Free Heartland Courtship by Lyn Cote Page A

wonder if his shoes were shined bright enough.
    He headed straight for the long bar and ordered an ale.
    Sam poured his drink and then leaned his pudgy elbows on the bar. “So you’re the man of the day now?”
    Brennan snorted. “Right. Me?”
    “From what I hear, you rousted them robbers efficient-like.”
    “They were just a few paltry sneak thieves. No big effort needed.”
    A man came up and clapped Brennan on the back. “The town hero!”
    Brennan recoiled. “I didn’t do nothing special, okay?”
    “Ah, does not the laurel rest easy upon thy brow?” the man asked grandiloquently.
    Brennan picked up his glass and tried to ignore the man. “Thought we’d finally have that tongue wag, Sam.”
    But it was not to be. More men crowded around, asking Brennan for the whole story. He bridled.
    Sam leaned forward and muttered, “Play along. They don’t get much excitement in this bump on the river. Tell them the story and they’ll leave you alone.”
    So Brennan did, forcing himself to tell the story in full to prevent questions. He had a rapt audience. These people really didn’t get much excitement. “So that’s how it happened,” he concluded.
    Brennan suffered through a few more minutes of felicitations and gratitude and then, finally interpreting his silence as a desire to be left in peace, the men moved away, discussing the occurrence among themselves. Brennan refused all offers to buy him a real drink. He just wanted a refreshing mug of ale, nothing strong. Strong drink brought him nightmares and he didn’t want that.
    Brennan swallowed deeply of his drink, his mouth dry.
    One man, middle-aged, better dressed and polished looking, stayed near him. “This place needs a sheriff. You might think about running in the fall election.”
    “Won’t be here then,” Brennan said.
    “A pity.” The stranger tipped his hat and walked out.
    Sam swabbed the bar and then looked up from under his bushy eyebrows at Brennan. “You know who that is?”
    “No.” And I don’t care either.
    “That man sits in the state legislature. He’s traveling around, drumming up support for the November election.”
    Brennan shrugged and repeated, “I won’t be here then.”
    “Why not?” Sam asked. “You got a good reputation here now. Why leave?”
    Even the barkeep had an opinion? Brennan stifled the urge to yell his frustration. “I’m just staying long enough to help Miss Rachel get set up and then I’m leavin’.” He downed his drink and stalked outside.
    In the hot evening, he marched to the blacksmith shop, looking for a place to get shut of all this attention. Once there, instead of resting, he paced up and down along the riverbank. Everything within him wanted to pack up his knapsack and catch the first boat north. But he couldn’t.
    His mind racing, he recalled sitting at Miss Rachel’s table, watching her serve up another tasty meal, something she seemed to do as easily as breathing. Her biscuits were the lightest, the best he’d ever eaten. And her soft cheeks had been flushed pretty pink from making them for him. The thought of stroking one froze him in place.
    He growled at the bullfrogs bellowing along shore, trying to attract females of their own kind. He wasn’t trying to have anythin’ to do with females. He had nothing to give any woman, not a home or a heart.
    Miss Rachel was upsetting him by making him think about her that way. Why did she have to be such a good cook? And so honest and open? She was always so good-hearted, not a mean bone in her.
    She made him think of settling down here, not Canada—far from all the war did to him, to everyone. Canada would let him forget all that, start over fresh.
    He tried to focus on how she’d torn off his sleeve. Managing woman. His unhappy thoughts twisted around into a rat’s nest. But one thought stood out clear. He owed Miss Rachel and he wouldn’t leave her, couldn’t leave her still needing help.
    * * *
    Two weeks later, nearing the