He never begged God or anyone to send him someone. When his mother and brother died, he convinced himself he would die alone. It was better this way. Stopping by Lincoln County was supposed to be a small stop just to get supplies. Then he met you. You weren’t asking for help, but the way that man had grabbed you and your protesting told him enough. He was a gentleman; after all, ‘no woman should be mistreated,’ his mother would say. You were hostile at first, but you thanked him for helping you.

Days later, he stumbled upon you at church. He wasn’t a man of faith, but he’d always come when he could in remembrance of his mother. You had offered him a small wave; for a moment, he thought it wasn’t directed at him. He soon learned your name, discovering you were the mayor’s daughter.

Ironic.

Against his better judgment, he let himself fall down the rabbit hole. You were the epitome of innocence and perfection to those around you, but he was convinced you were out to test his every moral.

Picnics were your favorite, and Billy had grown attached to spending time with you away from prying eyes. With your head on his chest and his fingers interlocked with yours, he felt at peace.

”Penny, for your thoughts?” he murmured softly while letting his other hand comb through your hair.