Page 1 of Brian and Cora (The Bachelors of Three Bend Lake #2)

Sweetwater Springs

W ith an exasperated growl, Bryan Bly swiped a heavy hand over the paper, crumpling the sheet in his fist, not caring if the inked words stained his palm.

He threw the lopsided ball at the plank wall opposite his desk, where it bounced off to land on the wooden floor, tumbling to rest in the midst of a widespread paper pile.

The only reason the inkwell didn’t follow was because three days ago, his frustration had gotten the better of him.

The wall now sported a black sunburst stain and his pork pie inkwell a chip on the lip.

With another growl, he glanced out the window to view his slice of Three Bend Lake, peaceful, tree-shaded, and beautiful.

He’d removed the trees between his house and the lake, making room for a small, pebble-strewn beach.

At this time of day, a breeze kicked up, ruffling the mirrored surface so it no longer reflected the sky.

His canoe lay under canvas on wooden perches. He hadn’t taken it out on the lake since last week.

Through the partially opened front window, he heard a high voice call, “Bry-in, Bry-in!” Wiping the scowl from his face, he shoved back his chair, stood, and stretched before walking over to open the door.

Jewel, the eleven-year-old daughter of his neighbor and friend, Torin Rees, stood on his porch, clutching a handful of ragged wildflowers against her chest. Seeing him, her almond-shaped blue eyes lit up, and she smiled wide, the tip of her tongue protruding slightly.

She was clad in a pink outfit made by the dressmaker, Constance Taylor, a contrast to the tubelike garments she’d previously worn—the best Torin could fashion with his fumbling sewing skills.

Until recently, the man kept Jewel a secret from everyone but Brian and Hank Canfield, their other neighbor living along the lake, fearing she’d be ridiculed and repudiated, as his former wife and both their families had done.

Hank’s three new friends—Elsie Bailey, whom he was courting, as well as Dr. Angus Cameron and Constance, his fiancée—had thawed some of Torin’s rigid reserve. But he wasn’t ready to trust anyone else with the secret of his precious Jewel’s existence.

“Fla-ers, Bry-in.” The child gazed up at him, her grin making the skin around her eyes crinkle.

Sweet Jewel was the only one who could coax a smile from Brian when he was in a grumpy mood, or, for that matter, most any mood.

He trod on the stone step outside his doorway, bent his knees, and slipped his hands around her waist. With considerable effort, he lifted her high above his head. She squealed with joy, making him chuckle. He twirled her around before setting her down.

Soon, please God, she’ll be too heavy. Although he’d miss being able to hold her high, he’d feel grateful for her growth.

At the baby’s birth, Torin’s doctor had told him Mongoloid children had a short lifespan, which Jewel had already exceeded by six or seven years.

So, the three bachelors counted every day with the girl as a blessing.

“Where’s your pa, Sugar?” Talking to Jewel was the only time he slipped into his long-suppressed Southern accent.

The child half-turned and pointed down the dirt path.

Torin stood about twenty feet away, one booted foot propped on a log.

He leaned forward, forearms resting on his thigh.

A breeze off the lake ruffled the mink-brown hair he wore to his shoulders, making him appear the very picture of a dashing, romantic hero from the pages of a novel.

Although not, of course, one of Brian’s, since he wrote adventure dime novels—no hint of love allowed, unless that of a man for his horse or dog.

Torin’s a contrast to the curmudgeonly, dwarf-like character that is Brian Bly. Well, a troll, for I’m too tall to be taken for a dwarf.

“Fla-ers, Bry-in.” With an imperious gesture, Jewel thrust the bouquet upward.

He took the flowers. “Want me to put them in water?”

With an emphatic nod, she pointed into the house.

He swept her a bow, with his free hand. “At your service, Sugar Princess.”

Her giggles made her cheeks pink and her eyes scrunch.

His battered-shut heart creaked open a sliver—a response only Jewel could bring about.

Jewel’s innocent happiness made the three bachelors living near Three Bend Lake her willing servants, always striving to do her bidding to earn that expressive smile.

“Be right back, Sugar.” Hurrying into his one-room cabin, he veered to the dry sink to pick up the chipped, white pitcher resting inside the basin next to several unwashed mugs and glasses.

He squinted into the depths of the pitcher, grateful to see a few inches of water.

When he was deep into writing, or lately, failing to write, he neglected everyday necessities like bringing in water, keeping a fire going, and feeding himself.

He dipped his head to sniff an armpit. Bathing, too.

Well, it’s not as if I’m going anywhere, and Hank and Torin often exude their own manly odors. Still, he made a mental note to take a cold plunge into the lake on the next sunny day.

He grabbed a mason jar from a shelf, poured in the remaining water, and thrust the flowers inside, fluffing them out.

Jewel and Torin stepped through the open door and into the house.

Torin took in the crumpled sheets of paper and the ink stain on the wall. Although he raised his brows, wisely, he didn’t say anything.

In the past, his friends sometimes helped Brian plot a story. But since he hadn’t come up with a shred of a viable idea in weeks, he’d shut them out from any discussion of his writing. The two knew of Brian’s dry spell but had learned not to comment.

“We came to borrow your canoe. Who knows how much longer before the weather’s too cold to go out on the lake?”

“Fine with me.” On the surface of the tiny round table he used for eating, Brian moved a food-crusted plate and empty enamel mug to the seat of a chair to make room on the tabletop for the jar of flowers.

Jewel wandered over and picked up the mug with both hands. “Wash dis, Bry-in?” She gazed up in bright-eyed appeal.

The girl loved to busy herself with washing and drying dishes. From a young age, she’d ‘helped’ her father with the chore and now had proudly taken on the task by herself.

He briefly touched the tip of her nose with a gentle finger. “Only you would look excited about washing a pile of my dishes.”

“Pease?”

With fresh eyes, Brian glanced around the small cabin, taking in the mess accumulated over these past frustrating weeks.

He didn’t have that many dishes, pots, and pans, but what he possessed overflowed the dry sink and tabletop, and the rest sat on the floor near his desk.

The rumpled linen on the bed in the corner hadn’t been made or washed for who knew how long.

Books were scattered around, instead of neatly stacked within the bookcase.

Empty cans, the tops still partially attached, lined a shelf in the kitchen area.

Dirty clothing lay crumpled on the plank floors.

The windows overlooking the lake appeared dusty and fly-specked, and, as he took a breath, Brian became aware of a stale smell that even the cracked-open window couldn’t banish.

Shame balled his stomach into a knot. How could I not have noticed my surroundings?

He was used to times of focusing only on his writing and ignoring everything else.

But I’m not currently in the creative flow or on a deadline.

And if I can’t come up with a plot, I might never be issued a deadline again.

And there goes my source of income. He thrust aside the unbearable thought.

Without his writing, life would be bleak, indeed.

Torin stood in the doorway. “You’re in desperate need of a wife.

” He fisted his hands on his hips, mock frowned, and looked haughtily down his nose.

“Although, I don’t know if you could find one who’d put up with you.

Maybe we should send away for a mail-order bride, and state in the letter,” he ticked off a list on his fingers, “One. Must be an expert housekeeper. Two. Willing to put up with a curmudgeon for a husband. Three. Must remain quiet for weeks when grumpy husband is in the throes of writing a book. Four. A good cook, even when the grouch she’s married has his mind so on his story that he doesn’t notice what he’s eating. ”

Brian scowled and made a slashing motion to stop Torin’s babble before the man added more pointed truths. “Enough, already.” His friend was just teasing, but his comments cut too close to the bone.

Ignoring Torin, he turned to Jewel, who was patiently awaiting an answer. “You sure, Sugar? That’s a mighty big pile of dishes. Don’t you want to go out in the canoe?”

Sticking out the tip of her tongue, she nodded emphatically and patted a plate.

With a lifted eyebrow, he glanced at Torin. “This will make her happy?”

“Extremely,” Torin said wryly.

“Well, then.” Brian swept Jewel a bow. “Your wish, Sugar Princess, is my command.”

The girl giggled, walked with the mug to the dry sink, and set it down among the others.

From experience, Brian knew she’d take five times longer to wash and dry dishes as he would. Also from experience, he knew better than to offer to help. Lately, the girl had developed an independent streak.

In his small two-burner stove, he stirred the banked fire and added some kindling, followed by some larger pieces of wood. He checked the kettle to make sure it still contained water, while Torin collected the pitcher and went outside to the well.

Picking up the tin pail he used for rinsing, Brian moved it to the tabletop.

The water-stained and heat-scarred wooden surface showed the effects of his method: fill the basin in the dry sink with soapy water to wash each individual dish, turn to the table to dunk it in the pail of hot water, and, when rinsed, set it on the table to air dry.

The kettle hissed. He moved to grab the ragged towel scorched with stains from a hook near the stove and picked up the handle, carrying the water to the dry sink. “Stand back, Sugar.” He poured some into the basin, careful not to splash Jewel.

Torin returned with the pitcher, tipping some of the cold well water into the basin and testing the temperature with a finger before pouring the rest into the kettle Brian held out. Then he left to get more.

Jewel picked up the sea sponge and soap, dunked them into the water, placed in a mug, and started to scrub and hum.

With a smile, Brian let her be, carrying the kettle to the stove.

Back from his second round, Torin glanced around for a place to put the pitcher, but apparently he saw no open surface, and he set it at his feet.

Jewel turned to deposit the mug in the pail, and then fished it out again, holding it aloft by the handle and dripping on the table. “Towl, pease.”

Hoping he had a clean one, he opened the drawer in the kitchen cabinet and, to his relief, saw one left. And by Jove, it’s even folded. He waved the towel in triumph and stretched to hand it to Jewel.

While Jewel worked, Torin crossed his arms over his chest and propped a shoulder against the wall near the window, keeping a close eye on his daughter.

He flicked an ironic glance at Brian and then made a circling gesture to indicate the shambolic room.

“Pry yourself away from your desk, old man. Get outside of these four walls.”

Brian wanted to fire up in his own defense, but he was too drained to muster much of an argument. “I helped the Smithsons and Baileys bring in their harvests.”

“I think you could do better than temporarily hiring on as an unpaid farm hand,” Torin said in a dry tone. He did a backward thumb jab toward the window. “Get out there and live. Let real life be your muse.” His smirk was a challenge. “Start by going to the Harvest Festival.”

“Do you know how many people will be in town for that? The sheriff estimates five hundred.” Brian gave a dramatic shudder. “Nope.”

“It’s for a good cause—the building fund for the new church.”

“I barely attend the current church,” Brian growled. “And you never do. So why do you care?”

A wistful look briefly crossed Torin’s face. “I miss going to church.”

Brian fell silent. Torin never voiced the sacrifices he made to protect Jewel. Brian had assumed that his friend liked the isolated life he’d chosen. The idea that Torin had things he regretted and missed….

Brian couldn’t even let himself feel sympathy, lest that feeling spread to encompass anything he might miss. When he’d left Georgia, he’d firmly shut the door on any such thoughts and bolted it behind him.

Torin pushed off from the wall and sauntered across the room, avoiding the scattered clothing and books until he reached the crumpled paper strewn around the desk.

Scooping one up, he tossed the ball into the air and then caught it.

He quirked an eyebrow at Brian and tossed the paper high again. And then a third time.

Brian must have been suffering some vestiges of sentimentality, knowing that Torin would probably appreciate hearing about the Harvest Festival and Jewel would love any treat he could bring back.

He held up his hands in defeat. “All right. All right. To the Harvest Festival I’ll go.

” He glowered at his so-called friend. “Just know the time will come when I’ll challenge you to do likewise. ”