Page 5 of Someone to Hold
Silence doesn’t bother me, but it’s hard to tell whether she’s planning to stay quiet until after Luke and Laurel are on their way or because the exertion is catching up with her. She seems to be slowing with every step. I’ve done a couple of stints on crutches over the years. It sucks. No judgment here.
“Mommy, I hear the bus,” Laurel shouts over her shoulder. “We need to hurry, or we’re gonna miss it.”
“I’m coming,” Molly answers, sounding winded. And despite the cool morning breeze, I can see a sheen of sweat across her brow. “You guys go ahead. I’ll be there.”
“Mommy, faster.” Luke turns back with an anxious look that says he needs his whole family moving together to feel safe.
Molly lets out a little whimper of protest, and the sound hits me straight in the damn feels. I’ve never been one to play the white knight, but this woman has been through more than her share of shit. I don’t know where the irresistible urge to take care of her comes from but can’t deny it.
“Race you to the end of the driveway,” I tell the kids as I take off at a sprint.
After a moment’s hesitation, they start running along with me. I expect Laurel to keep up, but I’m pretty damn shocked when Luke outpaces us both. Granted, I’m running in cowboy boots and not exactly in my cardio era. My leg, which was broken in three places thanks to Black Tornado crushing it, still protests, but I ignore it.
“Well done, Speed Racer,” I tell the boy as the bus pulls to a stop in front of the mailbox.
He shoots me a glare that’s about as friendly as how his mom looks at me. “You won’t be here when we get home from school, right?”
I let my shoulders lift and lower, trying to catch my breath. “I guess we’ll have to see.”
“Can you fix the sink before you go?” Laurel asks quietly, glancing around me. Her feathery brows draw together with the worry of a kid who’s seen her mother struggle with too many broken things and not enough help.
“Yeah,” I promise. I don’t know that Molly will let me stick around long enough for that, but I’m going to give it my best shot.
I lift a hand in greeting to the bus driver, who, judging by his age, could have been assigned to this route back when kids still rode to school in horse-drawn carriages.
Both kids wave from their seats as the bus pulls away, but they’re not looking at me. I wait until it’s almost out of sight before I turn, expecting to see Molly right there.
Only she’s on her way back to the house, struggling more obviously now, the crutches catching every few steps on the uneven ground.
I jog past her and then pivot to block her way. “We need to talk.”
She licks her lips, and the sight of that pink tongue—well, it does things to my insides. Things I have no business thinking about given who I am, and more importantly, who she is.
“I need to get back to the house,” she says, adjusting the crutch under her right arm. It looks like she’s working hard not to wince.
“Give me those,” I say, holding out a hand.
“I don’t want your help.”
“I get it. You don’t want anything from me. But I can’t just watch you struggle and sweat when it doesn’t need to be that way.”
She lifts one of the crutches and points it in my direction. “Do you have a problem with sweaty women?”
I blink. How the fuck am I supposed to answer that question? Honestly, I guess, because before I can stop my mouth from saying it, my brain spits out, “I’ve had some of the best times of my life with sweaty women.”
And that level of truthfulness knocks Molly McAllister on her ass—literally.
It could also be the fact that she drops the first crutch, bobbles the second, and before I can grab her, she lands with a yelp on the gravel. A cloud of dust swirls around her, and she starts blinking hard, like she’s trying not to cry.
We’ve established that I’m not a prince among men, but I do my level best not to make women cry. I grab both crutches, then hold out a hand. She shies away from it the way my horse would if there was a rattlesnake on the path in front of us.
“Come on, Molly. I understand you have zero reasons to like me.”
“More like I’ve got several reasons not to,” she clarifies, still staring at my outstretched hand.
“Not debating that, but give me a tiny break here. I hate to think that Teddy’s watching from the great beyond and seeing me let his wife—the mother of his children—wallow in the dirt. He’d want me to help you.”
“As if I have time for wallowing,” she mutters. It’s soft, but there’s an edge to it. “Despite your opinion of me back in the day, Teddy would know I can take care of myself. He certainly left me alone often enough to get good at it. So I’d appreciate it if you lay those crutches on the ground and head back to your truck.”
