Restoring Her Faith. Jennifer Slattery

a man she knew nothing about. Except that he was an irresponsible driver who liked to take risks on the open highway. Only this time, she didn’t have any witnesses to hold him accountable.

      “You’ll sign on it?”

      He frowned, but then his expression softened and one side of his mouth quirked up. “Sure. No problem.”

      She wrote out a simple agreement, then handed over the paper and her pen.

      He signed, then returned it.

      “Thanks.” She grabbed her purse, ready to bolt.

      “I’ll pick you up at eight tomorrow morning.”

      To take her to a job he felt certain she couldn’t do.

      She had every intention of proving him wrong.

       Chapter Four

      At seven the next morning, Faith stood in front of a small, tarnished mirror, giving her hair more attention than she had in all her teen years combined. It didn’t help that she’d woken to find three zits on her face, one smack in the center of her forehead. Nor that she was about to start a job where she was clearly unwanted.

      The fact that she cared irked her considerably. This wasn’t Alpine, nor was she a lanky, awkward nerd—the kid that never fit in and everyone else made fun of—anymore.

      Instead, she was an insecure, nearly impoverished adult who, according to her father, wasted her time chasing fanciful dreams.

      She grabbed her eyebrow brush with a huff. If Mr. Cowboy and his friends planned to send her packing this morning, at least she’d look good when they did. She had just finished penciling in her brows when a thought hit. She’d forgotten to change her shipping info, which meant they’d send her glass supplies to the store in Austin, and not to Sage Creek.

      Was it too late to adjust her order?

      R & T’s wouldn’t be open for another two and a half hours. By then, her supplies could be halfway to Austin.

      She paced her tiny hotel room. With her car in the shop and no access to public transportation, how was she supposed to pick up the glass?

      Drake could drive her. The man who believed she was an incompetent artist and who was just waiting for the restoration committee to give her the boot. Her empty stomach tensed.

      Regardless, he was the only logical solution, and all things considered, it was the least he could do. She shot him a text: I need a ride to Austin to pick up my glass when it comes in.

      She tucked her phone into her purse, gathered up some historical photographs and headed to the hotel lobby in search of breakfast.

      The small, wood-paneled room, empty except for two men occupying separate tables, smelled like burned coffee and Pine-Sol. How did this place stay open? The bigger question was how did a town this small have the revenue to pay for a major church restoration?

      That might not be her concern much longer.

      The more she thought about Drake, him picking her up, taking her to Austin, the more jittery she felt. Scrolling through her Facebook, she tried to distract herself with photos of kittens.

      “Looks like your ride’s here.” Mr. Johnson hooked his thumb toward the parking lot, then grabbed a pink-frosted doughnut from the food counter.

      She gathered her things and stepped outside, her heart stuttering when Drake’s eyes met hers. She dropped her gaze, set her stuff on the passenger seat, then faced her trailer.

      She needed it at the job site but was in no mood to ask Mr. Cocky Cowboy for help, even if he owed it to her.

      “Need a hand?”

      His citrusy, earthy cologne invaded her senses and stole her words.

      His mouth quirked up in a lopsided grin that made her cheeks flame. “Rig’s unlocked.” He jerked his head toward the truck, then began hitching her trailer to it.

      With a brisk nod she hoped conveyed confidence, she climbed into the cab to wait. Cool air circulated throughout the interior, his aftershave merging with the scents of wood chips, leather and stale coffee.

      Less than five minutes later, they were backing out of the parking lot and heading toward the work site.

      “I got your text.” He adjusted his visor to block rays from the rising sun.

      She gave a curt nod.

      “When were you thinking?”

      “Whenever the glass comes in. Hopefully by tomorrow afternoon.”

      A tendon twitched in his jaw. “Austin, right?”

      “Yeah. Just north of downtown.”

      He massaged the back of his neck. “That’ll be tough, with the restoration and all.”

      She crossed her arms. “That’s not my fault, now, is it?”

      His eyebrows shot up. He glanced at the rearview mirror, then back to the road. “Reckon you’re right. I’ll make it work. Just let me know when.”

      “Thanks.”

      An uncomfortable silence stretched between them.

      “How’d you sleep?” He slid her a sideways glance. “You like the place all right?”

      “It was nice. Quiet.”

      “Most everything in Sage Creek is.”

      Was it? Or was it a town filled with gossipy chatter about how she wasn’t supposed to be here? She’d likely find out soon enough.

      In an effort to relax before the tension in her shoulders turned to knots, she gazed out her side window, watching the tall, golden grass wave and shimmy in the morning breeze.

      They reached the end of downtown, if you could call it that, and Drake took a sharp left. They continued through a residential area with single-story brick homes shaded by mature trees. Half the yards boasted American flags, while rusted or wooden wagon wheels decorated a handful of others.

      The neighborhood dead-ended with an expanse of trees in front of them and a gravel road veering to their right. Drake turned onto it, dust seeping through the vents and tickling Faith’s nose.

      She sneezed.

      “Bless you.”

      His smiling eyes sent an unwelcomed tingle through her. “Thank you.”

      Straightening, she looked away, determined to keep her rebellious hormones, or whatever kept snagging on the man’s appealing grin, in check. She had no intention of falling for Mr. Cowboy, or staying in Sage Creek any longer than necessary.

      He parked, and she took in a deep breath, hoping the beauty of the historic church before her, with its gothic windows and steeply pitched roof, would soothe her nerves. If only she could recapture the peace and joy she’d felt when she came out to do the estimate—when no one else had been on the property except for Lucy Carr, from the cultural committee.

      This morning, cars filled the small gravel parking lot and at least half a dozen men and women, some in jeans and T-shirts, others in business casual, dotted the church lawn.

      She touched the door handle, reluctant to leave the vehicle. “Um... What’s this about?”

      “I ’spect folks coming to help.”

      Hopefully, with the construction end of things, because she had no intention of letting anyone mess with the church’s fragile antique windows. Anticipation surfaced at the thought of touching glass from an era that in many towns had been lost and forgotten.

      Though she’d taken a plethora of photos during her estimate, she itched to take more. They would provide