Wedding Vows: With This Ring. Barbara Hannay

like that in such close proximity to a man like him, and if she had not just decided to be brave she might not have. She might have turned her back on him, and gone back to the caring that waited to encircle her.

      But he needed it more than she did.

      “Houston,” she said, and waved him over. “Come meet Mary.”

      He came into the circle, reluctantly. And then Mary had her arms around his neck and was hugging him hard, and even as he tried to disentangle himself, Molly saw something flicker in his face, and smiled to herself.

      She was pretty sure she had just seen his soul, too. And it wasn’t nearly as hard-nosed as he wanted everyone to believe.

      The sun was warm on the lot and she was given a tray of bedding plants and a small hand spade. Soon she was on her knees between Mrs. Zarkonsky and Mr. Philly. Mrs. Zarkonsky eyed Houston appreciatively and handed him a shovel. “You,” she said. “Young. Strong. Work.”

      “Oh, no,” Molly said, starting to brush off her knees and get up. “He’s…” She was going to say not dressed for it, but then neither was she, and it hadn’t stopped her.

      He held up a hand before she could get to her feet, let her know that would be the day that she would have to defend him, and followed the old woman who soon had him shoveling dirt as if he was a farm laborer.

      Molly glanced over from time to time. The jacket came off. The sleeves were rolled up. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Was it that moment of recognizing who she really was that made her feel so vulnerable watching him? That made her recognize she was weak and he was strong, she was soft and he was hard? The world yearned for balance, maybe that was why men and women yearned for each other even in the face of that yearning being a hazardous endeavor.

      Houston put his back into it, all mouthwatering masculine grace and strength. Molly remembered the camera, had an excuse to focus on him.

      Probably a mistake. He was gloriously and completely male as he tackled that pile of dirt.

      “He looks like a nice boy,” Mary said, following her gaze, but then whispered, “but a little snobby, I think.”

      Molly laughed. Yes, he was. Or at least that was what he wanted people to believe. That he was untouchable. That he was not a part of what they were a part of. Somewhere in there, she could see it on his face he was just a nice boy, who wanted to belong, but who was holding something back in himself.

      Was she reading too much into him?

      Probably, but that’s who she was, and that’s what she did. She rescued strays. Funny she would see that in him, the man who held himself with such confidence, but she did.

      Because that’s what she did. She saw the best in people. And she wasn’t going to change because it had hurt her.

      She was going to be stronger than that.

      Molly was no more dressed for this kind of work than Houston. But she went and got a spade and began to shift the same pile of topsoil he was working on. What better way to show him soul than people willing to work so hard for what they wanted? The spirit of community was sprouting in the garden with as much vitality as the plants.

      The spring sun shone brightly, somewhere a bird sang. What could be better than this, working side by side, to create an oasis of green in the middle of the busy city? There was magic here. It was in the sights and the sounds, in the smell of the fresh earth.

      Of course, his smell was in her nostrils, too, tangy and clean. And there was something about the way a bead of sweat slipped down his temple that made her breath catch in her throat.

      Romantic weakness, she warned herself, but halfheartedly. Why not just enjoy this moment, the fact it included the masculine beauty of him? Now, if only he could join in, instead of be apart. There was a look on his face that was focused but remote, as if he was immune to the magic of the day.

      Oh, well, that was his problem. She was going to enjoy her day, especially with this new sense of having discovered who she was.

      She gave herself over to the task at hand, placed her shovel, then jumped on it with both feet to drive it in to the dirt. It was probably because he was watching—or maybe because of the desperately unsuited shoes—that things went sideways. The shovel fell to one side, throwing her against him.

      His arm closed around her in reaction. She felt the hardness of his palm tingling on the sensitive upper skin of her arm. The intoxicating scent of him intensified. He held her arm just a beat longer than he had to, and she felt the seductive and exhilarating zing of pure chemistry.

      When he had touched her yesterday, she had felt these things, but he had looked only remote. Today, she saw something pulse through his eyes, charged, before it was quickly doused and he let go of her arm.

      Was it because she had made a decision to be who she really was that she couldn’t resist playing with that zing? Or was it because she was powerless not to explore it, just a little?

      “You’re going to hurt yourself,” he said with a rueful shake of his head. And then just in case she thought he had a weak place somewhere in him, that he might actually care, that he might be feeling something as intoxicatingly unprofessional as she was, he said, “Second Chances can’t afford a compensation claim.”

      She smiled to herself, went back to shoveling.

      He seemed just a little too pleased with himself.

      She tossed a little dirt on his shoes.

      “Hey,” he warned her.

      “Sorry,” she said, insincerely. She tossed a little more.

      He stopped, glared at her over the top of his shovel. She pretended it had been purely an accident, focused intently on her own shovel, her own dirt. He went back to work. She tossed a shovel full of dirt right on his shoes.

      “Hey!” he said, extricating his feet.

      “Watch where you put your feet,” she said solemnly. “Second Chances can’t afford to buy you new shoes.”

      She giggled, and shoveled, but she knew he was regarding her over the top of his shovel, and when she glanced at him, some of that remoteness had gone from his eyes, finally, and this time it didn’t come back. He went back to work.

      Plop. Dirt on his shoes.

      “Would you stop it?” he said.

      “Stop what?” she asked innocently.

      “You have something against my shoes?”

      “No, they’re very nice shoes.”

      “I know how to make you behave,” he whispered.

      She laughed. This is what she had wanted. To know if there was something in him that was playful, a place she could reach. “No, you don’t.”

      He dangled it in front of her eyes.

      A worm! She took a step back from him. “Houston! That’s not funny!” But, darn it, in a way it was.

      “What’s not funny?” he said. “Throwing dirt on people’s shoes?”

      “I hate worms. Does our compensation package cover hysteria?”

      “You would get hysterical if I, say, put this worm down your shirt?”

      He sounded just a little too enthused about that. It occurred to her they were flirting with each other, cautiously stepping around that little zing, looking at it from different angles, exploring it.

      “No,” she said, but he grinned wickedly, sensing the lie.

      The grin changed everything about him. Everything. He went from being too uptight and too professional to being a carefree young man, covered in dirt and sweat, real and human.

      It seemed to her taking that chance on showing him who she really was was paying