Page 26 of Brian and Cora (The Bachelors of Three Bend Lake #2)

Cora brushed some dog hairs off her skirt. "Time for your laudanum."

Brian’s warm, comfortable mood evaporated like morning mist on the lake. "No."

Ignoring him, she walked to the hutch and removed a blue glass bottle hidden behind a mug. "Dr. Cameron wants you to take the laudanum twice a day for a week."

"I don't care what the good doctor wants,” he bit out. “I don’t want to be muddleheaded." Especially around you.

Cora paused, the bottle in her hand. "No one likes that. But being in pain won't help you heal faster."

"It makes me tired," Brian argued. "At the Flanigans’, I spent most of my time asleep."

"Sleep helps you recover. Rest is the best thing you could do for your body."

"I don’t want to become dependent on it." The words came out harsher than he intended, driven by a sudden vision of himself hollow-eyed and shaking, begging for more laudanum like an opium addict.

Cora set the bottle on the table and took a seat in the chair beside him, her gray eyes serious. "I promise won't let that happen."

"How can you promise that?"

"Because I'm going to make you a deal." She held his gaze steadily.

"Take the laudanum for two more days—just two—and then you can stop.

I won't give you any more after that, no matter how much pain you're in.” A mischievous light glinted in her eyes, although her expression remained solemn. “Even if you beg."

Beg. Never. Brian studied her face, searching for any sign of deception. But all he saw was earnest concern and, underneath, a steely determination that reminded him, oddly, of Sheriff Granger.

"Two days," he repeated.

"Two days. My word on it."

He shouldn't agree. He should maintain his stubborn refusal and deal with the pain on his own terms. But the throbbing in his leg had been steadily building, and the thought of two more days of the laudanum easing the worst of the pain tempted him to set his stubborn refusal aside.

It's just about the pain, he told himself. Nothing to do with starting to trust her.

But even as Cora measured out the dose, and he swallowed the bitter medicine, Brian suspected he was lying to himself. Somewhere between her gentle handling of Jewel and her understanding of his fears, his defenses had begun to crack.

And that terrified him more than any amount of pain.

For two days, Brian slept.

Cora had expected him to fight the effects of the laudanum, to struggle against the drowsiness with his characteristic stubbornness. Instead, something within him seemed to have loosened, allowing his body the rest it desperately needed.

While he napped, she moved quietly around the cabin, keeping herself busy with reading or with doing small tasks—mending a tear in one of the new towels caused by Sassy Girl’s teeth, organizing the medical supplies, preparing simple meals that could be easily reheated when he woke.

The domesticity of it all should have felt strange.

But instead, Cora found a certain peace in the routine and the beauty of nature surrounding her.

When Brian did wake, he was still grumpy, though the edge of animosity had dulled. With gruff determination, he rejected her offers to help him bathe or manage the bedpan or even comb his hair. But she noticed he no longer glared at her as if she were personally responsible for all his misfortunes.

"Thank you," he said curtly the first time she brought him a bowl of beef stew, the words seeming to surprise him as much as her.

"You're welcome," she replied, hiding her smile as she turned away.

From then on, he exhibited better manners, saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ and sometimes, almost, but not quite, managing a smile.

By the second day, Cora found herself growing restless.

After the flurry of activity—the trip west, settling into the Bellaire household, the excitement of planning the trip to Three Bend Lake, the work cleaning and organizing Brian's cabin—the quiet time dragged.

She was used to the bustle of the hospital, the constant demands of patients, the camaraderie of other volunteers, interacting with her family, even if much of those encounters were unpleasant, and spending time with Ivy, Grandpapa, and Aunt Rose.

Thank goodness for Sassy Girl. The dog rotated between curling up next to Brian’s bedside and following Cora around, keeping her company. When her patient needed privacy for his ablutions, Cora took the dog on short walks, not wanting to be too far away if he needed her.

She tried, really tried, not to become too attached to Sassy Girl. But a puppy being a puppy pretty much made any emotional distance impossible.

Finally, with nothing left to clean or mend, while Brian dozed, Cora pulled out her lap desk and settled in the armchair. She took out the ink bottle, paper, and the pen and began to write an overdue letter to her best friend.

Dearest Ivy,

I find myself in the strangest situation—one I could never have imagined when I left New York. I'm essentially alone in a cabin with a man who alternates between growling at me like a wounded bear and surprising me with glimpses of unexpected softness and humor.

Mr. Bly—Brian, as everyone calls him—is not at all what I expected.

First of all, he’s about thirty, and not conventionally handsome but has rugged good looks that I must admit to finding attractive.

Right now, he’s scruffy, having refused to allow me to shave him, (although he’s promising to do so by himself soon.) His brown hair is shoulder-length and often tangled, again refusing to let me comb it.

His brown eyes can shoot hard looks when he’s disapproving of me (almost all the time.) Yet they brighten at his puppy’s antics.

Yes, there’s a puppy. Her name is Sassy Girl, or Sassy, or Sass. Oh, the joys (and frustrations) of having a puppy. You remember how heartbroken I was over Buddy’s death. Then came Stepmother’s refusal to allow me another dog.

But I digress.

When I first arrived, Brian tried his best to frighten me away with scowls and snarls. But yesterday, I watched him with a little girl who has Mongolism, and Ivy, the tenderness in his voice, the protective way he held her—it made my heart do the most alarming things.

The isolation here is unlike anything I've experienced.

When Brian is sleeping (which is most of the time thanks to the laudanum), the silence in the house is so complete I can hear my own heartbeat.

Sometimes I take short walks along the lake with Sassy Girl.

But I don't dare go far in case he needs me.

The water is beautiful, reflecting the heavenly blue sky like a mirror, and I've seen the swans glide by.

They're as elegant as you might imagine.

I'm embarrassed to admit I'm a bit lonely. After always being surrounded by people—even if they were usually tiresome family members—this solitude feels strange. I find myself looking forward to Brian's waking moments, even when he's being difficult, just for the human interaction.

Is it terrible that I'm starting to enjoy our verbal sparring? There's something invigorating about matching wits with the man, like a game where we're both trying not to admit we're having fun.

Now, I must describe our nearest neighbors. Torin Rees and his daughter Jewel. If Brian is the rugged cowboy-like hero, Torin is the classical handsome hero from the fairy tales.

Brian stirred. “Privacy please,” he mumbled.

“Just a minute.” I’ll finish writing this later. Wiping off the tip of her pen and capping the ink bottle, Cora returned them to their places. Folding her letter, she tucked it under the desk flap.

Brian lay with his eyes closed as if not wanting to engage.

She hurried past and put her lap desk into the bottom of the wardrobe, before catching up the blue knitted shawl lying across her bed, and gratefully escaping outside.

The autumn air was crisp but not unpleasant. As she walked along the shoreline, she wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. Sassy Girl bounded alongside her, chasing the colorful leaves and splashing in the shallows.

She didn't go far—just enough to stretch her legs and fill her lungs with fresh air and the scent of nature. The isolation that had felt oppressive inside seemed peaceful out here, with the gentle lap of water against the shore, the birds calling, and the rustle of leaves overhead.

For a moment, she wished never to leave.

Astonished by the thought, the antithesis of what she’d striven for these last few years, Cora called to the dog. With Sassy Girl gamboling beside her, she went inside, closing the door firmly on any fanciful imaginings.

On the morning of the third day, after her breakfast and coming in from using the privy carrying a bucket of well water, she found Brian already awake, his jaw set with determination.

"No more laudanum," he said before she could even greet him.

"I promised, didn't I?" She set the bucket on the floor, washed and dried her hands, and then moved to the stove, pulling the kettle to the warmer burner. "I'll brew you some willow bark tea instead. It won't be as effective, but it should take the edge off your pain."

He wiggled to a sitting position, arranging his pillows behind him to prop him up against the wall.

Cora didn’t offer to help, knowing from experience he’d refuse.

He watched suspiciously as she prepared the tea, adding a generous amount of honey to mask the bitter taste. When she handed him the mug and a buttered roll to sop up the liquid, he sniffed the tea cautiously before taking a sip. "Not as vile as I expected," he admitted grudgingly.

"High praise indeed," she said dryly, earning what might have been the ghost of a smile. “Do you want some breakfast?”

He slightly raised the roll. “This is fine for now.”

Nodding, she went to refill the kettle and ewer with fresh water, setting one back on the stove and the other next to the basin.