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

New York

A nger burning in her chest, Cora Collier marched up the stairs to her attic bedroom and childishly slammed the door, not caring that at almost twenty-one, she wasn’t a young girl to behave in such a shockingly dramatic way.

Soon, on top of the bitter argument she’d just had with her father about him avoiding of his dying father, she’d likely be summoned to her stepmother’s side to receive a scolding for disturbing the woman’s rest.

Glancing around the room, she stomped her way toward the worn, tufted chair in the corner near the low window and sat.

Too angry to be still, Cora sprang to her feet and paced several steps.

The hem of her skirt caught on her hated embroidery basket, and she kicked it out of her path.

Pacing back, she plopped onto the chair.

Her throat tightened, thinking of her grandfather’s impending death, and tears—ones of grief—welled up in her eyes.

When he died, she’d lose the dearly beloved man who’d always been the person she could escape to, who always loved and supported her.

His home was her refuge away from this house of strife—a quiet place of peace and learning.

I don’t know what I’m going to do.

Her great-aunt, Rose, would be equally cast adrift. She’d retired from her job as a librarian and moved out of lodgings to care for her brother.

Cora worried more about Auntie Great—her childhood nickname for Rose—than about herself. If worse comes to worst, I can always marry.

She thought back to last night’s formal dinner, which her stepmother had seemingly, miraculously, arisen from her sickbed to organize.

Strange how the woman could summon the energy to marry off her disliked stepdaughter, but the rest of the time felt so ill with her sixth pregnancy that she retired to her bed, demanding to be waited on hand and foot.

While the guest of honor, Richard Frishman, having a comfortable fortune and a big house, might be perfectly eligible in the eyes of the world, he had a pointed sniff, a mouth like a fish, and clammy hands.

She shuddered at the idea of him intimately touching her.

A husband like Mr. Frishman would be horrible.

I won’t let myself stay here to be married off to some fish-mouthed man.

More than anything, she dreamed of being a nurse, an occupation her parents strenuously objected to. As often as possible, she slipped away from the house to volunteer at the hospital and studied every medical text she could get her hands on.

Knocking sounded on the door. “Cora!” called her oldest half-sister. “Mama wants to see you now.”

“Coming.” With a sigh, Cora stood, resigned.

She waited until she heard Matilda’s footsteps recede before walking to the door.

She was in no mood to deal with her sister.

For a brief moment, she remembered the darling baby and toddler she’d enjoyed playing with.

Unfortunately, alternately indulged and neglected by their mother and mostly ignored by their father, she and the two other surviving children had grown tiresome.

She glanced toward her bed, thinking of her grandpa’s gift of Grey’s Anatomy, hidden in a box underneath and pushed all the way against the wall, lest her stepmother find the book and burn it as an “abomination, absolutely unsuitable for the eyes of a proper young lady.”

With a wry twist of her mouth, Cora smoothed her skirt and prepared to go downstairs and face the woman’s wrath for arguing with her papa and not having been more accommodating to Mr. Fishmouth.

While letting her stepmother’s diatribe break over her head, she’d mentally list all two hundred and six bones in the human body and dream of the day she could leave New York behind.

Two days later, having been released from the penal colony of her father’s house, Cora sat by the bedside of her dying grandfather with his writing desk on her lap.

Grandpa slept, something he did more and more of as his time neared. The days both stretched with agonizing slowness and rushed by too fast.

She fingered the pages of the thick letter she’d been reading him and pondered implementing her plan, a sneaky plan—one that would get her out from under her stepmother’s thumb and far enough away to be free of the silly conventional constraints that kept her from becoming a nurse.

Even better would be to involve her great-aunt in her adventure.

Rose, Cora decided, needed to be reunited with an old sweetheart.

Resolved, she picked up her pen, dipped it into the inkwell, and began to write.

Dear Mr. Bellaire,

While Grandpapa sleeps, I decided to pour out my troubles in a letter to a dear family friend, whom I’m sure will understand and make excuses for my sad state of mind.

But first, I must tell you how much your letters mean to us.

I read them to Grandpapa, and he takes great pleasure in hearing of your doings in the Wild West. Because he forgets easily now, I can read a letter to him several times, and each time the contents remain fresh.

I wish I could write you with better news, but, as you know, Grandpapa’s health continues to deteriorate, and the doctor frowns and mutters about only having a few more weeks.

As Grandpapa informed you, Great-Aunt Rose has quit her job at the library and moved in to care for him.

I visit often. Grandpa says my chatter lifts his spirits.

Now and again, my father dutifully pays a call.

Indeed, I think my father allows me to stay here so often because my presence at Grandpapa’s bedside must relieve his guilt (if he feels any) about his neglect of his dying father.

Even when he does visit, he barely stays a half hour, with the excuse that my wicked stepmother, who’s enceinte with yet another baby, claims she’s ill and needs all of his attention.

Perhaps I should not call the woman wicked.

She’s not precisely evil. Just slothful and greedy and always demanding Papa dance to her tune.

And he does! I don’t mind how he neglects me and even my half-siblings.

But I am incensed with how he treats Grandpapa.

I’ve told him so, and we had a dreadful quarrel.

Even though I hoped Papa would heed my admonitions, I didn’t really think he’d listen and change.

I hate to admit this to anyone; however, you know our family’s situation and, thus, I think I can write what’s on my mind.

My papa is a weak man. There. I’ve written and underlined the truth, as much as it pains me to do so.

How my dear grandparents produced such a mewling coward is beyond me.

Am I the sinful one to think such unfilial thoughts about my father?

Am I breaking the Fifth Commandment in my inability to honor him?

Or do you think God takes into account when a parent isn’t behaving honorably to his own father?

Since you now have a son-in-law who’s a minister, perhaps you could ask his opinion and let me know.

It’s not my intention to make you feel guilty, my dear Mr. Bellaire, when I say that you are greatly missed by your friends.

Grandpapa and I have spoken about how we must console ourselves in your absence with knowing you are happy with your life in Sweetwater Springs, living in the bosom of your new family, and, to use Grandpapa’s words, meddling in all your town projects.

I’d dearly love to take you up on your kind invitation to stay with you and your family, but convincing Aunt Rose to come with me will take all of my ingenuity.

Please keep Grandpapa, Great-Aunt Rose, and me in your prayers. We are in need of them!

Sincerely,

Cora Collier