Page 35 of Brian and Cora
In the crowded space, the light reflected of the shiny surfaces of the wooden furniture and played over the texture of the curtains, he squinted to be sure, velvet, no less, flanking the windows. Who hangs velvet curtains in a log cabin?
Apparently, Andre Bellaire, that’s who.
Even the ink spot was gone. Sanded off, he suspected, for he doubted any amount of elbow grease, soap, and water would have removed the stain.
“A nightshirt and robe are on the bed,” the woman told him. “Do you want my help to get into them?”
“No! Turn your back.” He grudgingly accepted Hank and Seth’s help in removing his clothing. Only after they’d pulled the nightshirt over his head, and he’d shrugged the garment into place, did he realize it was made of the finest cotton and certainly didn’t belong to him.
Hank picked up the robe, a quilted black silk number with black embroidery on the gold lapels, cuffs, and sash.
Brian eyed the garment, half in dismay, half in admiration. “Let me guess. One of Andre Bellaire’s.”
Humor glinted in Hank’s eyes. “Something a maharaja would wear, I imagine.”
Brian rolled his eyes but held out his arms for them to slide on the robe. He inhaled the slight scent of bay rum, which hopefully would serve to mask his own odor, and tied the sash around his waist.
They helped him to one of the armchairs, which he gingerly settled onto, grateful for the comfort cradling his aching body. But he didn’t allow his relieved reaction to show.
The woman pushed forward a wooden three-legged stool with a fancy cushion on top, and Hank gently lifted Brian’s throbbing leg, so she could slide it underneath.
Propped up in this position, unmoving, the pain eased to mere discomfort, which he definitely appreciated. Still, he refused to let the three people anxiously watching him know. Stubbornly, he refused to speak at all.
The others pretended not to notice his cold silence. But having gotten to know Seth Flanigan well this past week, Brian could tell his bitter attitude toward the woman bothered him, although the man didn’t say so.
“I’ll go see to the horses.” Seth beat a hasty retreat.
Shame trickled into his awareness. As much as Brian wanted to send them all away, he owed Seth more than he could every repay, both for playing a part to bring down the robbers and inhis and Trudy’s faithful care for him over the several days he recuperated in their home.
Then, too, Seth had made the long drive from his farm to town and from town to here and was spending the night at Hank’s away from his family. Nor had he played any part in Andre Bellaire’s manipulative scheme. I should summon up some manners while the man remains my guest.
In the kitchen area, the woman opened a door he hadn’t noticed to what looked like a pantry. Brian craned his neck to see more.
She crouched to pull food from an icebox.
I now possess an icebox. Brian wanted to smack his hand to his forehead. If I wanted an icebox, I could have bought one for myself, he mentally grumbled, refusing to admit to the times he’d thought of purchasing one. But the effort to go into town, order one from the mercantile, return home, go back to town when the icebox arrived, rent a wagon to haul the thing up the mountain, return the wagon to town, and then ride home was just too much of an effort.
“I have a cold supper waiting,” the woman practically chirped.
“I’m not hungry.” He didn’t care to explain he still felt queasy.
His gruff response didn’t seem to faze her at all, for she tilted her head as if to see inside his body. “Hungry or not—” she said firmly “—you need nourishment for your body to heal. I’ll heat you some broth.” She slid a sideways mischievous glance at Hank, before looking at Brian. “Or would you prefer some gruel or calves foot jelly?”
Horrified by the suggestion, he stared daggers at her.
Hank smothered a laugh.
Brian shifted his attention to glare at him.
Ignoring them both, she went into the icebox and took out a jar of broth, carrying it to the stove, where she poured the contents into a pan that she placed on the stove. “For you other two gentlemen, there’s chicken, potato salad, and brown sugar glazed carrots. I have reason to know Mr. Bellaire’s cook is second to none. Plus, there’s a peach cobbler donated by Mrs. Pendell, housekeeper at Green Valley Ranch. I’m told she’s legendary for this dessert. And to drink, milk, water, or apple juice.”
“Sounds wonderful. Milk is fine for me. Goes good with cobbler.” Hank rubbed his hands together. “If I could wash up?” He walked over to the coatrack by the door, removed his Stetson, and hung it up.
The woman lifted the kettle from the stovetop and moved to the dry sink to tip the water into the ewer. “There’s soap and a hand towel already there.” She went to the icebox for a jar of milk.
While Hank washed up, she poured Brian’s broth into one of the new mugs and handed it to him.
Carefully, he took a sip, expecting something bland but instead received a mouthful of flavor.
