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“Did you see that?” she asked when Jayne called for her to enter.
“I’ve been busy making a shirt for Seth.” Her friend held up the brown fabric. “It’s proving a bit of a challenge.” She let the cloth fall to her lap, and turned her attention to Sybil. “What’s going on?”
“Brand rode a horse Eddie had forbidden any of them to ride.” She filled in the details.
Jayne’s eyes widened in horror. “Was he injured?”
“He was limping.”
“Don’t you think someone should check on him and make sure he’s okay?” She narrowed her eyes at Sybil.
“Me?” She wanted to know he was okay, but surely someone else could take care of that. Her boundaries already felt threatened. She pulled the gates to her heart closed so she would be safe.
“Seems to me you’re the one who should. Mercy says he likes you.”
Why would Jayne say such a thing? Had Mercy been dreaming up stuff again? Brand had certainly never given any indication that he even noticed her. Oh, he might have let his gaze linger a bit long on her while he’d considered riding that awful horse. Simply because she was the only one to offer any sympathy at the challenge thrown before him.
“His dog might like me,” she finally said. She’d petted Dawg without any growling from the animal. “It’s hardly the same thing.” Sybil pretended a great interest in the view from the window as her cheeks burned with—
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.
