Page 25 of The County Line (Whitewood Creek Farm #2)

Thirty minutes later, Molly and I are sunk deep into two old Adirondack chairs around the fire pit, the warm blaze between us throwing flickering shadows over her face.

The sky’s gone full indigo, stars just beginning to poke through the edges of the horizon, and the air’s taken on the crisp bite of early spring.

April or not, these nights still carry a chill, so I handed her one of the fleece blankets from my RV. She’s got it wrapped tight around her shoulders, pulled up to her chin, her knees tucked under herself like she’s always been at home and comfortable here.

I stayed in just my t-shirt and jeans, the heat from the fire and the energy buzzing under my skin are enough to keep me warm.

Our roasting sticks angle over the flames, hot dogs slowly spinning as we talk.

Or more accurately, as she talks, and I listen because I could listen to Molly ramble on about anything these days.

Her voice is easy, animated, full of that familiar energy that always made her feel like the sun in whatever room she walked into.

She’s telling me about the cases she’s been assigned since starting her new role as the city’s youngest parole officer.

She probably shares more than she should—details about parolees, schedules, violations, decisions that don’t seem easy to make—but I don’t stop her.

I just let her keep going, let her words wash over me and settle deep in the quiet parts of my chest I didn’t know were still aching.

It doesn’t feel like ten years have passed. It doesn’t even feel like ten minutes. It’s just… us. Me and Molly. The way it always used to be.

Except now, there’s something heavier curled between us. Something charged. The pull between us isn’t new, but it’s sharper now. Grown up. Grown deeper. It hums underneath every glance, every pause in the conversation, every flicker of the firelight that dances across her face.

And I know she feels it too—because sometimes her voice catches for just a second when our eyes meet, like her body’s aware of mine before her brain can catch up. Like she remembers that night in the bar and what we did and wonders if it’ll happen again.

Since I got out, she’s been the only person I’ve spent real time with who isn’t blood. And the truth is—I don’t want my time taken up by anyone else. Not now. Maybe not ever. These days she’s the only person I want to talk to.

When the conversation slows and she shifts to get more comfortable, I take a second to study her in the glow.

There’s something different about the way she holds herself now.

Still bold, still fierce as hell—but with something weightier in her eyes.

Like she’s seen too much. Like she’s carrying more than she lets on.

I find myself wanting to know all of it.

So ,I clear my throat and ask softly, “What was it like… when you left after graduation?”

Her gaze lifts to mine. The fire crackles between us, and the moment stretches for a few seconds.

Because I don’t just want to know where she’s been.

I want to understand the woman she’s become.

The one I can’t stop watching. The one who might be the only person who makes me feel like the man I’m still figuring out how to be.

She takes a bite out of her food and chews carefully before responding.

“I took a bus, bent on making it to California to apply for the Los Angeles Police Department, but could only make it as far as Louisiana before the cash ran out. Ended up in Baton Rouge during Mardi-Gras and decided that I loved the energy of the city and the people there.”

She dabs her lips on a napkin before continuing.

“I enrolled in the police academy, got a sign on bonus that was large enough to rent a small apartment with another fresh cadet and a few months later, signed on to the force. I loved it. I loved the city, the energy, the precinct, truly everything about New Orleans spoke to my soul. It felt like I could have a real home there. A fresh start.”

She sighs softly. “One of the first officers I shadowed out in the field was a more senior officer named Jordan.”

I nod, encouraging her to continue, because I get the feeling this is the guy she ended up marrying.

“He kind of took me under my wing and showed me the ropes of not just my job, but the city. He showed me all the fun places to hang out and taught me the unspoken rules of the department that other rookies didn’t now.

He showed a special interest in my career and at first, I didn’t look at him as anything more than a mentor.

We didn’t work together often after that but one day he asked me out and when I said no at first, he began courting me relentlessly until I finally agreed to one date. ”

“Hm…” I hum, watching the way her body tenses up when she speaks about him. “Then what happened?”

“We got married after just three months of dating,” she begins, her voice steady but distant, like she’s recounting someone else’s life.

“And for a while, things were... okay. At least, I thought they were. A few years into our marriage, I found out he wasn’t being faithful—and not just once.

Half the department knew about it and covered for him.

All the people I’d come to trust, and respect had been lying straight to my face for a very long time and I had no idea. ”

She pauses, her jaw tightening. “He got put on administrative leave because a few of the other female officers I worked with were involved and it was disrupting duty. Instead of taking responsibility, he blamed me. Said I was the reason his career was falling apart. He was so wrapped up in his job that he couldn’t separate who he was as a person and a husband from what he did while wearing a badge.

I realized quickly I’d always be seen as an outsider to them, no matter how much I tried to prove myself or point out that he was the one who’d been in the wrong. ”

She hesitates, her gaze flickering away, and I brace myself. Whatever’s coming next, I already know I’m not going to like it.

“And then... he put his hands on me,” she says, her voice quieter now but no less powerful.

“It was just one time. He apologized and I forgave him because it was so shocking, so completely out of his character. But then it happened again. The second time he told me if I left, he’d ruin me.

That he’d make sure I never worked in law enforcement again.

But it hit me that if I stayed, he was going to ruin me anyway.

So, I took my chances and left after that time.

Moved to Georgia and hid out working case management until things were finalized. ”

She shrugs, but it’s the kind of shrug that carries years of pain. As if she’s trying to diminish the weight of what she went through even though I can see it etched in the set of her shoulders and the tension in her jaw.

This isn’t a light story. This is heavy with dark parts that I can see have been etched into who she’s become like physical scars. My fists clench at my sides, and my fingers itch to do something—anything—to make that bastard pay for the way he took advantage of her innocence. How he hurt her.

“I’m sorry, Molly,” I say, my voice rough with anger. “I had no idea that’s the situation you were living in while away. Maverick never mentioned it.”

She gives me a small, tight smile, more resignation than warmth.

“I hid it from everyone for a long time. I was embarrassed. Mortified, really. Not just because of him, but because everyone at the station knew what he was doing and didn’t say anything or tell him to stop.

He wasn’t discreet about it, and no one told me.

No one cared. They were too busy protecting their own, and I wasn’t part of that.

Even after almost ten years on the force, I realized I would never be viewed as one of them. ”

She snorts softly, an edge of bitterness creeping into her tone, then takes the last bite of her hot dog, washing it down with a gulp of soda.

“Must have been hard to continue to put on the badge every morning,” I respond.

She nods. “Yeah, it was, for a while. But I told myself it was the right thing to do. That I’d be different despite everything.

That they needed good people working there and if I left, they’d have no one who actually cared.

” She sighs. “Our divorce was finalized a little over a month ago. I spent the time waiting for it to be complete living in a suburb outside of Atlanta trying to rebuild my life. But I couldn’t find my footing there.

I didn’t feel at home. I thought maybe coming back here would help me finally start again.

” She pauses, glancing at the firelight flickering between us.

“Despite my dad’s... less-than-stellar reputation in this town, Whitewood Creek has always felt like home. ”

I nod because I understand. Despite everything—my ruined reputation, the whispers, and the rumors about what really went down that night outside of Krissy’s bar—the people in this town still support my family’s businesses.

They believe in me, even though the full truth of what happened that day never made it into the public.

The former sheriff and mayor worked overtime to make sure of that, running a smear campaign to bury the facts.

But I’ve learned with time that I don’t have to prove myself to anyone. The people who matter? They already know the truth of who I am at the core.

Her words hang heavy in the air, and all I can think about is how badly I want to make sure this place, this town, and her future, feel safe and whole for her again. Because I want her to stay. I don’t want her to feel like she has to run again to start over.

“And how are you feeling about being back so far?” I ask her.