Excerpt
With a frustrated growl, Bryan Bly swiped a heavy hand over the paper, crumpling the sheet in his fist, not caring if the inked words stained his palm. He threw the lopsided ball at the log wall opposite his desk, where it bounced off to land on the wooden floor in the midst of a wide-spread pile. The only reason the inkwell didn’t follow was because his frustration had gotten the better of him three days before. The wall now sported a black sunburst stain and his pork pie inkwell a chip on the lip.
Through the partially opened front window, he heard a high voice call, “Bry-in, Bry-in!” Wiping the scowl from his face, he shoved back his chair, stood, and stretched before walking over to open the door.
Jewel, the eleven-year-old daughter of his neighbor and friend, Torin Rees, stood on his porch, clutching a handful of ragged wildflowers against her chest. Seeing him, her almond-shaped, blue eyes lit up, and she smiled wide, the tip of her tongue protruding slightly.
She was clad in a new pink outfit made by the dressmaker, Constance Taylor, a contrast to the tubelike garments she’d previously worn—the best Torin could fashion with his fumbling sewing skills. Until recently, the man kept Jewel a secret from everyone but Brian and Hank Canfield, their other neighbor living along the lake, fearing she’d be ridiculed and repudiated as his former wife and both their families had done.
Hank’s new three friends—Elsie Bailey, whom the man was courting, as well as Dr. Angus Cameron and Constance, his fiancé—had thawed some of Torin’s rigid reserve. But he wasn’t ready to trust anyone else with the secret of his precious Jewel’s existence.
“Fla-ers, Bry-in.” The child gazed up at him, her grin making the skin around her eyes crinkle.
Sweet Jewel was the only one who could make Brian smile when he was in a grumpy mood, or, for that matter, most any mood.
He stepped onto the porch, bent his knees, and slipped his hands around her waist. With considerable effort, he lifted her high above his head. She squealed with joy, making him chuckle. He twirled her around before setting her down.
Soon, please God, she’ll be too heavy. Although he’d miss being able to hold her high, he’d feel grateful for her growth. At the baby’s birth, Torin’s doctor had told him Mongoloid children had a short lifespan, which Jewel had already exceeded by six or seven years. So, the three bachelors counted every day with the girl a blessing.
“Where’s your pa, Sugar?” Talking to Jewel was the only time he slipped into his long suppressed Southern accent.
The child half-turned and pointed down the dirt path.
Torin stood about twenty feet away, one booted foot propped on a log. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his thigh. A breeze off the lake ruffled the mink-brown hair he wore to his shoulders, making him appear the very picture of a dashing, romantic hero from the pages of a novel. Although not one of Brian’s, since he wrote adventure dime novels—no hint of love allowed, unless that of a man for his horse or dog.
Torin’s a contrast to the curmudgeonly, dwarf-like character that is Brian Bly. Well, a troll, for I’m too tall to be taken for a dwarf.
“Fla-ers, Bry-in.” With an imperious gesture, Jewel thrust the bouquet upward.
He took the flowers. “Want me to put them in water?”
With an emphatic nod, she pointed into the house.
With his free hand, he swept her a bow. “At your service, Sugar Princess.”
Her giggles made her cheeks pink, and her eyes scrunch.
His battered-shut heart creaked open a sliver. Jewel’s innocent happiness made the three bachelors living near Three Bend Lake her willing servants, always striving to do her bidding to see that expressive smile.
“Be right back, Sugar.” Hurrying into his one-room cabin, he veered to the dry sink to pick up the chipped, white pitcher from ewer resting inside next to several unwashed mugs and glasses.
He squinted into the depths of the pitcher, grateful to see a few inches of water. When he was deep into writing, or lately, failing to write, he neglected everyday necessities like bringing in water, keeping a fire going, and feeding himself. He dipped his head to sniff an armpit. Bathing, too.
Well, it’s not as if I’m going anywhere, and Hank and Torin often exude their own manly odors. Still, he made a mental note to do a cold plunge into the lake on the next sunny day.
He took a mason jar from a shelf, pouring in the remaining water, and thrust the flowers inside, fluffing them out.
Jewel and Torin stepped through the open door.
Torin took in the crumbled sheets of paper and the ink stain on the wall. Although he raised his brows, wisely, he didn’t say anything.
In the past, he and Hank sometimes helped Brian plot a story. But since he hadn’t a shred of a viable idea in weeks, he’d shut them out from any discussion of his writing. The two knew of Brian’s dry spell but had learned not to comment.
On the surface of the tiny round table he used for eating, Brian moved a food-crusted-over plate and empty enamel mug to the seat of a chair to make room on the tabletop for the jar of flowers.
Jewel wandered over and picked up the mug with both hands. “Wash dis, Bry-in?” She gazed up in bright-eyed appeal.
The girl loved to busy herself with washing and drying dishes. From a young age, she’d ‘helped’ her father with the chore and now had proudly taken on the task by herself.
He briefly touched her nose with a gentle finger. “Only you would look excited about washing a pile of my dishes.”
“Pease?”
With fresh eyes, Brian glanced around the small cabin, taking in the mess accumulated over these past frustrating weeks. He didn’t have that many dishes, pots, and pans, but what he possessed overflowed the dry sink, tabletop, and the rest sat on the floor near his desk. The rumpled linen on the bed in the corner hadn’t been made or washed for who knew how long. Books were scattered around, instead of neatly stacked within the bookcase. Empty cans, the tops still partially attached, lined a shelf in the kitchen area. Dirty clothing lay crumpled on the plank floors. The windows appeared dusty and fly-specked, and, as he took a breath, Brian became aware of a stale smell that even the cracked open window couldn’t banish.
Shame balled his stomach into a knot. How could I not have noticed my surroundings? He was used to times of focusing only on his writing and ignoring everything else. But I’m no currently in the creative flow or on a deadline. And if I can’t come up with a plot, I might never be issued a deadline again. He thrust aside the unbearable thought. Without his writing his life would be bleak, indeed.
Torin stood in the doorway. “You’re in desperate need of a wife.” He fisted his hands on his hips, mock frowned, and looked haughtily down his nose. “Although, I don’t know if you could find one who’d put up with you. Maybe we should send away for a mail-order bride, and state in the letter—” he ticked off a list on his fingers. “ One . Must be an expert housekeeper. Two . Willing to put up with a grumpy husband. Three . Must remain quiet for weeks when said grumpy husband is in the throes of writing a book. Four . A good cook, even when said grumpy husband has his mind so on his story that he doesn’t notice what he’s eating.”
Brian scowled and made a slashing motion to stop Torin’s babble before the man added more pointed truths. “Enough already.” His friend was just teasing, but his comments cut too close to the bone of truth.
Ignoring Torin, he turned to Jewel, who was patiently awaiting an answer. “You sure, Sugar? That’s a mighty big pile of dishes.”
Sticking out the tip of her tongue, she nodded emphatically.
With a lifted eyebrow, he glanced at Torin. “This will make her happy?”
“Extremely,” Torin said wryly.
“Well, then.” Brian swept Jewel a bow. “Your wish, Sugar Princess, is my command.”
The girl giggled, walked with the mug to the dry sink, and set it down among the others.
From experience, Brian knew she’d take five times as long to complete washing dishes as he would. Also from experience, he knew better than to offer to help. Lately, the girl had developed an independent streak.
In his small two-burner stove, he stirred the banked fire and added some kindling, followed by wood to heat the kettle of water, while Torin collected the pitcher and went outside to the well.
Picking up the tin pail he used for rinsing, Brian moved it to the tabletop. The water-stained and heat-scarred wooden surface showed the effects of his method: Fill the basin in the dry sink with soapy water to wash each individual dish, turn to the table to dunk it in the pail of hot water, and, when rinsed, set it on the table to air dry.
The kettle hissed, and he moved to grab the ragged towel scorched with stains from a hook near the stove and picked up the handle, carrying the water to the dry sink. “Stand back, Sugar.” He poured some into the basin, careful not to splash Jewel.
Torin returned with the pitcher, tipping some of the cold well water into the basin and testing the temperature with a finger, before pouring the rest into the kettle Brian held out. Then he left to get more.
Jewel picked up the sea sponge and soap, dunked them into the water, placed in a mug, and started to scrub and hum.
With a smile, Brian let her be, carrying the kettle to the stove.
When Torin returned, he glanced around for a place to put the pitcher, but apparently saw no open surface, and he deposited it at his feet.
Jewel turned to deposit the mug in the pail, and then fished it out again, holding it aloft by the handle, and dripping on the table. “Towl, pease.”
Hoping he had a clean one, he opened the drawer in the kitchen cabinet and, to his relief, saw one left. And by Jove, it’s even folded. He waved the towel in triumph and stretched to hand it to Jewel.
While Jewel worked, Torin crossed his arms over his chest and propped a shoulder against the wall near the window, keeping a close eye on his daughter. He flicked an ironic glance at Brian and then made a circling gesture to indicate the shambolic room. “Pry yourself away from your desk, old man.”
Brian wanted to fire up in his own defense, but he was too drained to muster much of an argument. “I helped the Smithsons and Bailys bring in their harvests.”
“I think you could do better than temporarily hiring on as an unpaid farm hand,” Torin said in a dry tone. He did a backwards thumb jab toward the window near his back. “Get out there and live . Let real life be your muse.”
One Week Later
Get out there and live. Right. As Brian crouched, Colt 45 in hand, behind the secret back gate of the McCurdy stockade, awaiting the signal to dash inside, he couldn’t help cursing his friend’s words. He’d wanted a story’s worth of experience, and he gotten more than he’d bargained for. He’d thrust himself smack in the middle of a soon-to-be action and adventure novel titled, The Capture of the McCurdy Gang .
With a mixture of terror and excitement, quite different from the calm, cool hero he was supposed to portray, at least in his own mind, Brian couldn’t help cursing the stupidity that made him eagerly volunteer to join the posse heading out after the outlaws. The gang had robbed the funds from the Harvest Festival and, in so doing, murdering one man, injuring another, and terrifying the citizens of Sweetwater Springs.
Then, because he was a fast runner, or so he’d been as a boy and hopefully still was, Brian volunteered again to race around the perimeter of the stockade and open the front gate to let in the rest of the posse, led by Sheriff K.C. Granger.
What do I know about being a real hero? I’m only an ink-stain-fingered scribe.
Still, the writer in him couldn’t help cataloguing everything around him. The gray dawn sky showing hints of orange and pink. Harsh breathing—his and the eight other men behind him—the scuff of boot soles when someone shifted, how his heart thundered so loudly Brian thought the others could hear him, the silence on the other side of the stockade….
He reached up to touch the wide, white band around the crown of his Stetson. The last thing he needed was to be shot by one of his compadres. All the posse wore the bands to distinguish them from the bad guys.
Above them on a steep cliff overlooking the stockade, Chogan Redwolf began the assault, shooting silent fire arrows into the haystacks to cause confusion inside the stockade and create a smoke screen for the attackers.
Brian glanced up to see several trails of smoke rising into the sky. He holstered his pistol, pulled up the neckerchief he’d wet earlier to cover his mouth and nose, and then cracked open the gate to see the stacks wildly burning. Smoke drifted toward him.
A hand briefly clasped his shoulder, and he flinched.
Hank leaned close, worry in his brown eyes. “Run like the wind, brother,” he said in a harsh whisper before releasing his hold.
With a deep breath, Brian pushed wide the gate and sprinted along the log wall, as much as possible keeping behind the outbuildings. He stayed hunched enough to make a smaller target, but not so much the position would slow his pace.
Shots rang out, followed by shouts and screams. But he didn’t stop. His job wasn’t to fight, not until he had to. His job was to run .
Brian’s legs began to burn, and his eyes stung from the smoke. His breath came in gasps. He cursed himself for spending too many hours hunched over a desk and not enough being active.
Just as he cleared the chicken coop, a bullet thudded into his thigh like a hot stab. With a gasp, he clutched his leg and went down, hitting the ground hard. Fiery pain shot up his leg, and he groaned.
Still, he tried to crawl to his feet. The effort to move his leg almost made him pass out. Helpless, he sank down again and closed his eyes, trying to muster the inner strength to fight the agony and move .
“Bly, it’s me.” Seth Flanigan’s voice sounded inches away.
The neighboring farmer to the McCurdys, a father of four, wasn’t supposed to participate in their battle. Brian opened his eyes, glared, and made a go-away motion.
Seth grabbed him under the armpits and pulled him behind the flimsy shelter of the chicken coop.
Brian couldn’t help guttural moans from escaping. He gasped for breath, and then he pulled down his neckerchief to be understood. “Go, go! Get the gate. I’ll cover you.” Somehow.
Seth took off in a crouched run.
God keep him safe. Brian pulled up the neckerchief and rolled to his side, gritting his teeth until the dizzying pain ebbed enough for him to see. He pulled out his Colt, used his good leg to push his body enough to see around the structure, and then, grimacing, had to ride another wave of agony. He squinted through the smoke.
An outlaw clad only in long underwear and boots, and carrying a pistol, staggered from the house. Foolishly, he stumbled across the porch and into the yard, searching for the attackers.
Even as his hands shook, Brian sent the last dregs of his energy into his arms to hold the Colt steady, braced his right wrist with his left hand, and shot.
The man screamed and clutched his side. But he jerkily raised his gun and sent two bullets smacking into the chicken coop…luckily, way too high.
Brian shot again, hitting the man’s chest.
The outlaw jerked back a step, and then he crumbled to the ground, arms splayed, and lay unmoving. Blood stained his long underwear.
The sound of gunshots tapered off. But Brian stayed tense, even as his body shook with weakness, knowing he didn’t have much left before he passed out. He heard a sharp whistle—the agreed-upon, all-clear signal. Only then, with profound relief, did he roll onto his back and give in to the pain.