Page 3 of Brian and Cora
“Do you know how many people will be in town for that? The sheriff estimates five hundred.” Brian gave a dramatic shudder. “Nope.”
“It’s for a good cause—the building fund for the new church.”
“I barely attend the current church,” Brian growled. “And you never do. So why do you care?”
A wistful look briefly crossed Torin’s face. “I miss going to church.”
Brian fell silent. Torin never voiced the sacrifices he made to protect Jewel. Brian had assumed that his friend liked the isolated life he’d chosen. The idea that Torin had things he regretted and missed….
Brian couldn’t even let himself feel sympathy, lest that feeling spread to encompass anything he might miss. When he’d left Georgia, he’d firmly shut the door on any such thoughts and bolted it behind him.
Torin pushed off from the wall and sauntered across the room, avoiding the scattered clothing and books until he reached the crumpled paper strewn around the desk. Scooping one up, he tossed the ball into the air and then caught it. He quirked an eyebrow at Brian and tossed the paper high again. And then a third time.
Brian must have been suffering some vestiges of sentimentality, knowing that Torin would probably appreciate hearing about the Harvest Festival and Jewel would love any treat he could bring back. He held up his hands in defeat. “All right. All right. To the Harvest Festival I’ll go.” He glowered at his so-called friend. “Just know the time will come when I’ll challenge you to do likewise.”
CHAPTER 2
New York
Anger burning in her chest, Cora Collier marched up the stairs to her attic bedroom and childishly slammed the door, not caring that at almost twenty-one, she wasn’t a young girl to behave in such a shockingly dramatic way. Soon, on top of the bitter argument she’d just had with her father about him avoiding of his dying father, she’d likely be summoned to her stepmother’s side to receive a scolding for disturbing the woman’s rest.
Glancing around the room, she stomped her way toward the worn, tufted chair in the corner near the low window and sat. Too angry to be still, Cora sprang to her feet and paced several steps. The hem of her skirt caught on her hated embroidery basket, and she kicked it out of her path. Pacing back, she plopped onto the chair.
Her throat tightened, thinking of her grandfather’s impending death, and tears—ones of grief—welled up in her eyes. When he died, she’d lose the dearly beloved man who’d always been the person she could escape to, who always lovedand supported her. His home was her refuge away from this house of strife—a quiet place of peace and learning.
I don’t know what I’m going to do.
Her great-aunt, Rose, would be equally cast adrift. She’d retired from her job as a librarian and moved out of lodgings to care for her brother.
Cora worried more about Auntie Great—her childhood nickname for Rose—than about herself. If worse comes to worst, I can always marry.
She thought back to last night’s formal dinner, which her stepmother had seemingly, miraculously, arisen from her sickbed to organize. Strange how the woman could summon the energy to marry off her disliked stepdaughter, but the rest of the time felt so ill with her sixth pregnancy that she retired to her bed, demanding to be waited on hand and foot.
While the guest of honor, Richard Frishman, having a comfortable fortune and a big house, might be perfectly eligible in the eyes of the world, he had a pointed sniff, a mouth like a fish, and clammy hands. She shuddered at the idea of him intimately touching her. A husband like Mr. Frishman would be horrible.
I won’t let myself stay here to be married off to some fish-mouthed man.
More than anything, she dreamed of being a nurse, an occupation her parents strenuously objected to. As often as possible, she slipped away from the house to volunteer at the hospital and studied every medical text she could get her hands on.
Knocking sounded on the door. “Cora!” called her oldest half-sister. “Mama wants to see you now.”
“Coming.” With a sigh, Cora stood, resigned. She waited until she heard Matilda’s footsteps recede before walking to the door. She was in no mood to deal with her sister. For a brief moment,she remembered the darling baby and toddler she’d enjoyed playing with. Unfortunately, alternately indulged and neglected by their mother and mostly ignored by their father, she and the two other surviving children had grown tiresome.
She glanced toward her bed, thinking of her grandpa’s gift of Grey’s Anatomy, hidden in a box underneath and pushed all the way against the wall, lest her stepmother find the book and burn it as an “abomination, absolutely unsuitable for the eyes of a proper young lady.”
With a wry twist of her mouth, Cora smoothed her skirt and prepared to go downstairs and face the woman’s wrath for arguing with her papa and not having been more accommodating to Mr. Fishmouth. While letting her stepmother’s diatribe break over her head, she’d mentally list all two hundred and six bones in the human body and dream of the day she could leave New York behind.
Two days later,having been released from the penal colony of her father’s house, Cora sat by the bedside of her dying grandfather with his writing desk on her lap.
Grandpa slept, something he did more and more of as his time neared. The days both stretched with agonizing slowness and rushed by too fast.
She fingered the pages of the thick letter she’d been reading him and pondered implementing her plan, a sneaky plan—one that would get her out from under her stepmother’s thumb and far enough away to be free of the silly conventional constraints that kept her from becoming a nurse. Even better would be to involve her great-aunt in her adventure. Rose, Cora decided, needed to be reunited with an old sweetheart.
Resolved, she picked up her pen, dipped it into the inkwell, and began to write.
Dear Mr. Bellaire,
While Grandpapa sleeps, I decided to pour out my troubles in a letter to a dear family friend, whom I’m sure will understand and make excuses for my sad state of mind. But first, I must tell you how much your letters mean to us. I read them to Grandpapa, and he takes great pleasure in hearing of your doings in the Wild West. Because he forgets easily now, I can read a letter to him several times, and each time the contents remain fresh.
