Bran was tiring of Aesop’s famous proverbs being spouted all over the county. It was said that Reverend Summerall was plotting ways to weave the morals of those stories into one of his sermons.
Apparently Kate, “quite wisely” according to his still lovesick nephew, had several plays going, all on different Aesop themes, making it possible for someone who attended the play one day to see a different one the next. “Brilliant idea,” Winderton had proclaimed. “And she mixes up the pieces so even though someone may have seen a particular story, it is still new because the tales around it are different.”
It was a very clever idea.
Bran didn’t wish her ill. He just wished he could exorcise her from his mind. That he could cut out that piece of his brain that mourned the past. Drink hadn’t done it and since she showed no signs of packing her troupe and leaving the area the only thing left to do was avoid her and all mention of her—and that was hard.
Kate was the topic of conversation wherever he went. The rowdy Crisp was said to be at every performance. Even the Dawson lads had taken to the “theater.” And the duke attended daily, which led Lucy to daily hunt Bran down to wring her hands over the actress’s continued hold over her son and how Bran must do something about it.
So here he was, putting himself through the misery of knowing Kate was near and yet wishing she was not.
A man could go mad—
Beyond the forges, next to an old shed, his gaze caught sight of a large wagon propped up on barrels instead of wheels. The smithy’s brother, Tom, oversaw the wainwright services for the village, and though he wasn’t in sight right now no one had ever accused Tom of working hard. He was likely snoozing somewhere.
The wagon wasn’t particularly attractive with its sides weathered by age, but it appeared functional. Bran had no doubt that it could easily haul the tents, wood planks, costumes, and several actors over the countryside.
“What is wrong with that wagon?” he asked Fred.
Having finished the plow, the blacksmith had tied Orion up and was preparing to have him lift his leg. He looked over to see what Bran was talking about and said, “Oh, the actors’ wagon. Whatisn’twrong with it? Tom is having to fashion a new axle and it has been hard. We didn’t have the wood for it. The back wheels were cracked in two when the wagon fell. The spokes on the front were ready to break as well.”
“When will you have it finished?”
“Next Tuesday or so.”Six days away.
Orion impatiently pawed the ground and Fred gave his attention back to the horse. “Your front shoe is loose as well.”
“Do all of them.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bran strode through the shop toward the wagon. There were several other broken vehicles around it. One was an aging phaeton that Fred bragged he dreamed of repairing and driving. Thurlowe was certain the heavy blacksmith would kill himself on it. Bran knew Fred didn’t own the horseflesh to make the vehicle go fast enough to be a danger.
He studied the wagon. Kate would be lucky if it was finished in six days. So many things could go wrong when parts were hewn by hand, which was the only way the Burnham brothers worked. Like so many, they did what their fathers had done and their fathers before them.
Bran leaned to inspect the undercarriage. It was a matter of male curiosity, if nothing else. There was rust on all the metal trappings.
He wondered how Kate traveled. Did she walk beside this wagon? Her resilience would put soldiers to shame—
“Why didn’t you tell me you were married?”Her low, very angry voice came from behind him as if he had conjured her to this place.
Still stooped, Bran looked up. She stood no more than three feet from him, her head high, her shoulders back, the lines of her mouth tight. She had a pert cap on her head and her graceful day dress extenuated every important line of her figure.
And he wasn’t certain he’d heard her correctly.
She took a step toward him. “Were you married that night we were together?”
He rose so abruptly in surprise at her question, he almost bumped his head on the wagon. Kate had never been one to mince words.
“Answer me, Brandon, or I swear—” Her voice stopped as if what she had in mind for him was too terrible to say aloud.
And his own temper ignited.
She charged in out of nowhere to accuse him of unfaithfulness? Him? The man who had pined for her all these years and was now doing all he could to let her go?
“What? What will you swear?” he challenged. “And why would you even care? Everything between us was in the past. You were very clear the other night on where we stood with each other.”
“As it should be,” she snapped. “So answer me. Did you marry? And when?”
