shame and a few other deep-set emotions threatened to rise up. Garret would never dance with her, and the only person she could completely blame—besides Jim—was herself.
The music ended and thirsty dancers arrived. Rory became so busy making small talk, smiling and pretending the world was a wonderful place, she nearly tipped the punch bowl when someone reached around her from behind and set down four clean cups.
Keeping her composure wasn’t easy or fun, but she did so, even managed to thank Garret as he kept her supplied with clean cups until the mad rush was over. Then she used a few more minutes to calm her nerves by lifting several jars from the basket beneath the table.
Garret picked one up, opened the lid and handed it to her to pour into the bowl. “What’s in these?”
“Fruit juices,” she answered, accepting another jar he’d opened. “I use the pulp for jam and save the juice for punch. I mixed it with sugar and apple cider at home.”
There wasn’t much space between the makeshift shelf holding her washing tubs and the table of punch and cups, and he filled a good three quarters of that area, leaving her little room and even less air to breath.
All three of the McCoy men were hard workers, gone from the house when she arrived and not home until long after she’d left, taking care of their cattle, plowing or planting fields and rounding up the wild mustangs. Although Garret had gone to law school, he much preferred rounding up and selling mustangs.
Their mother was proud of all three of her sons, told Rory that all the time, but it was the oldest, Garret, who Abigail depended on the most. Had done ever since their father had died a few years ago, and that was why he was the one Rory insisted stay behind rather than joining his brothers on the cattle drive to Dodge. The brothers wouldn’t be gone long, only a few weeks, but Rory didn’t feel it was safe for Abigail to be alone even that length of time.
“You’ve been assigned to stand guard,” he whispered, “make sure no one adds anything else, haven’t you?”
His teasing grin was almost her breaking point. He knew the townsfolk well. The women who insisted someone was in charge of just such a thing and the men who continuously tried to catch the punch bowl unattended. She knew the townsfolk, and she knew him. As well as his past, something no one dared mention, and his egg-stealing charm wouldn’t work on her.
“Thank you,” Rory said after she’d emptied the last jar he’d handed her, “for all of your help, but I’m fine by myself. You can leave now.” Becoming more nervous by the second, afraid he wouldn’t leave, she filled a cup and handed it to him. “Here, take this to your mother. I’m sure she’s thirsty.”
His gaze lingered on the cup before coming up to meet hers, at which point her hand started to shake. He took the cup and skirted his way around the table. Rory wanted to collapse at his departure. If only her past had remained buried on the other side of the state line.
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