Page 8 of Brian and Cora (The Bachelors of Three Bend Lake #2)

The despised freckles on Cora’s nose were, to Ivy, were ‘a sprinkling of angel kisses.’ Cora admired Ivy’s tall figure and narrow waist, several inches smaller than her own, while Ivy bemoaned her lack of bosoms. No matter how hard she tried, which, to be truthful, wasn’t often, Cora couldn’t imitate Ivy’s instinctive grace.

Unlike her own ordinary gray eyes, Ivy’s dark- brown-and green-eyes appeared more unique than the mere hazel she decried.

Cora marveled at their long friendship. As young girls attending the same school, they’d been assigned to share a desk and had quickly become fast friends.

As adults, the two had differing interests—Cora with her nursing, and Ivy’s love of music and her secret harp lessons.

Her friend adored children and yearned to teach, assuaging some of that longing and earning a little money tutoring some neighbor children after school.

From caring for her siblings, Cora had more than enough to do with children and wasn’t entirely sure she wanted any of her own.

After all, Florence Nightingale never married or had children.

She did, sometimes, volunteer at a foundling home where she used her nursing skills to help the small children.

Ivy was sometimes better dressed than Cora, for her father wanted his daughters to appear in public to his benefit. But her nice outfits were few and saved for church and social occasions. At home, she usually wore a voluminous apron to protect her well-worn clothing.

Pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders, Ivy, too, watched Cora as if she wanted to engrave every detail into her mind.

Sadness welled. If they sat any longer in silence she’d start crying. Cora picked up her reticule, loosened the strings, and pulled out a small packet, wrapped in waxed paper to keep the contents dry. “I’ve brought you a parting gift.”

Ivy hurriedly unwrapped the parcel, exposing a long length of tatted lace in forest green. “Oh, this is lovely.” She stretched out the lace, studying the rings and chains of the design.

Cora learned basic tatting from her mother and continued her lessons with one of her mother’s friends who lived down the street.

Her mother had possessed a huge amount of thread, which, after she died, Cora kept at her grandfather’s house lest the whole basket be ruined or disappear.

She wasn’t nearly as competent as her neighbor, whose fingers flew, entwining the thread and the shuttle, so her inches of lace grew slowly.

Ivy looked up. “You should keep this for yourself.”

“I have but in pink. My new best dress has store-bought ribbon and lace trim. But I have enough tatted lace for the next dress I make. I bought some lovely fabric yesterday, pink flowers sprigged on a blue-gray background.”

Ivy raised her eyebrows, amusement pulling up the corners of her mouth. “Blue-gray?”

“Not like this ugly color, which I’ve foresworn.” Cora plucked at the skirt of her dress.

“I have something for you, too.” Ivy twisted to picked up a brown paper packet tied with a pink ribbon from the table behind. “To remember me by.”

“As if I could forget you,” Cora scoffed, taking the gift.

With a lump in her throat, she untied the bow.

“This will go nicely with the new fabric.” She unwrapped the paper to see a small photograph of Ivy in a polished wooden frame.

Even in black and white, her friend looked beautiful, and, unlike most portraits of stern-faced people, she’d even managed a hint of a smile.

Tears blurred her vision, and Cora held the picture to her chest. “I’ll miss you so,” she whispered.

Ivy pressed her palms to her face. “Don’t make me cry!” She lowered her arms and clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “You must write me often.”

“Silly, you know I will.”

A tear ran down Ivy’s cheek, but she lifted her chin high. “Your letters will be full of your interesting adventures.” Her voice trembled. “Mine will be same old, same old. Housework, errands, practicing my harp, tutoring the boys, repeat, repeat, repeat.”

“I will pray that there’s a teaching position available for you to join me.” Even as she rose to hug her friend goodbye, Cora feared her encouraging words wouldn’t come true.

Before the time came for the horse race, Brian had eaten from the fine feast of food contributed by the good womenfolk of Sweetwater Springs set out on the tables under the oak tree by the school, watched the shooting contests from far enough away to not distress Sassy Girl, and chuckled over the children’s sack and foot races, even while having to restrain the puppy from not chasing after them.

He’d even wound his way through the rest of the booths without buying anything.

Throughout the whole day, there’d been a part of him—the author part, or so he told himself—that held aloof, observing and noting details. He’d mentally collected enough character descriptions for his next five books. But he still had no glimmers of a story.

A secret fear that his author career might be over niggled. What will I do if I can’t write? The fear chilled him.

The day’s not over. Inspiration might be around the next corner. He pulled his silver watch from his vest pocket to check the time and saw he was almost due to meet his friends at the dressmaker’s booth.

Brian ambled down the aisle, relieved to see the counter was empty, and no women flocked around.

Hank lounged nearby. Inside the booth, Constance packed away her tools—scissors, a jar of pins, measuring tape, ledger, a pencil—into a wooden crate, while Elsie neatly wound the lengths of ribbon and lace floating across the counter.

Hank caught sight of Brian and straightened, his gaze sweeping over the new belt, and then down to the puppy.

“What have we here?” He sauntered around Brian, giving his new accoutrements an exaggerated leer.

“Quite a gunslinger you look.” He crouched to pet Sassy Girl, who vigorously wagged her tail.

Brian shot a pointed glance at Hank’s gun belt. Neither man usually wore them.

Hank’s expression sobered, and he stood. “An odd gut feeling made me wear my gun to town,” he said in a low voice. “I anticipated a lot of woman-starved strangers pouring into Sweetwater Springs.

“They pack the saloons, too. Turn into drunken fools.”

“I wanted to protect Elsie and Constance, if need be.”

Brian touched his Colt. “God forbid I’ll ever have to draw this. But I agree about the need to have a gun just in case.”

Hank glanced at the puppy. “Best take her to my room to wait out the races and the fireworks.”

“You sure?”

“Don’t have a rug and nothing’s on the ground for her to chew.” Hank fished a key from his pocket.

Elsie dropped a ball of trim into the crate. She hurried around the back of the booth and over to them. “I’ll run her over, Brian. I have to use the facilities anyway. I’ll be back faster than you can say ‘Bob’s your uncle.’”

Behind Elsie’s back, Brian saw Constance grimace, and he held in a smile. Her assistant’s earthy sayings and lack of awareness of the proper behavior for ladies often dismayed her.

Elsie swooped down on the puppy, picked her up, and kissed her head. She wiggled some fingers, for Hank to drop the key into her palm, and then she tightened her hand around the dog.

“Give her some water,” Brian instructed.

“Will do.” She rushed off.

Hank watched his beloved, a silly smile on his face.

While they waited, something about an old woman, hobbling with a cane, caught Brian’s attention—her wrinkled-apple, brown face, perhaps, and the wisdom in her eyes. He took out his notebook and pencil, jotting down a description.

Elsie hurried back, bobbing as she walked. She flashed her customary happy smile before heading behind the booth to help Constance finish up.

Dr. Angus joined them. His gaze swept the empty counter. “Looks like ye made out, then,” he said to his fiancée.

“The church made out,” Constance corrected, reaching up to straighten her flowered hat. The pride in her green eyes belied the playfully prim tone.

“Everyone did.” Elsie swept an arm out and twirled, her pink dress belling, to indicate the booths around them. “Looks like the bare prairie after a cloud of grasshoppers descended.”

Constance gave a slight headshake and wry smile at Elsie’s analogy. She jiggled a heavy reticule, the strings tied to her sash. “We’ve made thirty-seven dollars and sixty-three cents!”

An impressive amount. “Well done, ladies.” Brian got in his congratulations before the other men, who quickly echoed him.

Picking up the crate, Constance tucked it beneath the counter. “We need to stop by the bank and drop off the money. After that, we can find places to watch the horse race.”

“Well, then,” Dr. Angus glanced at his watch, “we’d best be going. As soon as the race is over, I’ll need to rush back to the office and let Fergus and Alice loose. Ye coming, Hen?” He crooked an elbow to his fiancée.

Hen? Surely, he didn’t just call her a chicken.

Constance caught Brian’s mystified look and chuckled. “A Gaelic endearment. I had a similar reaction the first time I heard it. Took some getting used to.” She smiled up at Dr. Angus and slipped her hand around his arm. “I’ll take the box we left at the booth and drop it off at the shop.”

“I’ll go with you, Constance,” Elsie offered.

“There’s no need. While Angus mans the doctors’ office, I’ll go up to the apartment, take the time to brew a cup of tea, and put my feet up.

If you want, I’ll check on the puppy. But I’ll join you for the fireworks.

I’ll meet everyone at the gazebo.” She lifted her chin in an order for Dr. Angus to start walking.

Hank held out an elbow for Elsie.

The two couples stepped into the flow of people heading toward Main Street, where the race was to take place. Brian sauntered along in their wake. Even as they threaded through the crowd, both Hank and Elsie and Dr. Angus and Constance had their heads tilted toward each other, chatting.

I’m surrounded by courting couples. Seeing the loving smiles exchanged by each pair and hearing their teasing banter made Brian starkly aware of his own loneliness and he didn’t like the feeling.

I’ll be fine once I’m home and writing again.