Page 11 of Brian and Cora (The Bachelors of Three Bend Lake #2)
One Week Later
With a mixture of terror and excitement, quite different from the calm, cool hero he was supposed to portray, at least in his own mind, Brian couldn’t help cursing the stupidity that made him eagerly volunteer to join the posse heading out after the outlaws.
Then, because he was a fast runner, or so he’d been as a boy and hopefully still was, Brian volunteered again to race around the perimeter of the stockade and open the front gate to let in the rest of the posse, led by Sheriff Granger.
What do I know about being a real hero? I’m only an inkstain-fingered scribe.
Still, the writer in him couldn’t help cataloguing everything around him.
The gray dawn sky showing hints of orange and pink.
Harsh breathing—his and the eight men behind him—the scuff of boot soles when someone shifted, how his heart thundered so loudly Brian thought the others could hear him, the silence on the other side of the stockade.
He reached up to touch the wide, white band around the crown of his Stetson. The last thing he needed was to be shot by one of his compadres. All the posse wore the bands to distinguish them from the bad guys.
Above them on a steep cliff overlooking the stockade, Chogan Redwolf began the assault, shooting silent fire arrows into the haystacks to cause confusion inside the stockade and create a smokescreen for the attackers.
Brian glanced up to see several trails of smoke rising into the sky. He holstered his pistol, pulled up the neckerchief he’d wet earlier to cover his mouth and nose, and then cracked open the gate to see the stacks wildly burning. Smoke drifted toward him.
A hand clasped his shoulder, and he flinched.
Hank leaned close, worry in his brown eyes. “Run like the wind, Brother,” he said in a harsh whisper before releasing his hold.
With a deep breath, Brian pushed wide the gate and sprinted along the log wall, keeping behind the outbuildings as much as possible. As he sprinted, he hunched enough to make a smaller target, but not so much the position would slow his pace.
Shots rang out, followed by shouts and screams. But he didn’t stop. His job wasn’t to fight, not until he had to. His job was to run.
Brian’s legs began to burn, and his eyes stung from the smoke. His breath came in gasps. He cursed himself for spending too many hours bent over a desk and not enough being active.
Just as he cleared the chicken coop, a bullet thudded into his thigh like a hot stab. With a gasp, he clutched his leg and went down, hitting the ground hard. Fiery pain shot up his leg, and he groaned.
Still, he tried to crawl to his feet. The effort to move his leg almost made him pass out. Helpless, he sank down again and closed his eyes, fighting to muster the inner strength to fight the agony and move.
“Bly, it’s me.” Seth Flanigan’s voice sounded inches away.
The neighboring farmer to the McCurdys, a father of four, wasn’t supposed to participate in their battle. Brian opened his eyes, glared, and made a go-away motion.
Seth grabbed him under the armpits and pulled him behind the flimsy shelter of the chicken coop.
Brian couldn’t help guttural moans from escaping. He gasped for breath, and then he pulled down his neckerchief to be understood. “Go, go! Get the gate. I’ll cover you.” Somehow.
Seth took off in a crouched run.
God, keep him safe. Brian pulled the neckerchief to cover his nose from the smoke and rolled to his side, gritting his teeth until the dizzying pain ebbed enough for him to see.
He drew his Colt, used his good leg to push his body enough to see around the structure, and then, grimacing, had to ride out another wave of agony. He squinted through the smoke.
An outlaw clad only in long underwear and boots and carrying a pistol, staggered from the house. Foolishly, he stumbled across the porch and into the yard, searching for the attackers.
Even as his hands shook, Brian sent the last dregs of his energy into his arms to hold the Colt steady, braced his right wrist with his left hand, and shot.
The man screamed and clutched his side. But he managed to raise his gun and send two bullets smacking into the chicken coop…luckily, way too high.
Brian shot again, hitting the man’s chest.
The outlaw jerked back a step, and then he crumpled to the ground, arms splayed. He lay unmoving. Blood stained his long underwear.
The sound of gunshots tapered off. But Brian stayed tense, even as his body shook with weakness, knowing he didn’t have much left before he passed out. He heard a sharp whistle—the agreed-upon all-clear signal. Only then, with profound relief, did he roll onto his back and give in to the pain.
At the Bellaire mansion, after soaking in a luxurious bath and scrubbing from head to toe, Cora combed out her wet hair and donned the fresh outfit laid out upon the crimson-and gold-damask patterned bed.
The dress was old, of course, which normally would have bothered her, especially next to Delia’s elegant splendor.
But Tilda or Milliana had thoughtfully ironed out the creases, and Cora was so grateful to feel tidy that she didn’t mind her shabbiness too much.
Taking her grandfather’s traveling desk from where she’d placed it on the bookcase, she moved a chair in front of the radiator so she could sit with her back to the heat, drying her loose hair while she wrote a letter to Ivy.
Settling the battered box on her lap, she hesitated, a lump rising in her throat, remembering the times in the last months when she’d sat next to his bedside writing letters for him because he was too weak to do more than dictate.
Aunt Rose had her own traveling desk, and neither her father nor her stepmother was interested.
So, Cora had gladly claimed it for her own.
Tears pricked her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Instead, she opened the lid to make a writing surface, unscrewed the top of the glass inkwell, picked up her pen, and began to write.
Dearest Ivy,
I’ve finally arrived in Sweetwater Springs and have had a chance to rest and recover. As I promised you, I’m writing as detailed a letter as possible, so as you read my words, you can imagine me confiding in you.
So far, I love everything about Sweetwater Springs. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me write things in order.
On the trip west, I alternated between bouts of boredom and interest in the views out the windows and being concerned about Aunt Rose. While my aunt didn’t complain, I knew Rose was unhappy. I felt guilty and mentally promised to make everything work out for her.
The best part of the trip was getting to know Aunt Rose better.
From her years of working at the library, Rose possesses a vast store of knowledge and would often tell me about the history of a place we passed.
Sometimes, we played a game of glimpsing a person or family and making up stories about who they were and what they were doing.
Mr. Bellaire gave us the warmest welcome and insisted I call him Uncle Andre.
He’s thinner than before, with more white and little auburn left in his hair and some additional lines around his hazel eyes.
But he’s still the charming old dear he’d always been.
Not that his charm seems to penetrate Aunt Rose’s reserve.
So far, she remains polite but distant with everyone.
Mr. Bellaire and the Nortons have enfolded us into their family.
I’m already idolizing Delia Bellaire Norton, not just for her beauty (really, her resemblance to her father is quite striking) but for her warmth and kindness.
She’s every bit as welcoming as Uncle Andre.
Her skin is somewhat darker than his and her hair more brownish than red.
Her Southern accent is honey-smooth, which I imagine was how Mr. Bellaire also used to sound.
(He still does sometimes, when he’s being playful.)
We haven’t yet met Reverend Joshua or Micah, but they are expected soon.
The Negro servants are the same as in New York.
Sam, the coachman, Rufus the butler, Tilda the housekeeper, and their daughters, Milliana and Stephania, and Cook (I don’t know her real name) are still devoted to Mr. Bellaire.
Seeing their familiar faces and being greeted so warmly by them added to our welcome.
Tilda even elbowed Cook aside’ to bake my favorite cookies!
Will you think me horribly unfilial that I don’t miss my family? Of course, you won’t. But I do find it sad that I don’t miss them. Of course, I grieve Grandpapa. He’d so enjoy being here with us and his old friend.
We had a lovely dinner, with all Aunt Rose’s favorite foods being served. How sweet (and sad) that Mr. Bellaire remembers her tastes after all these years.
At dinner, we heard the shocking news. Before we arrived, the most tragic thing happened in the town.
As you know, Mr. Bellaire organized a Harvest Festival to raise money to build a new church.
But a gang of thieves robbed the bank of all the money!
In the process, they killed one of the deputy sheriffs and harmed the bank clerk.
(Lest you fear for me living in the Wild West, Mr. Bellaire assures us that this is an isolated event. Normally, Sweetwater Springs is a peaceable place and not a plot in one of those horrid dime novels.)
The sheriff (a woman, can you believe it?) has led a posse out to chase the gang down. But
a miasma of fear lies over the whole town. People worry for the safety of the posse members. They fear the robbers returning. They hope those miscreants haven’t hurt or killed anyone else in their attempts to hide out.
Although Mr. Bellaire tries to act his normal self, it’s obvious he’s worried and blames himself for what occurred. Delia assures me that having Aunt Rose and me here is the best possible medicine for his low spirits.