Strangers, most of them. Strangers to Maverick, strangers to Molly. It almost makes it worse that so many strangers are here. I think I would’ve preferred it to be just us. A private goodbye for a man who, despite everything, deserved something better than this.
“Maverick was a close friend of mine growing up,” I tell him.
He nods. “I’m sorry for your loss. Wish I’d had the opportunity to know him. I can tell he was loved and will be dearly missed.”
I fight the urge to scoff considering there’s hardly anyone here but he’s not wrong. He was loved, and he will be missed.
Even if it’s just by Molly and me.
Regan and Cash each pull us in for a hug, their eyes flicking between us, full of quiet concern. They’ve always known Maverick and Molly were close to me—we practically grew up tangled together—but I can tell they sense something deepernow. Something more by the way Molly’s clinging to me like I’m the only thing keeping her here. And they’d be right. I have no intention of hiding it anymore. Molly’s mine as much as I’m hers.
Still, now’s not the time to talk to them about what my plans are for her.
“We’ll see you back at the house?” Regan murmurs, her voice meant for both of us.
Molly nods, and Cash squeezes my shoulder in that way he does—steady and solid, like he’s saying he’s here without needing the words.
“I gotta get back to the egg farm, but I’ll check in on the distillery for you, too. Take it easy, okay?”
“Alright,” I rasp out, still feeling completely empty and unsure where to go from here.
So, I guide Molly to my truck, lift her up and place her carefully in the cab before closing the door and sliding in on the driver’s side.
“Where do you want me to take you?” I ask.
It’s a silly question, given she’s been staying in my bedroom for the past three nights on account of her duplex still being on quarantine, but I don’t know if she wants to be around me right now. I wouldn’t necessarily choose to be around an emotionless, ex-con who didn’t push harder to find and protect her brother either. The guy who can’t give her the emotional support and love that I’m sure she needs right now. Hell, I haven’t even cried since Molly got the news of Mav’s passing. It feels like the sadness and disappointment is there, but it’s all covered up by blinding rage.
She stares straight ahead out the windshield, unblinking.
“Let’s go to the creek,” she finally murmurs, and I think that sounds like exactly what Maverick would want us to do.
Ten minutes later, we’re back at my property pulling up to my plot of land. The storm spared the work I’ve done so far on the house I’m building, but it’s still a long way from livable. The siding’s up, the foundation’s set, and the rooms are framed, but there’s no roof, no windows. Just an empty shell of what it’ll eventually become.
I park the truck, stepping out quickly to circle around and help Molly out. She moves stiffly, her eyes unfocused, her silence heavy. Without a word, she walks straight ahead, heading for the water.
I let her go, giving her space as I duck into the RV to grab two blankets and an umbrella. The rain has slowed to a drizzle now, and faint rays of sunlight are starting to break through the clouds. It feels like an insult—like the universe is mocking us by showing up just a little too late, after Maverick’s already six feet under.
When I reach the bank, Molly’s standing at the edge, watching the water churn and crash as it makes its way down the mountain. Whitewood Creek is less a creek and more a river this time of year, swollen from weeks of rain and the lake that feeds it. The current roars as it cuts through the land, loud enough to drown out my thoughts.
I drape one blanket on the ground and the other over her shoulders before sitting down on the damp ground beside her and pulling her into my side. She doesn’t resist as I tuck her closer, holding the umbrella steady over her head.
For a while, I just let her sit there, folded into the quiet while I wrestle with what the hell to say. I want to be what she needs—but whatdoessomeone need after learning the only person whoever truly looked out for them is gone? The same person she hasn’t spoken to in ten years, despite all the calls and messages she’s sent since coming back to town.
Sometimes, I think silence is the kindest thing you can offer someone—space to process, to breathe. I know it’s what I wanted when I first got home from prison.
But Molly doesn’t look like she wants quiet right now. She looks like she wants to talk.
“I hate him,” she says breaking the silence.
I chuckle. “You don’t hate your brother.”
She shakes her head. “I know. But I’m still really mad at him.”
