Your Dream and Mine by Susan Kirby

morning. He rolled off the sofa where he had fallen asleep, found the remote on the floor, turned on the TV and caught the weather forecast. Warm and sunny. A good tree-cutting day. He showered and shaved and was reaching for the toaster and a packet of instant oatmeal when the phone rang. It was Will calling from his folks’ farm. His sisters were flying in today for a family conference regarding the farm, so he was hoping to get the tree cutting out of the way early.
    Trace tucked the tail of his light blue T-shirt into his jeans, pulled on his boots and skipped breakfast in the interest of time. Emmaline had fresh goodies in the bakery case if you got there early enough on Mondays. That and a couple of cartons of milk would do him. He had to stop for gas, anyway.
    Trace grabbed work gloves and a denim cap on his way out the back door. He put a can of blended fuel for the chain saws in the truck along with his saws, ropes andclimbing spurs, then drove the truck out of the carriage house.
    Thomasina stepped off the front porch as he bailed out of the truck to slide the door shut. Was she coming with him? Trace flung her a guarded glance. Open loose-fitting blue shirt, red knit T-shirt beneath it, neatly pressed jeans. No clues there as to her intentions. A red bandanna made a bright splash at the tail of her French braid. Her handtooled leather purse matched her belt and lace-up boots. It swung from a long shoulder strap, brushing a slim hip as she strode down the walk, oblivious of him. Or pretending to be.
    He started to call out to her, then got stubborn and didn’t. Was she or wasn’t she? Body language said no, she had other fish to fry. Trace watched her park sunglasses on her nose, unlock the car door and climb in. One poorly turned phrase, and the flaws cropped up right and left. Moody. Didn’t keep her word. It wasn’t that he needed her help—Milt would look after Mary. It was that he’d wanted…
    Trace snapped the lock on the carriage house door and the thought, as well. He climbed in his truck and headed to Newt’s. Thomasina had beat him there. She was standing out front with a bakery sack in her hand, chatting with Emmie’s uncle Earl and his checker buddy, Charlie.
    Trace’s gas needle was on empty. But he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of thinking he’d stopped because she was there. If worse came to worst, he had the gas can full of fuel for the chain saw.
    Worst came, two miles out of town. Trace’s truck sucked up the last of the fumes, bucked a few times and rolled to a stop. E wasn’t negotiable. What was wrong with him? He got out, took a gas can from the back of the truck and was unscrewing the cap when a car came up behind him. Thomasina.She hit the brakes, put the car in reverse and stopped even with him. The power window whined down.
    “Run out of gas?”
    Trace looked at her with all the docility of a bull and a red flag.
    “Need some help?”
    He clamped his jaw tight and glowered, even as he tipped the gas can a notch higher.
    “I’ve got doughnuts.”
    “Good for you,” he said without inflection.
    Her brown gaze swept over him. Her hand went to the gearshift, her foot to the pedal. Trace spilled gas down his pant leg, watching her pull away.
    He jerked his attention back to the task at hand, shook out the last drops, then looked to see her stop up the road. His hackles rose as she threw the-car in reverse a second time. What now? She stopped, slid across the seat and passed the bakery sack through the open window.
    Trace’s reflexes kicked in a stride ahead of his pride. He took the sack, then felt compromised, standing there holding the bag. The splotch of red bandanna shrank as she accelerated. He was on the verge of flinging the doughnuts after her when lipstick script on the outside of the bag caught his eye. “I’m sorry,” she’d written. Just that, nothing more.
    He scratched his head and sagged against the truck as her car disappeared down the road. God,