Page 55 of Brian and Cora
He shifted his porkpie ink bottle closer and pulled out the cork plug. Then he took up his pen. In the process he realized that he’d probably should refill both his and Cora’s inkwells. He dipped in his pen and then made a line at the top of the page, making sure enough ink remained.
With no other tiny tasks to delay his start, the blank page mocked him. All around lay evidence of his previous productivity—finished novels on the shelf. Rejection letters he'd kept as motivation and acceptance letters he'd treasured residing in the bottom desk drawer. Vivid images that haunted his dreams in his head. Now, when he had the best material of his life, the words wouldn't come.
He picked up his pen, determined to write something, anything. First a character name. Or… he glanced out the window at Cora. She didn’t seem to be reading, just staring out at the lake.
Maybe I should bring back Jack Stone. Give him a different romance this time. In retrospect, that preacher’s daughter had been rather dull.
Maybe the new woman would be a vivid redhead with a lush body? No, that would make her too much a caricature of a saloon girl or the madam of a brothel.
“Move it along, Brian,” he said under his breath, and began to write.
Jack Stone rode into Willow Creek on a Tuesday?—
Bah. Too ordinary. He scratched out the line.
The sound of gunfire jerked Jack from an uneasy sleep. Springing to his feet?—
Brian sighed. Too melodramatic.
Some might say Jack Stone went looking for trouble. But the truth was?—
Brian crossed out the line with an angry slash. The truth was he couldn't write about Jack when his mind kept wandering to the woman outside, probably at this moment mentally lecturing him about stubborn men who didn't know when to rest and contorted their bodies into positions that would cause them pain.
His leg throbbed. His back ached from the awkward position. And his creative well remained as dry as Montana dirt in August.
From time to time,Cora glanced back through the window, watching Brian struggle with his positioning at the desk. She fought the urge to march inside and bodily drag him back to his wing chair. Stubborn, impossible man. He'd pay for this foolishness later, and I’ll rub it in his nose that I told him so.
She tried to return to her book—Oscar Hancock was about to confront the villainous mine owner. But worry kept breaking her concentration. Every few minutes, she'd glance through the window to see Brian still hunched awkwardly over his desk, his face tight with discomfort and frustration.
The Indian summer that had blessed them with unusual warmth was fading. Even bundled in her coat, she felt the chill of approaching winter in the air. Soon, these pleasant afternoons on the porch would be only a memory.
As would my time here. Dr. Angus had said ten more days, and seven had already passed. Three more days, and she'd return to town, to the Bellaire mansion, to her planned life as the town's nurse. The thought should have pleased her. That was what she'd wanted, what she'd traveled across the country to achieve.
So why did the prospect of leaving make her chest tight with something that felt suspiciously like loss?
Through the window, she saw Brian throw down his pen in disgust. He attempted to stand, wobbled, and grabbed the desk for support. Without thinking, she was on her feet, almost tripping over the dog, and racing through the door.
"Don't say it," he growled as she reached his side.
"I wasn't going to say anything," she lied, slipping her shoulder under his arm to take some of his weight.
He allowed her to help him limp to the wing chair, his jaw clenched. Once settled, he leaned back and closed his eyes.
“Let me brew you some willow bark tea.”
He held up a hand to forestall her. "I can't write," he said quietly. "I have everything I need—experiences, characters, settings. But no story. It's like trying to build a house with no blueprint."
"Maybe you're trying too hard," she suggested, lifting his leg and adjusting the footstool underneath. "Maybe the story needs time to percolate."
"I don't have time." His eyes opened, dark with frustration. "My editor expects a new manuscript soon. Readers are waiting for the next adventure. And I have nothing. Seven months of nothing."
"You've been through trauma," she said gently. "Being shot, the recovery, the adjustments. Perhaps your mind needs to heal just as much as your body."
"Trauma," he scoffed, but without real heat. "Jack Stone would shake it off and ride into his next adventure."
"You're not Jack Stone." She settled into the other chair and leaned to touch his knee. "You're Brian Bly, and you're human. Humans need time to process difficult experiences."
He studied her with those intense brown eyes. "Is that your professional medical opinion?"
