Page 36 of The County Line (Whitewood Creek Farm #2)

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 what does someone need after learning the only person who ever 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.”

“That’s alright. I think he deserves that.”

She bites down on the corner of her cheek, thinking through her next move. She looks so beautiful like this. A little tortured like she always has. A lot scrappy. And a lot like my friend. The woman who knows me better than any woman ever has.

She’s going to be alright. She’s going to get through this just like she always has.

I nudge her shoulder with the cup of tea I brewed inside my RV when I was grabbing the blankets.

I’ve never been a great boyfriend, but I’ve always considered myself a good friend.

And friend I can do for her. Because she deserves more from a boyfriend than I can offer.

So here I am, brewing her tea and holding her close.

Letting her get out her justified anger and pain.

She looks down at it for a moment. Her cheeks have dried from the tears she shed at the funeral but when she looks back up at me, her eyes are wet again, and two fat drops fall onto her red streaked face.

“I’m sorry?” I ask because I’m totally out of my depth here and I don’t know why tea is making her sad.

She shakes her head, the tears catching in her long, dark lashes.

“I just… you’re a really sweet guy, you know that, right?”

Sweet guy…

Can’t say any of my exes have ever said that. I’ve been loyal, sure, and I’ve been good. But like I said, never been into the whole emotional connection thing even before getting sent to prison. Prison just made it worse.

Maybe it’s because the other women I dated were all temporary and I never saw a future with them. Maybe it’s because they weren’t Molly. The one woman who can crack me open and get me to feel emotions I haven’t felt in years. The one who’s always been my friend first.

She takes the tea, wrapping it around her fingers daintily then sniffs. “Mm… peppermint.”

“It’s all I had.”

She smiles and takes a long sip before letting out a soft, “Ah. It’s perfect. Thank you.”

We’re silent again, just the rushing of the water passing close to our feet as we stare out over the creek.

“Do you think Maverick knew I had a crush on you when we were younger?” she asks softly.

I snort. “You had a crush on me ?”

She turns those blue eyes on me, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Oh, come on. Like you couldn’t tell.” Her gaze is softer now, a little less wrecked, and I can see she’s trying to hold on to some good memories with him so, I give her that.

“I’m not sure,” I say honestly as my fingers tug on a strand of her silky hair and then tuck it behind her ear. “If he did, he never said anything to me.”

But then a memory surfaces—uninvited and sharp.

Right before I was sent away, Mav and I were working a late shift at the distillery.

It was stupid hot inside because of the brewing even though it was February, and Cash had refused to turn on the AC despite us sweating our asses off.

The whole place felt like it was a sauna.

Mav’s shirt was soaked through, clinging to him as he bitched about some woman who ghosted him that he went on a date with last week. And then, out of nowhere, he’d looked me dead in the eye and said, whatever happens to me, you better always look out for Molly.

Fuck. Whether he knew she had feelings for me—or that I had them for her—we never said it out loud and I never thought anything would come of them. He didn’t need to tell me to protect her. I was always going to do it because I cared about her.

Molly studies me like she’s trying to peel the thoughts straight out of my head. Then, just like that, she throws me off again.

“So, why won’t you have sex with me?”