Page 6 of Brian and Cora (The Bachelors of Three Bend Lake #2)

Hoover’s gaze swept the field of booths, and he made a circling gesture to indicate their surroundings. “You should have one of your own here. Sell your books. Sign ’em. I’d buy a copy of each title. Bet lots of people would.”

Not in a million years. Brian smiled politely, shook his head, and unclasped his worn gun belt, carefully setting it on the table.

He reached to slide the matching holster onto the new belt.

Then he took the bullets from the old one, ten in all, enough for two extra rounds—for a wise man left the first chamber of his pistol empty lest he accidently shoot himself in the leg—and slipped them into loops on the back.

A bullet pouch with similar tooling to the belt caught his eye. While he wouldn’t need to carry extra ammunition, he could see it being handy to stash other items in. He reached over to pick it up. “How ’bout this, I trade you a copy of my newest book when it comes out? Signed, of course.”

By George, I’d better keep my promise to him!

Hoover’s face turned red as if he was going to cry from happiness. All he could seem to do was nod.

Brian threaded the pouch onto the belt, and buckled the whole thing around his hips, fumbling a bit with the stiff leather. He slid the holster and pouch into place, and then removed his Colt and stuck it into the holster, giving it a pat of satisfaction.

In an unusual burst of playfulness, he struck the exaggerated pose of gunslinger.

Careful to keep his finger off the trigger, Brian pulled out the gun but didn’t raise it as if to point and shoot.

No sense frightening those around me. He grinned at Howard and tilted his head in the direction of the potato booth. “Can I stand you a spud?”

After having finished his potato and chat with Hoover, Brian continued meandering down the aisle. More folks crowded around the booths, the murmur of voices louder in the air. He frequently had to stop or weave around people.

Somehow, wearing the new gun belt, pouch, and holster made him walk with a taller, more confident gait. A kick to his gallop, as his granddaddy would have said. That thought made him falter, and slow, old sadness tightened his throat.

What is it with these memories today?

In a booth to the left, an older woman called out, “Taffy here, sweet as can be.”

He’d had saltwater taffy as a boy. Figuring Jewel would love the candy, heck he would love the treat, Brian headed for the booth. A few children crowded around, and he waited until each concluded their purchase, shoved a piece in their mouths, and ran off, their cheeks plump as chipmunks.

Stepping up, he surveyed the big bowl of whitish squares.

The woman tapped the side of the bowl. “Five for a penny. If you buy ten or more, I’ll throw in one of these to keep them clean.” She laid a hand on the stack of small muslin bags.

He fingered the bullet pouch, thinking he could probably fit in fifteen pieces, and then fished three pennies from his pocket and tossed them onto the table.

“Big family, eh?” The woman grinned, showing a broken front tooth. One by one, she counted out the first fourteen, dropping each into the bag. She held up the final piece. “One for the road?”

He chuckled and took the candy, popping it into his mouth, chewing hard and enjoying the sugary taste.

Pulling the drawstring closed, the woman tied a bow and handed it over with a flourish. “Enjoy!”

His mouth too full of sticky candy to get words out, all he could do was tip his hat to her.

Then, he opened the pouch and placed the bag inside. The fit was tight. But the taffy squished enough to fill the whole space, and he could still close and fasten the flap. I knew this pouch would come in handy.

Still chewing, he walked on a bit, stopping at a water barrel to use the dipper to scoop up a drink, before continuing his explorations. More people crowded the aisles, making his progress slow.

Soon, Brian came to the dressmaker Constance Taylor’s booth, where she and her assistant, Elsie Bailey, waited on their customers.

Female patrons pawed through stacks of fabric and ready-made clothing and cackled like chickens over a pile of feed.

With no Hank in sight, he stopped ten feet away, not about to go anywhere near the patrons.

He’d come back later, at their agreed-upon time, to watch the horse race.

But apparently, he hadn’t kept enough distance, for Elsie, pretty in pink instead of the working clothes he’d always seen her in before, looked up and spotted him.

“Brian, hello!” Elsie called out with a smile and bounce, not unlike Howard’s just a while ago, her big brown eyes alight and delight in her voice. She acted as if she hadn’t seen him for months, instead of last week, when he and Hank lent a hand to bring in her family’s harvest.

He couldn’t help feeling some warmth in his chest at her welcome, thinking of how Elsie possessed all the happy energy of an endearing puppy.

I suppose after helping her family, I could consider us friends.

He sketched her a salute and made a I-won’t-disturb-them motion in the direction of the women to indicate he wouldn’t approach.

Then he quickly moved on lest he be drawn into conversation.

At the end of the row, a stocky, big-bellied man with thinning reddish-blond hair and a white-streaked beard sat on a low stool and played with a loose litter of brown-and-tan puppies.

They had big, longish heads, floppy ears, and whippy tails.

Beside him sat their dam. By her size, Brian judged the pups to be about half grown.

Brian hadn’t seen puppies in…he didn’t want to think how long. Growing up, he always had a dog at his heels and in his bed, to the oft expressed consternation of his mama. He’d put his memories of their warm companionship into the box along with everything else in his old life.

The man fondled the dam’s ears. “Moose dogs. Great trackers. Got some Bloodhound and Alsatian in ’em,” he said with a German accent. “Deputy Redwolf just bought two—one for him and one for the sheriff.”

Brian crouched and held out a hand.

The puppies gamboled over, making high-pitched grunts and licking his hand. One tried to climb onto his legs, forcing him to sit back on the dirt.

The man chuckled. “She’s a sassy girl, ja.”

Thus motivated, the pup scrambled into his lap, placed her two front paws on his chest, and swiped his chin with a wet doggy kiss.

Laughing, Brian gently pushed her face away from his and stroked her back with one hand while simultaneously trying to pet her four sisters and brothers with his other. Sassy Girl wagged her hindquarters so hard that he fancifully thought her tail might fly off. Why don’t I take her home?

Even as he thought the suggestion, Brian realized he’d been a fool for denying himself the companionship of a dog. He had no excuse, really, just that he’d never allowed himself to long for anything beloved from his past. Jewel will love her. “Are they good with children?”

“The best. Playful and protective. Why, Birdie here—” he stroked the dam’s head “—plays nursemaid to all my kinder when they’re babes. Sits or lies by their cradle, even pulls up their blanket if it happens to slide off.”

Brian held out a hand, palm down, knuckles out.

She stayed seated but regally dipped her head to sniff, and then gave a little nod as if she approved.

“Around four or so, each kinder gets a dog.” The man gestured toward the puppies.

“So, you can see, we have more than enough. And all my neighbors also have ones from my earlier litters, too. I brought them here to find them homes. Thought to ask fifty cents.” He slanted Brian a sly look.

“But the deputy gave me a dollar each. Said he was contributing to the church fund.”

“Guess I can afford a dollar,” Brian drawled, amused by the man’s salesmanship.

“They’ve been fed and watered. Brought some rope with me to make leads.”

A second pup rolled over the others to tug on Sassy Girl’s ear.

Brian was tempted to buy another one for Jewel, but he figured Torin should have a say in the matter. Besides, seemed as though there’d be more puppies where these came from. “Might have a friend interested in acquiring one for his daughter—a gentle one. He’s not here today, though.”

“Won’t be a problem. Have him come on by. Name’s Helmut Junger. Live out on the prairie.” He waved in the general direction.

“Lot of prairie out there,” Brian said in a wry tone. “Last week, I helped the Smiths and Baileys bring in their harvest. You live near them?”

“About the same distance, but I’m closer to Morgan’s Crossing. Go into the mining camp ’bout once a month for supplies and to pick up the mail. Your friend could meet me there.”

“My friend’s rather reclusive.”

“He can post a letter when he’s ready. I’ll send the pup to Sweetwater Springs with El Davis, the teamster.”

“That should work.” Tucking Sassy Girl under his arm, Brian carefully stood and tiptoed around the others who tried to paw his legs. With his free hand, he pulled a dollar from his pocket and handed over the money.

Junger tied the rope around the puppy’s neck, careful not to tighten the makeshift collar too much and ensuring that the knot wouldn’t slip, before giving Brian a stern look.

He could almost read the man’s mind. “I’ll take good care of your Sassy Girl. You have my word on it.” He reached out a hand to shake.

A smile broke out over Junger’s face, and he almost lunged to take Brian’s hand, pumping it up and down. “I knew I had a good feeling about you.”

Brian crouched to lower Sassy Girl to the ground, giving her head and ears a fondle. “Ready for your next adventure?”

Wagging her tail, she looked up at him with an expression that seemed to say, “What are we waiting for?”

With a nod goodbye to Junger, Brian and Sassy Girl plunged into the stream of meandering people. Deciding to skip the other aisles of booths, Brian headed toward the animal pens.

The puppy trotted beside him, sometimes stopping, and once winding around his legs, the rope almost tripping him. The breeze brought the smell of pigs. She pulled ahead, trying to make a beeline for them, and wouldn’t be deterred by him pulling on the rope.

“Whoa, Sass! Someone needs to learn manners.” Best avoid the pigs.

Instead, he half guided, half gently pulled Sassy Girl toward the temporary corral, holding the miniature horses with the fancy-sounding Spanish name of Falabellas.

Argentine miniature horses. Now that sounds like a good story. Unfortunately, not one he could put in a book. That idea would go over ’bout as well as a female sheriff. He could just see the scathing letter from his editor cutting any mention of midget horses.

Children lined up at the gate to pay a penny to enter and spend time with the endearing creatures. They practically vibrated with eagerness to go inside, where they’d be carefully supervised by older children from the families who owned the Falabellas.

He saw the youth guarding the gate talking with the Blackfoot blacksmith, Chogan Redwolf, the Indian no doubt deputized for today. The sheriff tended to call on him for support whenever she had need of an extra lawman.

Brian moved closer, letting Sassy Girl sniff the ground around them.

He’d seen the Falabellas pulling small buggies once before but from a distance.

He found himself just as fascinated as the children by the miniature horses and wished he could go inside.

Wouldn’t that be a sight? A grown man amid the children.

This close, he could see the obvious love the young owners felt for their minis and how patiently they interacted with each child, answering questions, giving gentle directions, and allowing them to pet and hug the Falabellas.

If he was a child, he’d want one of the little horses. Heck, he was twenty-eight, and he still wanted one.

Jewel would love a Falabella. He stood there observing, capturing what he saw in a description that would appeal to Torin. Of course, the man wouldn’t descend from the mountain to do his negotiating. But Brian would be willing to stand in his stead.

There were other parents watching their offspring, and from their expressions and some excited talk, he could tell he wasn’t the only one interested in purchasing a little horse.

“There’s a waiting list,” he heard one man say. “And you have to put half the money up front.”

He wondered how long the list was and how many years it might take for Jewel to have her foal.

He thought of Torin’s fears of his daughter’s early death—something Brian refused to think about.

He dearly hoped life wouldn’t be so cruel for Jewel to die before having time to play with a puppy and a little horse.

He’d learned not to dwell on the past or think much about the future. Don’t take any minute with her for granted.

He brought his attention back to these children—to the joy on all their faces. Some, thinner and more shabbily dressed than the others, probably had harder lives. But all of them had this magical time to play with horses straight out of a fairy tale. This is an experience they’ll always cherish.

I think I could belong here.

Like a blow, the certainty punched into his gut. He’d been in a drunken brawl once when he was young and foolish and took a strike to his stomach. Broke some ribs. Only this time, the hit came from his insides, and he quickly repudiated the thought.

I don’t belong anywhere. I’ve chosen not to belong anywhere.