Page 23 of Hank and Elsie
“Surprised to see you here,” Hank said to Brian. “Isn’t this your…?” He moved his fingers mimicking using a pen.
Red-headed, craggy-faced Brian wrote dime novels. He was up to ten by now. Torin and Hank tended to tease him mercilessly about his stories, while also admiring his ability to write novels. But they sometimes helped him plot, and, secretly, both devoured the new books as soon as they could be obtained.
Brian scowled. “My mind is as blank as a wiped slate. No. That’s not true. My mind is filled with everythingbuta storyline.” For a second, uncertainty flashed in his eyes, before his face settled into the familiar dour lines.
Torin gave him a sharp look. “You didn’t mention struggling. Do you need help plotting?”
“I don’t even have any viable ideas.” His grim expression warned them not to comment further.
With a deliberate glance at Hank to change the subject, Torin made atell ushand motion. “We’ve been waiting to hear about your second week of wife hunting.”
Brian’s scowl deepened. “Bringing a woman here will cut up our peace.”
“Not necessarily,” Hank said in a mild tone.
Brian was a good neighbor, always willing to lend a hand, and as enthralled with Jewel as Hank was. But his curmudgeonly manner could sometimes be off-putting. Hank had learned to pay no mind to his neighbor’s grumpiness. He knew Brian hid a soft heart deep inside.
Hank took a seat in the third rocking chair, setting down the saddlebags and stretching out his legs. “I’m not going to choose a woman who would—” he changed his voice to mimic Brian’s “—cut up our peace.”
“That’s what you think.” Brian crossed his arms over his chest. “She’ll be so sweet and pretty, batting her eyelashes at ya. That’s until there’s a ring on her finger. Then the termagant comes out.”
Torin nodded in obvious agreement.
“Not all ladies are that way.” Hank felt the need to defend womanhood. “My sister certainly isn’t. And given the plethora of my nieces and nephews running about her place, if anyone has the right to be a shrew, she does.”
“I’m not sayingallwomen are shrews,” Brian said gruffly. “Just that you won’t know for sure if she is or isn’t until the ring’s on her finger, and it’s too late.”
“Do you speak from experience?” Hank asked in a mild tone.
Brian tended to be closed-mouthed about his past and usually clammed up when asked a question. Hank and Torin had learned to let him be. Their friend would share if and when he wanted.
“More than I’d like,” was all Brian said, really telling them nothing.
Hank met Torin’s gaze and shrugged, indicating that they shouldn’t bother to dig for more information until Brian was good and ready to share.Which might be never.
CHAPTER 9
Wednesday had Hank driving the elder Nortons’ shabby surrey, with Mrs. Norton sitting next to him, out of town toward the Driscoll Ranch. He hadn’t driven a vehicle since he’d moved to Sweetwater Springs, and, at first, he stayed rigid in the seat.
But the gelding was a placid horse who trotted at a steady pace. Soon, Hank felt able to relax and enjoy the ride.
Although the drive was long, the time passed quickly because Mrs. Norton kept up a flow of conversation. Hank mostly listened as she described the people living in any home they passed and pointed out various flora and fauna—usually things he didn’t notice.
Somewhere along the drive, Hank realized, he hadn’t talked, or, at least listened, this much to a woman since his younger sister and grandmother died. Grief stabbed. He quickly pushed the sadness and guilt behind the door of his memory and slammed it shut. He reminded himself that the reason he and his older sister didn’t talk much about the past during his visits was because his nieces and nephews always clamored for his attention.
After a few hours, they passed underneath an arching wrought iron banner held up by two Corinthian pillars proclaimingDRISCOLL RANCH.Pretty fancy for a ranch entrance.He toyed with imagining something similar over the turnoff to his house and had to clench his jaw on a burst of laughter, lest Mrs. Norton think him crazed.
The horse and buggy splashed through a shallow creek. Mrs. Norton waved a hand in front of them. “God willing, about twenty minutes more.”
Not long after, a prosperous spread came in sight, the buildings growing larger the closer they came.
They crossed a dirt road, leading perpendicular to their current direction. Mrs. Norton pointed down the road and toward the right. “The Anderson Village lies that way. A quaint collection of Swedish houses. We don’t need to drive there. Word will get out about our visit, and everyone will converge on the main house.”
Two mongrel dogs ran up, barking and making the gelding’s ears flick, causing Hank to focus on driving, rather than his surroundings. But the horse was well experienced in new situations and didn’t attempt to shy away.
“Park there.” Mrs. Norton gestured to a flat spot near a large barn made of logs.
Hank navigated the horse to the area and pulled up, setting the brake, and tying off the reins. For a moment, he just sat and took in the sights.
