Page 89 of Someone to Hold

“I heard that. We’re counting on the hail cloth to protect the flowers from the worst of it.” My throat feels suddenly dry, and not from thoughts of the impending storm. There’s an unsettled feeling in my chest, like I’m missing something important about the man I’ve been sharing my bed with.

My kids are lounging on the sofa watching a movie when I stop in at the house to check on them before doing what I can to finish getting the property storm ready. They look content and comfortable, like this is exactly where they belong.

“I’m going to designate this as an official slow Sunday,” I tell them.

“Does that mean we can watch all the TV we want?” Laurel asks hopefully. “All the shows and no chores?”

“Maybe not all the shows,” I answer, wrinkling my nose. “But definitely no chores. Let’s ask Chase if he’ll drive us into town for pizza after the rain passes.”

“And ice cream,” Laurel adds quickly.

I smile at that. Someone inherited my sweet tooth. “As many scoops as you want.”

“I want twelve,” my daughter announces. “Or maybe two,” she amends when I raise a brow.

“Mommy, are you going to have a slow Sunday?” Luke asks.

The hope in his voice makes my chest feel tight. I don’t regret working so hard, but sometimes I just want to be their mom, not the woman always rushing to get everything done. “I need to makesure everything’s buttoned with the weather heading our way, but then I will.”

“You used to like bubble baths before we moved in with Nana,” my daughter reminds me.

“You’re right, sweetheart. My Sunday night treat afteronescoop…” I hold up a finger. “Will be a bubble bath.”

“I really want to stay here.” Laurel flashes her new gap-toothed smile.

Luke sits up a little straighter. “Me too.”

“Me three,” I make my voice light, as if the thought of our future hasn’t been weighing on me. “I’m meeting with someone from the bank next week to discuss?—”

The blare of several sharp horn honks in a row cuts through my words. Even before I look out the front window to the man climbing out of the beat-up pickup, I know the visitor isn’t someone I want here.

“Get your ass out here, Chase!” Malcolm Calhoun shouts, looking between the Airstream and the house. “You think you can ignore me? Is that how I raised you?”

“Mommy, what’s going on?”

“Stay here,” I tell my kids as I walk out the front door.

Chase is already jogging toward his father. “Go away, old man,” he says, his voice so cold it’s like a glacier just slid across the property.

“Not until you explain what the hell you think you’re doing.”

“What I’m doing is no business of yours.”

“It’s okay, Molly,” Chase says, meeting my gaze over his father’s shoulder. “He’s leaving.”

“The fuck I am,” his dad snaps, then turns to me. “Does your mother-in-law know you’re shacking up with my son?”

Normally, the kind of rage radiating from Malcolm would send me into a fit of stuttering and stammering to explain myself. Even though I’m still working on being an advocate for myself, I have no problem using my voice to defend Chase.

“Actually, she arranged it, and you aren’t welcome here, Mr. Calhoun.”

He blinks a few times, as if he expected me to cower in the face of his bluster.

“I won’t be long,” he tells me, then turns back to his son. “Why aren’t you signed up for the rodeo? It’s your chance to prove to everyone you’ve still got it.”

“I’m not interested, and I’ve got nothing to prove,” Chase says. His voice is calm, but I hear the edge of temper—and something more—lacing his tone.

“I wasn’t making a request,” his father says. “I’m telling you. Get your ass on that entry sheet.”