Chapter Seven
Seth spent the nexttwo weeks being a persistent suitor. Brenda observed with amusement as he tried his hand at courting.
“Brenda,” he began on one sweltering afternoon, leaning against the fence while she tended to the garden, “I reckon a lady like yourself could use a break. Perhaps a ride out to the creek?”
Brenda wiped her brow, casting a skeptical glance his way. “Mr. Clinkinbeard, do you even know how to relax by a creek? You strike me as the sort to bring a hammer and nails to a picnic, so you can build a fence around the area.”
He chuckled, a bit sheepishly. “Well, I might need some teaching on leisure, I suppose.”
She smiled gently at his attempt, recognizing the effort behind it. And so, for two weeks, Seth persistently showed up with small offerings—a wildflower bouquet, an invitation to the church social, a promise of a special dinner under the stars. Each gesture was simple, earnest, and increasingly endearing.
However, as the days rolled on, the old Seth began to resurface. It started subtly with just a missed supper here, a forgotten walk there—all excused by urgent matters at the ranch. The rhythm of their newfound companionship stumbled, faltered, and soon Brenda found herself once more second to Seth’s first love: his work.
“Got to mend the fences before the cattle stray,” Seth called out early one morning, already saddled up and halfway out the door.
“Of course,” Brenda replied, trying to hide the disappointment in her voice. “The fences can’t wait, I understand.”
“Appreciate it, Brenda,” he said with a tip of his hat before disappearing into the growing light of dawn.
As the hours passed, Brenda sat on the porch, her eyes watching the horizon where Seth had vanished. She sipped her tea, the silence around her speaking volumes. Once again, she was alone, the brief interlude of courtship seeming more like a dream than a memory.
*****
BRENDA’S FINGERS TRAILEDalong the fabric of her new dress, a cascade of cornflower blue that made her green eyes shimmer. Cassandra had outdone herself. Every stitch was placed with care, every pleat and hem designed to flatter.
“Feels like wearing a cloud, doesn’t it?” Cassandra said, her voice tinged with pride. She stood back, admiring her handiwork.
“Like a dream,” Brenda confessed, turning this way and that before the looking glass. “But will Seth even notice?”
Cassandra tucked a stray blond lock behind Brenda’s ear. “If he doesn’t, he’s blinder than a bat.”
Brenda laughed the sound light as the airy fabric hugging her form. “Let’s hope for a miracle then.”
“Girl, you don’t need miracles. You just be you,” Cassandra encouraged, her eyes sparkling with sisterly affection.
That evening, Brenda stood in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up over her elbows as she tackled a special meal. The table was set with flowers, and Brenda had managed to cook up a roast with all the trimmings—a feat for a woman who claimed an aversion to culinary pursuits.
