Page 38 of Brian and Cora
He laid his head back and closed his eyes, listening to the domestic bustle of a female doing the dishes and putting everything away. He should be bothered by her presence, and he was. Really he was. But there was also a certain comfort in following her movements.
Hearing her footsteps coming toward him and moving past, he opened his eyes.
She crossed over to the bed and flung back the coverings—a white sheet and snowy feather tick.
Where are my blankets? He looked around but didn’t see them. Perhaps on the bed in the other room. Cringing, he hoped they didn’t smell bad. Then he caught himself. I hope they reek, so she can’t stand to sleep here.
She fluffed up the pillows.
Pillows? I didn’t have three pillows. Brian narrowed his eyes at the crisp bedding, which seemed suspiciously white, and he couldn’t help the stab of shame that someone had washed his dirty linen. Or they’re new. He didn’t like either option. In fact, neither of those pillows looked like his own, which was much flatter.
“Where are my blankets? My pillow?” he demanded.
She ran her hand over the bottom sheet, smoothing out what seemed to be imaginary wrinkles. “Taken back to town. Mrs. Murphy will launder them and add goose down to your pillow to plump it up.”
Brian opened his mouth to bark something childish about not wanting a fatter pillow, when suddenly fatigue hit so hard, he lost the impetus to be disagreeable. The bed looked too inviting, and he needed to melt into the beckoning comfort. I’ll scare her off tomorrow.
He gazed longingly at the cozy surface. The only obstacle, the distance between his chair and the bed—a matter of about eight feet. He might as well try to cross a desert. There wasn’t a way to get from the chair to the bed without the woman’s help. Your own fool fault. Should have done this when Hank and Seth were here.
“Do you need a bedpan before you lie down?” she asked in a matter-of-fact tone.
He didn’t, thank heavens. He didn’t want to even consider what he’d need to do when the time came. Trudy Flanigan had left the bathing and toileting of Brian to Dr. Angus or Seth or their hired man. Buck Skold, the lucky son-of-a-gun, had managed his own one-handed ablutions.
Brian couldn’t bring himself to reply, only managing a head shake. Bracing himself for the pain, he placed a palm on the table to push himself up.
He rose a few inches, unable to contain the grunt that escaped. As much as he’d chaffed at needing their help, having the men heave him around had sure been easier on his body and on his pride.
“Wait.” She rushed to his side and crouched to fit her shoulder under his other arm.
He wanted to snarl for her to leave him be, but as they slowly unfolded in unison to stand, he was pathetically grateful for the support. Once balancing on one leg, he panted, feeling a bit dizzy.
He half hopped, half shuffled in tandem with her all the way to the side of the bed. He wanted to gasp at each spasm of pain. But he clenched his jaw and reined-in the sounds.
They stopped at the bedside for her to remove his robe, while he awkwardly balanced by holding onto her shoulder. Even with avoiding looking into her face, the intimacy of their bodies so close together, with him in only a nightshirt, made heat flush through him. He turned his head slightly and thought he saw pink flush into her face. But the light was too uncertain to be sure.
By the time he was prone and she’d lifted his legs to straighten them on the bed, he felt like he’d run a mile carrying a fifty-pound sack of grain.
As much as I hate to admit it, I just might need her.
CHAPTER 12
The heavenly smell of frying bacon lured Brian from a deep sleep, enveloping him in love and comfort. Then he moved his leg, and the pain spiking into his thigh jerked him into full awareness, a betrayal of both his body and elusive memories of a time long past. “What the—” He chomped off the curse at the sight of the woman cooking at the stove.
She turned, holding the spatula, and grinned. “Good morning. Seems you slept well.”
Brian had slept well, but only as long as he didn’t move. Pain would wake him, and then he’d lie perfectly still until exhaustion swept him under. But since he wasn’t inclined to explain, he only grunted.
“Bacon, scrambled eggs, hash browns, and toast,” she said gaily, flourishing the spatula over the frying pan as she pointed out each part of the meal. “What jam would you like on your toast? Huckleberry, saskatoon, or blackberry? Or there’s apple butter if you’d prefer that.”
“I’d prefer for you to be gone.” His voice sounded gravelly from sleep, and he waited for the pout or the guilt or the dismay or whatever pitiful reaction she’d conjure up.
“If you don’t pick a jam, I’ll pick one for you. Hmmm.” She touched the tip of the spatula to her chin in a thinking pose and studied him. “I think you’re a blackberry man.”
The chit hit the nail on the head with her guess. So, to be contrary, he spat out, “Huckleberry,” which to his ears ended up sounding more childish than surly.
“Huckleberry it is. I’ll take blackberry for myself.”
Brian became aware of an urgent need to use the pot. But he was certainly not about to ask for help. He didn’t even want her in the room when he suffered through the debacle.
