Daralyn was planting weather hardy ornamentals and native plants in different colored pots to arrange around the display. She’d even talked about having a fairy garden area, since those had been getting real popular.

  Rory wasn’t so sure they should diversify that much, since the fairy garden stuff wasn’t cheap, even at cost. One of his mom’s friends was into fairy gardens, though, and had offered to do a free class here afterhours, with the attendees covering the cost of their initial supplies. Daralyn had suggested having catalogs available in the store so once they got their projects off the ground, they would order more things for them, without the store having to keep a lot of it in stock.

  Daralyn had also told him she’d handle closing on the night of the class, because she was thinking of starting her own fairy garden in front of her cottage. In short, she liked the fairy garden stuff, which automatically made him more open to the idea.

  And speaking of which, they’d finally gotten a lull, no one else in the store. When Daralyn had arrived after lunch, he’d been busy with customers, and then more had come in, needing her attention. They hadn’t had a moment together alone, but when she met his eyes in that first moment, she’d smiled her shy smile. She was obviously okay after her Dr. Taylor appointment, and the things in her gaze suggested she had more on her mind than that. Good things, the kind occupying his own thoughts.

  He’d been inside her, his mouth on her, her hands on him. And she seemed more than okay with that.

  He thought of her sitting at her kitchen table in his shirt, and knew he’d want to see her again tonight. Maybe do it all over again. But right now he wanted to see her, period, while they could steal a moment.

  “Johnny, is Daralyn still outside?” He called out the question as he swept the cursor across his screen to put the computer to sleep.

  “Yeah, man.” Johnny straightened. Built husky, as a former high school linebacker would be, he had a face full of dark whiskers and looked like a younger cousin of the Duck Dynasty crew. “She was going to move that load of pine straw over to the west side of the building, to make room for more of the girly stuff up front.”

  “What?” Rory’s head snapped up. “How is she moving it?”

  “The smaller tractor, what else? The trailer was already hooked up to it and last week, I showed her how to—”

  He was already around the counter, pushing toward the front door. As he heard the tractor start up, that roar of sound, he went out the door fast, kicking up the front of his chair with a jerk of his upper body so the casters didn’t catch on the stoop. The screen door bounced off the siding.

  “Daralyn.”

  He was downwind, and there was a good breeze. Plus that engine noise swallowed all other sound. She was trundling toward the section Johnny had described, her hands carefully placed on the wheel, her expression focused, attentive on her goal.

  As he turned her way, he pivoted too sharply, a wheel leaving the ground, but he shifted his weight to slam it back down before the chair could tip. His shoulders flexed like rubber bands as he headed her way. It only took moments, but it felt like hours.

  She was making the turn to back the trailer up. When she looked over her opposite shoulder, she saw him. He made a sharp slicing motion with his hand.

  A puzzled look crossed her face. She brought the tractor to a halt and put it on idle, leaning down as he rolled up to her. She obviously thought he was there to give her additional instruction. He sure as hell was.

  "Get off of that thing,” he shouted over the noise. “Right now."

  Her expression was curious, but still relaxed. "It's okay,” she called back. “Johnny told me how to use it. It's just a--"

  "Shut it down. Get the fuck off of it." He needed her off it, right now, and he banged his chair against the side. When he closed his hand around her arm, her startled glance jumped up to his face.

  Of all times for her to get stubborn with him, to trust that fragile thing between them, the promise he’d made her, she went with now. Her chin set.

  "I know how to do this. I can do this."

  "No, you can't. If you don't get your ass off that thing this instant, I swear to God I will blister it so you can't walk for a week."

  Red stained her cheeks as the rest of her flesh around it went pale. He'd tightened his grip, and he realized he was hurting her. With an oath, he let her go, but he dipped down, going for the keys. Since they were just out of his reach, he shoved himself half out of the chair to lunge at them.

  Goddamn it, he hadn't braked the chair. It rolled back as he moved forward.

  He was falling.

  He heard her startled cry as the chair spun off and his elbow slammed into the floor near the brake pedal. The tractor wasn’t going anywhere, but that didn’t matter. The noise this close…

  A fist closed around his whole upper body, driving the rage away and leaving oxygen-deprived terror, her face sucked away as he was left only a pinpoint of light.

  “Shut it off,” he said, but he couldn’t get the words out. His chest had seized up, his throat closing as the rest of his body hit the ground. Everything below the waist collapsed in a disordered heap, the weight of it yanking at his rigid upper body, but his arm kept him hooked against the tractor floor. As she turned off the equipment, everything should have gone silent. But it couldn’t stop the roaring noise of that engine in his head.

  She’d jumped off next to him and he heard Johnny’s feet pounding across the parking lot. Fuck, don’t let anyone come, don’t…

  Too late. A vehicle was entering the parking lot, a pickup. Mac Dublin was calling out the open window, asking if he could help, what had happened…

  Rory’s eyes met Daralyn’s. He had latched onto her again, physically confirming she was off the tractor. He was most definitely not hanging onto her because the thunder in his chest was painful, and clammy sweat covered his shaking body. All he saw were her hazel eyes. Then he heard her voice.

  Not panic stricken by his craziness. Not upset with him. Instead, it was calm and easy as a steady blowing wind over the fields, rustling through the corn just before harvest.

  “He’s just fine, Mr. Dublin. You’re here for your order, aren’t you? Johnny, will you go in and take care of Mr. Dublin? The tools he ordered are labeled in the back. He already paid for them. We’re okay. Please go take care of that.”

  He could only see her, but whatever she’d said, however she’d delivered it, had both men backing off. Whether reluctantly or not, he didn’t know. All he knew was relief that they were gone. And that the roaring was dying away, leaving the quiet of her breath, her voice. A world without that tractor engine noise.

  When it had rolled on him, the engine had stayed on. He’d been pinned under a screaming, hot-breathed monster.

  Her hands were on his shoulders, one slipping down to tuck under his arm. “Can you turn, so we can prop you against a wheel? Is that okay?”

  He wanted to be three counties away from the thing, but he needed to act like a sane person again. Tractor was off, he reminded himself. It was on level, stable ground. He helped her, hauling his weight around to put himself on the cushion of grass next to the back wheel. She helped adjust his legs out in front of him, since his hands were shaking. Then she was squatting on her heels, her eyes worried. He reclaimed her hand, held it too tightly.

  “I don’t want you on a tractor,” he said. “Ever. Understand?”

  She cupped his face, her fingers moving over his jaw, the hammer of his pulse in his throat. She stayed there, stroking, soothing it.

  “Yes, Rory.”

  His gaze moved to the track she’d taken across the lot. Nothing tricky to it, not on its face. But parallel to the area where she had planned to put the pine straw was a drainage ditch. Not a big, deep wide thing, but turn the tractor too far out to back the trailer, and it could dip into that ditch. The whole thing could go over in a somersault that could pitch the driver, land on him. The damn things were so susceptible to rolling if you didn’t pay attention. Like the pond embankment that had flanked the field he’d been tilling, the ground unstable from recent rains…

  “Rory. You’re hurting me.”

  He let out an oath at her quiet words and released her hand. She didn’t try to reassure him with things that wouldn’t have made any difference. She just sat down next to him, shoulder to shoulder, her knees drawn up, her sneaker pressed against his thigh. He dropped his hand so he could cover it. She wasn’t wearing socks, so he could rub his thumb over her ankle, the visible top of her foot, feel her soft flesh.

  “You can feel this, right?”

  When she nodded, it swamped him. It didn’t so much anymore, but in moments like this, it did. The words came out choked.

  “I sure wish I could.”

  Her arms slipped around his shoulders, his head, drawing him down as he used his own arms to hold her hard to him, his forehead and nose pressed to her shoulder and breast. She was breathing slow and even, with little hitches. When moisture hit his temple, he realized she was crying. For him.

  It made him get hold of himself, which meant the embarrassment hit hard. There was a time he would have lashed out because of it, driven everyone away while he pulled his ass together. But he’d learned that wasn’t the way to deal with it. He raised his head, cleared his throat as he brushed a tendril of hair away from her serious face. “Sorry,” he said. “Sorry I yelled at you.”

  “It’s okay. I understand why now. I thought… I thought you didn’t think I could do it.”

  “No. It wasn’t that. You can do anything.” If she told him she could fly, he’d believe it. It was why he worried that, once she figured out how to use those wings, she’d go far beyond where he could reach her.

  He’d had enough of dealing with his fears for one day, though. It was amazing how exhausting five minutes could be. He felt like he needed a three-hour nap. Maybe in that hammock behind his house. Maybe with her lying in his arms. He liked the idea more than the thought of Heaven. Maybe because it sounded like one and the same.

  “I owe you dinner,” he said.

  She slanted him a glance. “Oh?”

  He liked that she didn’t assure him he didn’t. In fact, he thought he caught a glimpse of the kind of look a woman gave a man when she knew she had him on the hook, in the right kind of way.

  Dr. Taylor was right. Today’s session must have gone really well.

  “I could cook for you,” he said.

  She lifted a brow. “You can’t cook.”

  “That is not true. I make a hell of a fried peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

  When she smiled, he tightened his hand on her foot. “So what’s your preference? A nice dinner out, or fried PB and J at my place? Mom has a church thing tonight. She won’t see what a mess I make in the kitchen.”

  He said it as a joke, knowing she’d leave it to him to choose. But she surprised him.

  “PB and J of course.” Her gaze flicked away, then came back to him, and he was lost in those mix of green and gold colors, the hints of blue-grey on the edges, the flecks of black. “Can I kiss you?”

  “Yeah,” he said, his voice thick. “Anytime.”

  Anytime you want.

  She leaned in, her hand sliding along his chest, to his neck, then up, to cradle his jaw again. Did she take that leisurely track because now she knew how much he liked feeling her hands on his upper body? Or did she do it because she liked to do it for her own pleasure? Maybe both. He liked that idea best.

  She shifted, so she was pressed against him as her mouth moved over his. Though she’d asked to kiss him, when their lips met, he felt the giving on her part, the invitation, the craving for him to take. He didn’t need to be invited twice. His hand was on her shoulder and throat, then up to her jaw and covering the rabbiting pulse beneath the heel of his hand as he pulled her across his lap. He held her close as he kissed her, parting her lips, diving deep, teasing her with his tongue.

  His shaking turned into a deep shudder that leveled out, brought him back to himself. From her murmur against his lips, the shift of her body, he was pretty sure he’d started to get an erection. He didn’t know if the life-or-death adrenaline thing could be contributing to that, but he knew holding her on his lap sure did.

  At length, Rory lifted his head. Mac’s truck was gone, and he hadn’t even noticed. Johnny was still in the store. Probably watching them through the windows and snickering, but that was okay. Way better than him worrying about having to come to Rory’s rescue like a guy scooping a flapping, injured bird off the ground.

  Daralyn was fully limp in his arms, her eyes on his, her expression satisfyingly flushed and dazed at once. “Thanks,” he said. “Thanks for always seeing me as a man. No matter what’s happening.”

  Her eyes darkened, and her hand covered his on her face. “I’ve never seen you as anything else.”

  He was ready to get his day back on track, but his body had other ideas. He could push himself through a grueling workout, do a full day at the store, no problem. Yet when something happened like what had gone down with the tractor, no more than freaking ten minutes of his life, the mental exhaustion became a full body clamp. He needed to recharge, and Daralyn and Johnny both noticed. They were shooting him concerned looks, and ping-ponging the same with one another. Like he couldn’t see that.

  Daralyn sidled up to him behind the counter. “It’s been pretty quiet this afternoon,” she said carefully. “You could probably take off if you have other stuff you need to do before dinner.”

  Like a nap. She wouldn’t say it, even if it was as clear in her face as the yearning for it in his head.

  “Like prepping for the NASA summit and curing cancer?” He spoke tightly, so her half-smile in response was nervous. “I’m good. I mean it. It’s okay.”

  She nodded and went back to what she was doing, but he knew he was struggling. He felt warm, a light perspiration on his upper lip. Shit. If he got a fever, that could fuck their plans to head to Florida in the near future.

  A car pulling in drew his attention, but it wasn’t a customer. It was his mother. Goddamn it.

  When he glanced toward Daralyn and saw her and Johnny exchange a significant look, his temper went from spark to full flame.

  “I told you I was fine,” he said sharply.

  Daralyn froze in place where she’d been stocking boxes of nails. Johnny, sharpening a brace of knives, paused and looked his way.

  “When I say I’m fine, I’m fine,” Rory said. “I don’t need either of you texting my mom.”

  Johnny gave him a puzzled look. “I didn’t, man.”

  Rory turned his searing gaze back toward Daralyn, but one glance at her stricken face told him she hadn’t, either.

  For the past week or two, Elaine had been busy with a church bazaar thing. However, on a normal week it wasn’t unusual for her to stop by at least once a day. She’d helped his dad run the place for years, and she liked to keep her hand in, a reminder to them she was available to help.

  So her arriving right now was just plain old Murphy’s Law—nothing more.

  “Crap,” Rory muttered, and ran a hand over his face.

  Elaine breezed in, the store bells announcing her entrance. Johnny had merely shrugged and returned to what he was doing, Rory’s crankiness dismissed in typical male fashion. Daralyn’s expression was carefully closed, though, and he wanted to fix that now. His asshole meter with her today was beyond the max.

  His mom put a tote bag on the counter next to him. “Sally Wilson gave me some more of her preserves. Said you were low when she stopped in the other day.”

  He was summoning a casual response when she glanced at him and took a second, harder look. “You look flushed, son. Are you running a fever?”

  She reached out with curled fingers to brush them against his brow. He drew back. “I’m fine.”

  Johnny was smirking at him. What he would normally do when Rory’s mom was being a mom. When Johnny’s mom stopped into the store, it was no different. Rory knew that, knew his mother hadn’t done a single thing different from usual to warrant Rory getting his hackles up.

  “Maybe you should take a couple hours off,” Elaine said, and turned to Johnny and Daralyn. “You two could handle closing if he—”

  “Mom,” he snapped. “That’s my call, not yours. I run the store. I said I was fine.”

  When Elaine’s startled gaze flicked to him, he couldn’t help his involuntary glance toward Daralyn.

  While his mother needed reading glasses for almost everything now, she still managed to see like a hawk when it came to her kids. Her gaze became thoughtful, then faintly amused. As if he was twelve, and she thought it adorable that he didn’t want to be babied in front of a girl.

  Him not wanting to be treated like a kid in front of a woman he was in a relationship with was true enough. But he was a grown man who had a short fuse with people talking over and around him. As if his physical handicap automatically came with debilitating brain damage. Hell, the first few months he’d been in a chair, he remembered going to a restaurant with his family where the waitress asked them what he wanted to eat, instead of Rory directly. For fuck’s sake.

  The rational part of him knew his mother would have reacted to Les or Thomas looking like crap the same way. Yet it also wasn’t the same, because she’d been with him every painful step of the way, from the time of his accident to him learning how to live as a paraplegic. Including all the horrible, undignified steps that went along with that. She knew as much about his health as he did.

  Her lips had set in a firm little line that said she might take him to task about his attitude later, but thankfully she said nothing further. “All right son.” She touched his hand. “But do take care, hmm?”