What? It wasn’t embarrassment. She had done nothing for which she should be embarrassed, except grow overly curious about a man who did not belong in her world.
Which, she reasoned, made him a perfect candidate as the hero in her story. Just not the perfect man to fill her head with all sorts of unfamiliar feelings and a thirsty longing to experience firsthand the kind of strength she’d felt when he swept her out of harm’s way. She knew a deep sense of emptiness when she watched him, when she thought of him.
Surely, only because she knew a man who allowed himself no last name must be very lonely.
But, she realized, in the awareness of his loneliness there was an answering echo of loneliness in her own heart.
Of course she was lonely. Her parents were gone. She had no family except elderly Aunt Celia, who cared not whether Sybil was there. Nor did she allow anyone to fill that hollowness.
Certainly Brand couldn’t be allowed to intrude into that loneliness. Only God could, and she tried to focus her thoughts on Him alone. He is my strength and shield. A present help in time of trouble.
The empty feeling in her heart refused to abate.
But she didn’t have to let her confusion get in the way of her common sense. Someone needed to make sure Brand was okay, and if she had to be that person, so be it. She turned to face her watching and waiting friend. “You’re right. Someone should check on him. Not because Mercy thinks he might like me. She is always dreaming up mad notions. But because he is alone with no one to care.” She’d go with gifts, so she wouldn’t wound his pride if he thought revealing an injury was a sign of weakness. “I’ll beg some cinnamon buns from Cookie and take Grady with me.”
“That’s the spirit. Show some spunk. Take life by the horns and hang on. Just like Brand on that horse.”
Sybil chuckled even as the words slapped her on the side of the head. Wasn’t that exactly what she’d been thinking only moments ago? Only it had been Brand taming her heart. “I could never be like that. I don’t want to be.” Writing her stories was enough danger for her.
Jayne laughed. “Someday, my dear cautious friend, you will find some reason to step outside your careful boundaries.”
Little did Jayne know how wobbly her boundaries were proving to be when she watched Brand and took mental notes. “Not me.” She hurried across to the cookhouse and explained her request.
“I keep hearing tall tales about the man,” Cookie said. “Wish he would come and visit me, but I understand he prefers his own company. He saved your life, though, and for that he has my gratitude.” The big woman wrapped some fresh cinnamon rolls in a piece of brown store paper. “You tell him thanks from me and Bertie.” Bertie, her husband, helped run the cookhouse.
Sybil took the buns and headed up the hill to the big house to ask Linette to let Grady accompany her.
Linette readily agreed and a few minutes later Sybil and the boy made their way toward the clearing.
Dawg’s growl greeted them before they stepped from the trees.
Grady clutched Sybil’s hand. “Mercy says he’s got a mean dog.”
“He won’t hurt you.” Though he certainly managed to keep most people at bay, she felt no threat from the dog.
Grady refused to take another step even when Dawg’s growl became a whine of greeting.
“Come on in,” Brand called.
Sybil struggled forward, her progress impeded by having to practically drag a reluctant Grady. Perhaps that was a sign she should stay away from Brand and his campsite. But now that she was here she couldn’t retreat, even if she wanted to. Of course she didn’t; she wanted to make sure he wasn’t injured. She could do that without stepping across any invisible lines she’d drawn for herself.
She entered the clearing.
Brand lounged back on his saddlebags. He made no attempt to rise at her presence.
That alone caused concern. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“Just resting.” He tried to hide it, but she heard the strain in his voice.
“Your leg must be injured.”
“It’s fine.”
She studied him a moment, noting how the lines in his face had deepened. Why couldn’t he admit he had pain? “I know you’re not.”
He shrugged. “It’s not as if I jumped out of the loft door.”
“I saw how the horse rammed you into the fence. I’m certain your leg has been bruised or worse.”
“Only a bump. Nothing to be concerned about.”
There seemed no point in arguing. “Grady came to say hi.” She turned to the boy, who darted a look from Brand to Dawg and back again.
Sybil nudged him.
“Will your dog bite me?”
“I don’t know. Let’s ask him. Dawg, you gonna bite this boy?”
Dawg gave a wag of his crooked tail.
“Nope. But he’s not exactly the friendly sort.”
Grady carefully kept Sybil between them as Dawg wriggled closer. The nearer he got, the tighter Grady tucked himself into her other side, as if he hoped to disappear into the fabric of her skirts. She bent to pet the dog, but couldn’t with her hands full, so held the brown-paper-wrapped gift out to Brand. “Cookie sent some cinnamon rolls. The best in the country. She says she regrets you never stopped in to see her.”
Brand took the package. His long fingers grazed Sybil’s knuckles, making her heart buck three times in quick succession.
He sniffed deeply of the aroma. “If they taste half as good as they smell...” He waved for his visitors to sit down.
Grady kept close to Sybil as they settled on a log.
The dog slunk closer to Sybil. She hesitated a second. Was Dawg as cross as Brand led everyone to believe? She had no wish to have her hand torn off. Then she saw the welcome in the animal’s eyes and knew she was safe. She stroked the brown head, finding his fur surprisingly silky.
She felt Brand’s gaze on her and met it. “He’s a nice dog.”
Brand’s eyes filled with something she could only take as regret.
Did he mind that Dawg accepted her attention? She almost withdrew her hand, but couldn’t deny either herself or the dog this comfort. “Eddie wasn’t happy about the cowboys bringing in that wild horse.”
Brand shrugged. “It happens a lot.”
His words burned through her. Did he face this kind of challenge wherever he went? “Young Cal got put on manure shoveling for a month.” She laughed softly. “He didn’t look too happy about it.”
“It’s a smelly job.”
“You ever had to do it?”
“Shoveled my share of the stuff.”
“When? Where?”
“Here and there. Every cowboy has to do it.”
She’d hoped for more explanation but he didn’t offer any.
“What’s the hardest job you’ve ever had?”
He stared into the distance. “Burying my ma.”
Sybil’s thoughts stalled as pain and regret clawed up her limbs. She’d expected him to talk about horses. Instead, he reminded her of her own loss and loneliness, and her chin sank forward. “I’m sorry. It’s hard to be without parents.”
He didn’t answer.
She