Page 29 of Brian and Cora (The Bachelors of Three Bend Lake #2)

B rian set down his pen and flexed his cramped fingers, surveying the completed journal with satisfaction.

One week of steady writing had transformed his scattered notes into a coherent account of the robbery and the posse's adventures.

The leather-bound book was nearly full, his handwriting covering page after page with the events that still sometimes jolted him awake at night.

Through the window, he could see Cora on the back porch, bundled in her coat, the chair twisted sideways to catch the sun’s rays, completely absorbed in Mitch Blanco and the Canyon of Death—the seventh of his novels she'd devoured this week.

As she read, her expressive face showed every emotion, from worry to excitement to satisfaction when Mitch inevitably triumphed.

Early on in the week, Brian braced for interruptions, for demands on his time and attention.

Persephone had never understood his need to write, constantly complaining when he spent "too much time with those silly stories" instead of escorting her to yet another social event.

She'd hover and sigh dramatically, manufacture small crises that required his immediate attention, until he'd give up in frustration and attend to her.

But Cora... Cora simply let him be. She moved quietly around the cabin, brought him meals without being asked, and found her own occupations.

When he emerged from his writing cave, she was ready to engage.

When he needed to work, she gave him space to do so.

She was the most remarkably restful woman he’d ever experienced.

Well, most of the time. We had some tense moments, mostly caused by me.

With a feeling of accomplishment, he put the journal on the small square table next to him.

Now that he'd finished the project he needed to start plotting his next adventure.

He had material aplenty—enough for ten books.

Character sketches from his observations at the Harvest Festival filled the notebook.

He had enough descriptions of oldsters, children, and everyone in between, for the next five books.

But so far, no story. No plot that would weave these elements together into the kind of tale his readers expected. His mind felt as blank as the paper before him.

Picking up the pen again, he touched the nib to the paper, watching an ink blot form. Realizing what he was doing, he snatched up the paper, looking underneath to make sure the ink hadn’t soaked through. Seeing no stain on the surface of the lap desk, he blew out a breath of relief.

Perhaps the problem is Cora's presence, after all.

Brian stared out the window. How could he concentrate with her sitting out there, the autumn sun catching the rich brown of her hair, her face animated as she delved into the story?

Even when she was indoors and quiet, he was aware of her—the soft rustle of turning pages, the way she tucked escaped tendrils of hair behind her ears, her little gasps when a character faced danger.

Be honest with yourself, at least. He’d struggled for months to develop a story.

No, the problem with his lack of ability to write wasn't that Cora disturbed his peace. The latest problem was that she didn't. She fit into his life like she'd always been there, and that unnerved him far more than any blank page.

When did I start looking forward to our evening discussions about my books? When had her insights begun to matter more than any review in the papers? When?—

"Afternoon, Brian!" Torin's voice carried from the front of the house, followed by Jewel's excited chatter.

From outside on the back porch, Sassy Girl started barking.

Setting aside the lap desk onto the other chair, Brian picked up his crutches and lurched to his feet, keeping his weight on his good leg. Up until now, he’d called for Cora rather than get up himself. But he needed wean himself off from needing her.

"Bry-an!" Jewel rushed forward but stopped just short of throwing herself at him, remembering his injury. "Sas-ee good girl today?"

"Mostly good," Brian admitted, thinking of the sock the puppy had stolen and shredded that morning. "She's waiting for you out back."

The child stumped through the cabin, and soon they heard her delighted squeals as she reunited with the dog.

"She starts asking to come here as soon as she wakes up," Torin said as they made their way to stand at the back window. “Sure will be glad when her puppy gets here, at least so I’ll be spared her constant questions.”

“Well, you won’t be spared it piddling on the floor, waking you at night to go out, or chewing on whatever you’ve mistakenly left on the floor.”

“Good point. I’ll start training Jewel to keep her toys up high. Having a puppy eat them might be the right incentive.”

Through the window, they watched Cora look up from her book with a warm smile and slide her arm around Jewel’s waist, cuddling her close.

“You comfortable with Cora now?” He knew Torin had been over every day. But he’d been too engrossed with his writing to pay him much heed. His friend was familiar with Brian’s distant behavior when in the writing cave.

“I still keep a careful distance. But not as much, though. We talk some.” He tilted his head toward the open door. “Maybe I’ll do so now.” He sauntered outside.

Brian remained at the partially-open window, grateful to stretch his legs after sitting for so long. The autumn air held a crisp edge that warned of winter's approach. But the sunshine made it pleasant enough outside.

He observed as the two settled into what had become their routine—Torin and Cora in the two rocking chairs and Jewel on the beach playing with Sassy Girl, squeals and yippy barks accompanying their antics.

Cora had taught Jewel and Sassy Girl a new game that involved Jewel throwing a stick into the shallow water and watching the puppy splash after it, then gambol in circles around her, before bringing it back for more throws.

Both child and dog ended up tired, soaking wet, and delighted with themselves.

They weren’t allowed to play the game for long, before both were bundled into towels and then, for Jewel, dry clothing.

"I've been trying to teach her letters," Torin said abruptly to Cora, his gaze never leaving his daughter. "Dr. Angus gave me a primer months ago. But I'm not having much success. She knows 'A' for Apple and 'F' for flower, but that's about all."

"That's a wonderful start," Cora said encouragingly. "Allow Jewel to learn at her own pace."

"Will she, though?" Torin's voice held a wealth of worry. "Or am I fooling myself?"

"You're not fooling yourself," Cora said firmly. "What Jewel has going for her is her own determination. She just needs the right approach—a way to catch her attention so she’s motivated to learn."

Brian listened to the exchange, noting how Cora's matter-of-fact confidence eased the tension in Torin's shoulders. She had a gift for that—making the impossible seem merely challenging. She has a gift for a lot of things, including softening up a curmudgeonly bachelor.

“I have a friend in New York who loves teaching children. I’ll write to her for advice.”

Torin remained silent, perhaps thinking. “Guess it can’t hurt.”

An hour later, after Torin and a protesting Jewel left, Cora carried a towel-wrapped puppy inside.

“This one’s soon going to be too heavy for me.

” She set down the dog and vigorously rubbed her as dry as possible, before holding her nose to nose and looking into her eyes.

“No rolling over on the rug. No rubbing against your Papa’s pants. Hear?”

Once released, Sassy Girl promptly skittered to the rug and rolled on her back.

Brian chuckled.

Cora stood, arms akimbo, and mock glared at the dog. “You listen just as well as your papa.”

“I’d say she listens better,” he drawled.

“Humph.”

He could tell by the way the corners of her mouth curved that she wasn’t really perturbed.

“You going to write to Ivy?” he asked, having heard snippets about their friendship throughout the week.

"Ivy tutors several young children and might have ideas for helping Jewel."

Brian held in a smile. Cora couldn't see a problem without trying to fix it. The trait should have annoyed him. Well, in the beginning, she did annoy him. But she possessed the ability to back off, which he appreciated, and he found himself oddly touched by her determination to help his friends.

He looked down at the crumpled paper. "I'm moving to my desk," he announced. "I need proper writing space if I'm going to figure out this blasted plot." He unfurled the paper to show her the blot. “I can’t risk ruining your lap desk.”

"Brian, no. Your leg?—"

"My leg is fine."

"Sitting sideways will strain?—"

Did I not just think to myself she knows how to back off? Apparently, I was mistaken. "I know my own limits." He didn't mean to snap, but frustration at his tangled feelings for her, at his ongoing inability to craft a story made him sound shorter than intended.

Her lips compressed into a thin line. "Fine. Don't blame me when you're in agony later." She gathered up her writing materials and her book. "I'll be outside where I can't witness your foolishness." She stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind her.

Half feeling guilty, half irked, Brian maneuvered himself to his desk, a process that took longer than he'd care to admit. The familiar space should have been comforting. But sitting with his leg awkwardly extended to the side sent twinges up his hip. He wished for the footstool but wouldn’t be able to fit it and his legs under the desk.

He shifted, trying to find a bearable position.

After opening the top drawer, he removed some sheets of paper and set them on the surface. At some point, he’d ruined his desk blotter by spilling a bowl of hot soup over it and had never bought a new one.