While she poured the water carefully into the wells, Wyatt reached past her to hang the skillet from the nail on the wall behind the stove. She felt him too close to her as she poured and stepped aside, splattering water on the hot stove. It sent a hissing blast of hot steam straight up toward Wyatt’s reaching arm.

He yelped, dropped the skillet with a loud bang, and jumped back.

“Oh, Wyatt, are you burned?”

He pumped the handle for water a couple of times and cool water flowed out onto his wrist. He let the water soak his shirtsleeve, then sighed in relief. “No, it’s not bad. Sorry to fuss like that.”

Molly took over the pump handle and kept the water flowing.

Wyatt kept his arm there, so she knew it must hurt.

After a few more seconds, Wyatt said, “That’s probably enough.”

Molly quit pumping. He pulled his shirtsleeve up, then the sleeve to his longhandles.

“It’s red.” Molly leaned close. “But no blisters. They sometimes raise later.”

She thought of the time her pa, in a temper, had thrown a full coffeepot of boiling water on her ma. Molly had doctored those burns and knew the different levels of seriousness.

“You need to keep something cool on it for a while though, until all the heat goes out of it. It will make the burn less serious.” She grabbed a towel off a nail and soaked it quickly, wrung it out, then wrapped it around Wyatt’s arm.

He allowed it, which surprised her. He’d often snapped at her when he was hurt and wanting to get out of his bandages so he could get to work.

“Does it hurt bad? I’m sorry I was so careless.” Her right hand rested under his left arm, holding it still, while her left hand held the cool, wet towel pressed gently on the burn.

“It’s not bad. I shouldn’t have crowded you like that.”

He shifted, so her back was to the sink, to keep her from leaning against the hot stove, probably.

Then he shifted a bit more and darned if he wasn’t crowding her again.

She looked up, and their gazes held. She had his arm, and that was all the space between them.

“M-Molly, I’ve wanted to—to say . . . thank you. No, that’s not what I wanted to say. Of course, I am thankful, but what I wanted to say is . . .” His voice dropped to a whisper. “W-waking up with you beside me, well, I have to admit I think about it now and then.”

He looked so deeply into her eyes she felt like he could see her mind, her heart, her soul. And she could see his.

Slowly, an inch at a time, plenty of time for her to realize he was too close and realize his intention, he leaned down.

His lips met hers, and he kissed her.