Page 21 of Brian and Cora (The Bachelors of Three Bend Lake #2)

He didn’t particularly but knew he should. Better use the outhouse while they can help me hobble there. Once I’m down, I probably won’t be able to get back up. “Yes.”

Brian suffered through the pain and indignity of what came next. Then, as the faint streaks of pink and gold and violet slowly darkened against the purpling sky, the two helped him hobble-hop back to the house and up the step to the porch.

Stepping inside his home, he saw the woman had lit the lamps, far more lights than the lantern that hung on a hook near the door and the writing lamp he kept on his desk.

A third one, brass, with a translucent glass ball around each of the two flames, perched on top of the bookshelf.

A small night candle burned inside a glass chimney on a tiny table next to his bed.

The air smelled of beeswax and vinegar. No doubt every inch was scrubbed and polished.

In the crowded space, the light reflected of the shiny surfaces of the wooden furniture and played over the texture of the curtains, he squinted to be sure, velvet, no less, flanking the windows. Who hangs velvet curtains in a log cabin?

Apparently, Andre Bellaire, that’s who.

Even the ink spot was gone. Sanded off, he suspected, for he doubted any amount of elbow grease, soap, and water would have removed the stain.

“A nightshirt and robe are on the bed,” the woman told him. “Do you want my help to get into them?”

“No! Turn your back.” He grudgingly accepted Hank and Seth’s help in removing his clothing. Only after they’d pulled the nightshirt over his head, and he’d shrugged the garment into place, did he realize it was made of the finest cotton and certainly didn’t belong to him.

Hank picked up the robe, a quilted black silk number with black embroidery on the gold lapels, cuffs, and sash.

Brian eyed the garment, half in dismay, half in admiration. “Let me guess. One of Andre Bellaire’s.”

Humor glinted in Hank’s eyes. “Something a maharaja would wear, I imagine.”

Brian rolled his eyes but held out his arms for them to slide on the robe. He inhaled the slight scent of bay rum, which hopefully would serve to mask his own odor, and tied the sash around his waist.

They helped him to one of the armchairs, which he gingerly settled onto, grateful for the comfort cradling his aching body. But he didn’t allow his relieved reaction to show.

The woman pushed forward a wooden three-legged stool with a fancy cushion on top, and Hank gently lifted Brian’s throbbing leg, so she could slide it underneath.

Propped up in this position, unmoving, the pain eased to mere discomfort, which he definitely appreciated. Still, he refused to let the three people anxiously watching him know. Stubbornly, he refused to speak at all.

The others pretended not to notice his cold silence. But having gotten to know Seth Flanigan well this past week, Brian could tell his bitter attitude toward the woman bothered him, although the man didn’t say so.

“I’ll go see to the horses.” Seth beat a hasty retreat.

Shame trickled into his awareness. As much as Brian wanted to send them all away, he owed Seth more than he could every repay, both for playing a part to bring down the robbers and in his and Trudy’s faithful care for him over the several days he recuperated in their home.

Then, too, Seth had made the long drive from his farm to town and from town to here and was spending the night at Hank’s away from his family. Nor had he played any part in Andre Bellaire’s manipulative scheme. I should summon up some manners while the man remains my guest.

In the kitchen area, the woman opened a door he hadn’t noticed to what looked like a pantry. Brian craned his neck to see more.

She crouched to pull food from an icebox.

I now possess an icebox. Brian wanted to smack his hand to his forehead.

If I wanted an icebox, I could have bought one for myself, he mentally grumbled, refusing to admit to the times he’d thought of purchasing one.

But the effort to go into town, order one from the mercantile, return home, go back to town when the icebox arrived, rent a wagon to haul the thing up the mountain, return the wagon to town, and then ride home was just too much of an effort.

“I have a cold supper waiting,” the woman practically chirped.

“I’m not hungry.” He didn’t care to explain he still felt queasy.

His gruff response didn’t seem to faze her at all, for she tilted her head as if to see inside his body.

“Hungry or not—” she said firmly “—you need nourishment for your body to heal. I’ll heat you some broth.

” She slid a sideways mischievous glance at Hank, before looking at Brian.

“Or would you prefer some gruel or calves foot jelly?”

Horrified by the suggestion, he stared daggers at her.

Hank smothered a laugh.

Brian shifted his attention to glare at him.

Ignoring them both, she went into the icebox and took out a jar of broth, carrying it to the stove, where she poured the contents into a pan that she placed on the stove.

“For you other two gentlemen, there’s chicken, potato salad, and brown sugar glazed carrots.

I have reason to know Mr. Bellaire’s cook is second to none.

Plus, there’s a peach cobbler donated by Mrs. Pendell, housekeeper at Green Valley Ranch.

I’m told she’s legendary for this dessert.

And to drink, milk, water, or apple juice. ”

“Sounds wonderful. Milk is fine for me. Goes good with cobbler.” Hank rubbed his hands together. “If I could wash up?” He walked over to the coatrack by the door, removed his Stetson, and hung it up.

The woman lifted the kettle from the stovetop and moved to the dry sink to tip the water into the ewer. “There’s soap and a hand towel already there.” She went to the icebox for a jar of milk.

While Hank washed up, she poured Brian’s broth into one of the new mugs and handed it to him.

Carefully, he took a sip, expecting something bland but instead received a mouthful of flavor.

His surprise must have shown on his face, for she chuckled. “Good isn’t it? Mr. Bellaire’s cook added ginger and garlic and a dash of Cajun spice. The ginger should help if your stomach is upset.”

Before he lowered his gaze, he caught a glimpse of knowingness in her gray eyes. Annoyed, he kept drinking. The warmth hitting his stomach seemed to help ease the nausea.

“More?”

Avoiding eye contact, he handed back his mug for a refill.

Seth entered, carrying Brian’s Stetson, coat, and gun belt from the wagon and the saddlebags and bedroll from Marshal. “My wife laundered everything of Brian’s.”

The woman flashed him a smile. “So helpful of her.”

He set the bags and bedroll near the door, hung their hats and his coat on the rack, and held up the gun belt, asking Brian where he wanted it placed.

Brian pointed to the shelf above the front door where he kept his Winchester. “But if you could open the pouch, I saved one piece of candy.”

“My children sure did like that taffy.” He coiled the belt, wrapping the length around the pouch and holster with his Colt .45 and reaching up to place it next to the butt of the rifle. He walked to hand Brian the rather battered piece of candy, before going over to the sink.

While Seth washed his hands, the woman dished up two plates of food and handed one to each man. “I’ve already eaten. Good thing, because I don’t think there’s room for three at that table.”

As they took seats and bowed their heads for silent prayers, she rummaged in one of the drawers of the hutch and pulled out silverware and brown napkins.

Brian knew he didn’t have napkins. Almost never needed them.

The men ate hungrily.

Seth finished first, laid his fork and knife across the plate, folded his napkin, and pushed back his chair a few inches. “Mighty enjoyable meal. My Trudy is as fine a cook as can be?—”

“—I can vouch for that,” Hank agreed.

“But sometimes, it’s nice to eat food flavored a bit differently.”

The woman held up her hands. “Not my doing. Mr. Bellaire’s cook is originally from New Orleans, and sometimes prefers to use Cajun spices.”

“Mr. Bellaire seems like a character,” Seth commented.

“A generous one!” She sprang to her mentor’s defense.

“There’s no reining in that man.” Hank glanced at her. “Only by your aunt conspiring with his daughter to keep him at home—” he looked toward Brian “—who knows what he would have done while up here.”

She giggled, an infectious sound.

Infectious like a disease, he hastily told himself. Not like enticing.

“Mr. Bellaire’s quite the director.” Hank pointed in three directions.

“This, this, this. The idea of helping you, Brian, happened at a tea party, where many of the good ladies of Sweetwater Springs were all too eager to express their ideas. The list got longer and longer and longer. You’re lucky you’re not living in a mansion.

If the man had another week, you would be. ”

Her eyes lit with glee. “And immediate access to more shops and merchandise.”

Brian glowered. Enough of this chit chat.

Hank pushed back his chair and stood. “Thank you, Miss Collier, for your hospitality.”

“Call me Cora.” She swept a luminous smile at all of them. “The people of Sweetwater Springs are so delightfully informal.”

Seth rose to his feet. “When you have a chance, Cora, come pay us a visit. My Trudy complains when she goes too long without visiting with other ladies. Since our last babe, her energy hasn’t been as robust, and thus, we haven’t gone into town as often as we used to.”

Under the fringe of her bangs, the woman’s forehead wrinkled. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“She’s better now,” Seth hastened to say. “I’m just a mite protective of her health.”

The woman beamed. “I’d love to visit.”

Brian leaned forward and held out a hand for Seth to take. “Can’t thank you enough for everything.” The statement felt so inadequate to convey his feelings. I’m a writer. I should have more words to express the depth of my appreciation.