said, “You taste like pancakes.”
She straightened to her very proper self. “I don’t know why. You’re the one who ate them all.”
He climbed in beside her, patting her leg resting next to his as though he’d touched her there a hundred times. When she didn’t move away, he flicked the reins to start the buggy moving and let his hand rest on her knee. The feel of her, the knowledge that she didn’t mind, made him half drunk with need. “How’s your hand?”
“The cut closed fast. Only the puffiness remains. How’s your head?”
“Nothing but a blue mark.” He settled, letting his leg press against hers. They might not talk, but in a strange way, they were communicating.
They were almost to the trading post when he broke the silence. “I want you to buy yourself a good pair of gloves.”
“I don’t—”
“You need them.” He could tell she was planning to argue, so he added, “End of discussion.”
“All right, but while you go to the grain store, I’d like to visit with my father.”
“We need to get back as soon as possible. It’s only been two days since—”
“I’m stopping by his place.” She met his gaze. “End of discussion.”
They both laughed as they pulled to a stop, drawing the attention of several people. Brody was used to people frowning and looking away when he scanned a crowd, but today a few met his stare and one lady he remembered seeing at the dance even smiled at him.
In the trading post, most of the talk was about rustlers moving into the territory. Times were hard and there were those who took what they wanted. The war had left too many men wounded in more than just body; some seemed stained all the way to their souls. After five years of fighting they didn’t much care about anything but themselves and staying alive. To add trouble, the Indian Wars were raging to the north and rustlers were running the border.
Brody had a pair of Colts and a rifle, but he hadn’t noticed any weapons at the farm. While Valerie was busy picking up supplies, he slid in ammunition and another rifle to the pile she was collecting.
The store owner noticed and gave a slight nod. “Better safe than sorry,” he mumbled and moved around next to Brody. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Yank, how have you been feeling lately?”
Brody thought for a moment that maybe the bump on his forehead, or the one in back from hitting the headboard, might be showing. “I’m fine,” he answered a bit too quickly.
“No fever. Not feeling sickly?” The store owner pushed. “Folks been asking. After all, you’ve been married going on three days.”
Brody knew people were waiting for the widow’s curse to kick in. “No, I’ve never been better.” Despite the bruises over a few falls lately, he’d answered honestly.
The store owner looked like he believed him. “Well, I’m glad to hear it, but if you do get to feeling bad, you get right to a doc, you hear.”
Half an hour later, Brody was still thinking about how folks were just waiting for him to pass away any moment when the blacksmith asked him how he was doing.
“Fine, Parker,” Brody answered. He’d known the big man for over a year, but Parker had never asked about his health.
“Here you go.” The blacksmith passed him an old horseshoe. “You might hang this over the barn door. They say it’s good luck. Might keep away a curse. Make sure you turn it upward to catch the luck.”
“I’ll do that.” Brody frowned. “What’s the odds on me over at the saloon?”
The blacksmith shrugged, seeing no problem in telling the truth. “Two to one you’ll be dead in a week.”
Brody pulled out a twenty-dollar gold piece he’d been keeping for emergencies. “Place a bet for me, would you?”
“Which way?” Parker grinned.
Brody smiled. “That I’ll make the week. If I don’t, I won’t need the money, and if I do, I’ll have tripled my investment.”
The blacksmith smiled. “I like your way of thinking,
She straightened to her very proper self. “I don’t know why. You’re the one who ate them all.”
He climbed in beside her, patting her leg resting next to his as though he’d touched her there a hundred times. When she didn’t move away, he flicked the reins to start the buggy moving and let his hand rest on her knee. The feel of her, the knowledge that she didn’t mind, made him half drunk with need. “How’s your hand?”
“The cut closed fast. Only the puffiness remains. How’s your head?”
“Nothing but a blue mark.” He settled, letting his leg press against hers. They might not talk, but in a strange way, they were communicating.
They were almost to the trading post when he broke the silence. “I want you to buy yourself a good pair of gloves.”
“I don’t—”
“You need them.” He could tell she was planning to argue, so he added, “End of discussion.”
“All right, but while you go to the grain store, I’d like to visit with my father.”
“We need to get back as soon as possible. It’s only been two days since—”
“I’m stopping by his place.” She met his gaze. “End of discussion.”
They both laughed as they pulled to a stop, drawing the attention of several people. Brody was used to people frowning and looking away when he scanned a crowd, but today a few met his stare and one lady he remembered seeing at the dance even smiled at him.
In the trading post, most of the talk was about rustlers moving into the territory. Times were hard and there were those who took what they wanted. The war had left too many men wounded in more than just body; some seemed stained all the way to their souls. After five years of fighting they didn’t much care about anything but themselves and staying alive. To add trouble, the Indian Wars were raging to the north and rustlers were running the border.
Brody had a pair of Colts and a rifle, but he hadn’t noticed any weapons at the farm. While Valerie was busy picking up supplies, he slid in ammunition and another rifle to the pile she was collecting.
The store owner noticed and gave a slight nod. “Better safe than sorry,” he mumbled and moved around next to Brody. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Yank, how have you been feeling lately?”
Brody thought for a moment that maybe the bump on his forehead, or the one in back from hitting the headboard, might be showing. “I’m fine,” he answered a bit too quickly.
“No fever. Not feeling sickly?” The store owner pushed. “Folks been asking. After all, you’ve been married going on three days.”
Brody knew people were waiting for the widow’s curse to kick in. “No, I’ve never been better.” Despite the bruises over a few falls lately, he’d answered honestly.
The store owner looked like he believed him. “Well, I’m glad to hear it, but if you do get to feeling bad, you get right to a doc, you hear.”
Half an hour later, Brody was still thinking about how folks were just waiting for him to pass away any moment when the blacksmith asked him how he was doing.
“Fine, Parker,” Brody answered. He’d known the big man for over a year, but Parker had never asked about his health.
“Here you go.” The blacksmith passed him an old horseshoe. “You might hang this over the barn door. They say it’s good luck. Might keep away a curse. Make sure you turn it upward to catch the luck.”
“I’ll do that.” Brody frowned. “What’s the odds on me over at the saloon?”
The blacksmith shrugged, seeing no problem in telling the truth. “Two to one you’ll be dead in a week.”
Brody pulled out a twenty-dollar gold piece he’d been keeping for emergencies. “Place a bet for me, would you?”
“Which way?” Parker grinned.
Brody smiled. “That I’ll make the week. If I don’t, I won’t need the money, and if I do, I’ll have tripled my investment.”
The blacksmith smiled. “I like your way of thinking,
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