Page 9 of What the Heart Knows

“Now, you’ve met one.”

“Speaking of Trout Creek,” Beuth contributed. “Has George told you about the Wishing Trout?”

The gentleman looked at George. “You never mentioned any fish by name.”

“I admit I forgot.” The young man’s face reddened.

“So why does this particular trout have a name?” Copefort asked.

“He’s decades old, and wily as a fox,” Meg explained. “Every fisherman in Fenwick has tried to catch him, but all have failed. He’s a brown trout and lives in our river year-round. Steals bait right off the hook but never gets caught.”

“How does a man recognize this fish?”

“You ever seen a ten-pound trout?” Beuth smiled, puffing out his chest.

“How long is this monster?”

“Last person to see him estimated close on thirty inches,” Meg offered.

“A thirty-inch trout?” Mr. Copefort’s brows rose higher.

“Might be more by now,” Beuth boasted.

“’Tis not impossible, sir.” George leaned in.

“Henry Brewster and I plan to let the world know about our brown trout,” Beuth said. “We’re the best kept secret in British sport fishing. We’re even discussing how Fenwick might sponsor a competition.”

“You’ll need a number of people to claim to have seen this legendary fish,” Copefort remarked.

“We have that, as most folks in the village have seen him,” Meg informed. “However,” she grinned at Copefort. “If a man with a reputation for adventure—a military fellow perhaps—spoke up about the Wishing Trout, some might come to Fenwick just to attempt to catch him.”

“An interesting idea, Miss Fenneman.” Copefort evaded her implied question.

“It is.” She nodded. “However, we shan’t impose on your good nature for an endorsement, sir.”

“Why not, Miss?” Beuth protested. “Mr. Copefort says he likes to fish. I’ve yet to meet a fisherman who doesn’t like to talk of the ones he caught… and the ones that got away.”

***

Kit looked from shopkeeper to lady to George then back to the lady. The gleam in those light-sparked blue eyes trapped his gaze. He’d never seen…. “I do like to fish, but I’ve no tackle with me.”

“You can get everything you need right here,” Beuth announced. “I’ve supplied the village since I took over this shop as a young man. However, I’ll have competition soon. I know a man planning to move his chandler’s business to Fenwick.”

Kit cocked a brow. “Is this village large enough to need a chandler?”

“Oh, we won’t be small for long, not if my father has his way.” George’s eyes lit up.

“Indeed, sir,” Beuth added. “Fenwick’s on the way up. We’ve even been mentioned in The Teatime Tattler. Many investment opportunities. Brewster and other merchants give superior service. Now we can also advertise the possibility of falling in love here.”

Meg rolled her eyes. “Mr. Beuth speaks of a legend about a faery lady who fell in love with a human man near Brewster’s well. Out of gratitude the lady blessed the well water. Supposedly any who drink of this blessed water will find their truest love.”

“Some say the blessing affected all the waters around the village,” Beuth added.

“Superior services, a legendary well, and a mythic fish. Fenwick could attract the interest of many people,” Kit remarked. “Tell me, Miss Fenneman, do you believe this legend?”

Her gaze lowered. A charming blush decorated her cheeks.

He shouldn’t have put her in such a spot, but he’d been unable to resist teasing.