by Jo Grafford
Griff shot him an amused, knowing glance. “Kane’s right, folks. Paisley keeps a bottomless pot of coffee going, and Train is a demon on the grill.”
Bert’s brows drew together at the mention of Paisley’s name.
“Pais is our sister, and Train is her husband,” he explained. “Last name of Wilson, if you’ve not yet made their acquaintance.”
“I haven’t.” She looked puzzled. “I would have remembered the name Train.”
He chuckled. “His real name is Hubert, but he used to be a train conductor before he married our sister. Hence, the name, Train.”
An answering smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “It’s a fascinating name. I look forward to meeting them both.”
“Why wait?” Kane had to raise his voice to be heard above the noise of music, chatter, and laughter. He was warming to the idea of showing the Black Barrel Inn off to Bert. If she was so easily impressed by Matthew Crutchfield’s scholarly pursuits, he couldn’t wait to see her response to the trail blazing design of their inn.
Trailing a few steps behind him and Griff, she and Matthew carried on their conversation about air travel the entire short walk to the inn. They mostly debated the research and writings of Octave Chanute, another German inventor, who was carrying on the work of Otto Lilienthal after a recent and tragic flying accident.
By the time they reached the front stoop of the Black Barrel Inn, Kane had just about had enough of his friend monopolizing Bert’s attention.
“Here we are,” he breezed, mounting the porch stairs two at a time to open the front doors of the inn. “Come on in,”
The exterior of the inn was composed of two stories of weathered panels, a wide covered veranda with plenty of whitewashed rockers and chairs for sitting, and rows of sandstone urns brimming with desert roses. The interior of the inn, however, was the pièce de résistance. The check-in desk was constructed from an old carriage. A door to the contraption was flung wide, showing Paisley perched on a stool inside the half-hollowed out flooring. She was sorting a stack of papers, but she glanced up at they entered. The front of the carriage was complete with a wooden horse, large enough for a child to climb on. Several children, in fact.
“Griff! Kane!” Paisley sang out in her musical alto. “Welcome back. I wasn’t expecting you so early.” Her blue gaze curiously scanned Bert and Matthew. “I see you’ve brought friends.” She whirled from behind the carriage and held out her hands.
Kane made the introductions, while keeping a shrewd eye on Bert.
He was pleased to see her giving their one-of-a-kind check-in counter an admiring glance. Or two. He was also pleased to smell the fresh pot of coffee Paisley had brewing as well as the cinnamon rolls Train had recently popped in the oven. He and Griff had worked hard to build this place from the ground up, and Paisley and Train did a tremendous job helping to keep it running smoothly. Both worked there full time during the day, allowing him and Griff to tend to their livestock at the ranch.
To their right was a sitting area for guests, complete with a wide stone fireplace, a chandelier artfully designed from deer antlers, and a scattering of short ottomans shaped like fuzzy lambs. The lambs were another one of their unique ideas intended to appeal to guests traveling with small children. To their left was the main dining area. It was deemed The Feeding Trough in blue letters painted on a metallic silver sign mounted over the doorway. It was big enough to serve their resident guests as well as walk-ins off the street who were simply looking for a warm meal. So far, opening their dining area to the general public had turned out to be a profitable endeavor.
Kane and Griff led their guests inside the near-empty room full of round tables with black leather padded chairs. Tonight, business was slow due to the picnic and dance. Only a handful of white-headed gentlemen were present. They were sipping on coffee and playing a round of cards.
Paisley hurried to fetch a tray with four more mugs of her steaming brew. She delivered it to their table, along with a small bowl of sugar cubes and a tiny pitcher of cream.
“Thank you, sis.” Griff leaned in to kiss her cheek. “If you’ll rustle up a few of those cinnamon buns when Train pulls them out of the oven…”
“You know I will, love.” She held the now-empty tray at her side and rubbed a hand across her blooming belly. “Anything else?”
Kane shook his head while eying her movements. He hoped she was well this evening. It hadn’t been an easy first pregnancy.
“Just a kick,” she assured, catching his eye. “This babe is turning out to be a real tiger.”
He nodded, inwardly praying her better health in recent days would continue.
Though Bert sat when Kane held out a chair for her, her attention remained on Matthew who took the seat across from her. “What are your thoughts about the future of hot-air balloon travel?” She clasped her hands on the table and leaned in his direction. “It’s all the rage in Europe these days. I wish it were the case here stateside.”
A wrinkle formed between Matthew’s brows as he mulled over her question. “It has gained some traction as a sport,” he said carefully. “Not so much as a bonafide form of public transportation.”
Her mouth twisted downward in obvious disagreement. “Why do you think that is the case?”
He shrugged, opened and closed his mouth a few times, and finally expelled a breath of air. “It’s limited, I suppose. And risky.”
“How so?” she demanded.
He shrugged again. “For one thing, it’s powered by coal gas. The risk of fire is always there. Plus, the passenger basket is small and leaves folks out in the elements. Then there are the limits in altitude, distance, and speed.” He spread his hands. “It’s progress, true, but my gut tells me there are better things to come. That is all.”
“Nevertheless, it’s the rage in Europe.” Bert sounded green with envy. “Perhaps, I can help make it so here in our country someday.”
Kane stood so abruptly that his brother reached out to catch his chair before it toppled backwards. He had reached his limit of being ignored by the sharp-tongued female inventor in their midst. He headed blindly toward the kitchen to check on the cinnamon buns.
To his surprise, Griff followed. “This isn’t like you.” His brother nudged him with an elbow when they stepped inside the kitchen. “Letting a woman crawl under your skin like that.”
“I know,” he muttered. “It makes no sense. Why should I care?”
“But you do,” his brother noted.
“It doesn’t matter.” He socked his right fist into his left hand. “She’s not interested in me. She’s made that clear enough.”
“Or,” his brother taunted. “You’re giving up too easily, which also isn’t like you.”
The scent of fresh-baked pastries surrounded them like a warm, sweet cloak. Train looked up from the cabinet where he was painting on icing and nodded at them.
“I have no idea what you mean,” Kane growled to his brother while nodding back at Train.
His sister’s husband was wearing his favorite denim overalls and a striped hat that was a throwback to his conductor days. However, their customers raved that it only added to the charm of the rustic inn.
“Yes, you do,” Griff insisted in undertones. “You like her. I can tell.”
“I’m a confirmed bachelor, and she’s a pain in my backside.”
“I reckon that’s why you look like a thundercloud every time she smiles at ol’ Crutchfield.”
“He may be a great friend, but he’s as boring as a rusty nail.” Kane snorted. “What I don’t understand is what she could possibly see in a man who spends his days squinting over books.”
“Intelligence?” Griff noted mildly with a raised brow. “He conducts research and performs experiments, too, you know. And does some guest speaking at a number of universities.”
“Why, thank you.” Kane glared at him. “You sound like a walking advertisement for the man.”
His brother chuckled. “You
, on the other hand, are the mastermind behind everything that makes the Black Barrel Inn unique.” He ticked the list of items off on his long, callused fingers. “The stagecoach reception desk was your idea as were the fuzzy lamb ottomans. Even the name of The Feeding Trough—”
Kane stopped him with an upraised palm. “And none of my brainstorms would have come to fruition without your financial and management skills. I may come up with the ideas, but you make them all happen.”
“Exactly. We’re a team; and right now, your first mate is trying to point out that you’re giving up too easily.” Griff so cleverly turned the argument back on his brother that Kane didn’t see it coming until it socked him in the gut. “If you want to capture the girl’s attention, you’re simply going to have to come up with another one of your genius ideas.” He glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. “Preferably in the next few minutes.” His gray-blue eyes turned sly. “If you succeed, I’ll finally take you up on your challenge to ride the bull at the next rodeo.”
Kane froze in the act of snatching one of the steaming cinnamon rolls off Train’s platter. “Are you serious?”
“As growing old and dying.” Griff laughingly crossed his heart.
“Hot tamales! You’re on, brother!” Instead of snatching up a cinnamon roll, Kane reached around Train to snatch a clean plate. The blue pottery plates and mugs were another one of his ideas. Several of the other eating establishments in town used mix-and-match accessories. The Feeding Trough was the only restaurant whose plates and mugs were a distinct part of their charming country brand.
“Hold up there, Train.” His brother-in-law obligingly lowered the tray he’d just lifted.
The former conductor looked puzzled. “I thought Paisley said you wanted these carried to your table.”
“I do. Minus one, please and thank you.” Kane used a silver spatula to carefully scoop the most rounded cinnamon roll from the tray. He set it gently on the top center of his blue plate. “Got any of that icing left over?”
“Plenty.” Train pointed at the silver bowl he’d been painting from.
Kane peered over the rim. There was more than enough left for what he had in mind. “Perfect. Carry on, conductor!”
Train glanced curiously over his shoulder several times before exiting the kitchen with his platter held high.
Kane waited until he disappeared before commencing his plan for capturing Bert’s attention. First, he removed his blazer and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Next, he painstakingly drizzled the sticky white icing across the bottom half of the plate. It wasn’t an easy or a quick task, but his movements were steady. A lattice work basket with ropes attaching it to the cinnamon roll slowly took shape. In a handful of minutes, the pastry was transformed into a sweet, mouth-watering version of a hot-air balloon.
Kane critically surveyed his work and deemed it ready for the next part of his plan. He glided into the dining room with the blue plate perched on the tips of his fingers. To his disappointment, Bert didn’t look up until he slid the plate directly beneath her nose.
She stopped speaking in mid-sentence and stared at the desert. “My father once called something my mother made too pretty to eat,” she noted softly. At long last, she raised her dark gaze to Kane’s. “This is one of those dishes, Mr. ah…”
His stomach twisted at the knowledge she’d already forgotten his name. “Kane,” he supplied, turning around the chair next to hers and straddling it. “I’ve been thinking about that hot-air balloon you’re in the middle of constructing. If you want some help with it, I’m awfully handy with a toolbox. I’m fairly certain I can get my hands on a passenger basket, as well.” He had no idea how or where, only that he was going to win this latest dare of Griff’s.
She caught her breath. “I already have the design sketched out for my balloon, which I’ll be sewing myself; but I’ve not even attempted to acquire a basket yet.” Her rosy lips stretched into a joyous smile. “If you are truly interested, I could use the help, Mr.—”
“Kane,” he interrupted. “Just Kane.”
There was a note of pleading in her eyes as she held his gaze. “I know this may sound foolishly optimistic, but I was hoping to complete it by September. They’re planning on hosting a balloon race in Colorado Springs.”
“That’s over a hundred miles away,” he exclaimed, wondering how in the world she planned to transport such a large item such a great distance. “Closer to a hundred and fifty, I’d wager.”
“Like I stated, it’s a foolish idea.” Her lips curved ruefully, but the smile was gone from her eyes. “But be assured I intend to take our balloon up for a test flight or two, race or no race.”
“I’d like that.” He glanced across the table at Matthew, who was shaking his head in bemusement, and Griff, who was grinning his encouragement. “How about I walk you home, so we can wrangle out a few more details about your project?”
She nodded happily and stood.
“One moment.” Kane strode back to the kitchen and returned with a box for her cinnamon pastry hot-air balloon, which he proceeded to package up for her, blue plate and all.
Paisley bustled across the room, removing her apron as she walked. “How about I come along?” She cast a knowing look in Bert’s direction. “I’m heading that way myself.” She and Train shared a townhouse at the end of Main. “Besides, these feet are tired of standing.”
Ah. Of course. He nodded gratefully. Naturally, a young woman in Bert’s shoes would require a proper chaperone.
Bert seemed lost in thought on their walk back to the Redburn mansion and only answered his questions in monosyllables. He understood the reason for her tight-lipped distraction the moment the front door opened to her home.
Violet Redburn appeared in the brightly lit opening, arms akimbo with a warning light in her eyes. “Perhaps you can explain where you’ve been? We’ve been searching high and low for you!”
Chapter 3: A Lack of Indifference
Bert
“Pray forgive me,” Bert muttered in undertones to Kane and Paisley. “I fear I’ve made a mess of things. Again.”
To her surprise, Paisley Wilson reached for her hand and squeezed. “This is exactly why I came along, my friend. Everything will work out alright. You’ll see.”
Violet’s gaze zoomed in on their joined hands. “Oh, mercy! Where are my manners? Do come in,” she offered hastily. “We were just getting ready to serve tea and cookies in the parlor.” She drew a bracing breath. “Bert, we will speak about your absence later.” Some of the tartness returned to her voice.
“Why, thank you! We would love to join you.” Acting as if she didn’t hear the admonition Violet Redburn had just issued, she mounted the veranda stairs.
Kane hastened to her side to offer his assistance.
Violet watched them in silent appreciation as he guided his sister up the stairs. “How far along are you?” she asked in a gentler voice.
“Seven months,” Paisley puffed once she reached the porch landing. “It feels more like seven years.”
“Oh, you dear thing.” Violet reached for her arm and guided her the rest of the way into the house. “Let’s get you seated and more comfortable, shall we?”
Kane jogged halfway back down the stairs to offer his arm to Bert.
She waved away his help. “As you can see, I am not in the family way and do not require your assistance.”
He dropped his arm, and his smile slipped.
Bert sighed inwardly, remembering her promise to Violet and Chance earlier about trying harder. Land sakes! She’d failed them in so many ways this evening, beginning with her tumble to the grassy square with Rafe and ending with her total abandonment of him at the town picnic.
“Pray forgive me,” she muttered, reaching awkwardly for his arm. “Sometimes my brain gets so wrapped up in my inventions that I forget propriety altogether.”
His expression brightened, and he brought his free hand to rest atop the one she had wrapped around his forearm.
It suddenly dawned on her that his sleeves were still rolled and his blazer was still missing, leaving her fingers to rest against warm skin instead of fabric. It felt a bit on the scandalous side, though it was far from an unpleasant experience. In fact, Bert could think of little else besides the way her hand felt on his arm until they entered the parlor. He deposited her in the nearest chair but remained standing beside her.
Rafe was standing across the room from them with one elbow propped on the mantle. He looked weary and irritated. At the sight of Bert, however, he straightened. “A-are y-y-you w-well, B-Bert?” He eyed Kane in puzzlement.
“I am,” she sighed. “And I am enormously sorry for disappearing while you were fetching us lemonade earlier.”
“Indeed you are a sorry little minx.” Jasmine swished her way across the room in her pink skirts that remained blissfully unwrinkled, unlike Bert’s. “The sorriest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.” She reached for Bert’s hand and yanked her unceremoniously out of her chair. “Pray pardon us, sir.” Without waiting for Kane’s response, she dragged Bert into the foyer. “What were you thinking?” she chided in heated tones. “Even you with all your lack of decorum must know that a young lady does not arrive at a party with one gentleman and leave with another.”
Huh! When you put it in those terms, I sound like a perfectly horrible person. “I am aware,” Bert confessed glumly. “and I could not be more sorry. Please believe me. Poor, poor Rafe. I just get so caught up in my inventions sometimes, I forget everything else.” There were so many rules concerning how to act and talk like a proper young lady that it positively made her head hurt. She cast a worried glance over her shoulder at Kane who was covertly observing them from the other side of the arched doorway. What he must think of me! In her misery, she struggled to come up with an explanation that Jasmine might find reasonable. “I overheard a conversation about air travel and more or less followed it all the way to the Black Barrel Inn. It’s a fascinating establishment, by the way. You simply must eat there sometime. Oh, and please be nice to Kane and his sister, Paisley. They seem like good folks. None of my addle-brained behavior is their fault.”