Page 27 of A Bride for Brodie

Even though he sounded chipper, something was off about his voice. An undercurrent of worry or anger or fear. She said nothing. Maybe it was something he would mention as they walked.

But he didn’t talk about anything important on the way to the house. He barely talked at all.

When they arrived, Lottie was flabbergasted. The building had four complete walls and a roof. It looked like a house. The front door was hung, and a rail stood on either side of the steps up to the porch. She released him and started toward the building. Then she stopped and looked over her shoulder.

“Are you coming?”

“Of course.” He grabbed her hand. “Come on.” He hurried to the steps.

She practically had to run to keep up. “Slow down. Your legs are longer than mine.”

“Oh, sorry.” He blushed and moderated his pace. “I hope you like what you see.”

They walked across the wide porch.

Lottie could picture herself sitting out here on a swing with Brodie after dinner and watching the sun set over the valley.

He opened the door and ushered her inside.

Her eyes widened. The walls were plastered, and he’d painted them.

“It’s so different from when you first brought me here. It’s wonderful.” She twirled in a circle and took in the entire room. Then she strolled over to Brodie, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him deeply. She lingered, as though she had no place else to be.

His arms came around her waist and held her tight.

She ended the kiss and started to move away.

But he held her tight. “I’m not letting you go that easily. I knew I’d be bringing you here…eventually…and prepared a place for us. Come with me.” He took her hand and moved into their bedroom.

Lottie’s eyes widened, and she giggled. “I can’t believe you brought blankets here and made us a bed.”

“It won’t be soft like our bed at the big house, but it will be softer than the wood floor.”

“Except, I can’t today. It’s my turn to prepare dinner and I have to go back now and do that.”

He sighed. “The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.”

That’s quite lyrical. Does my husband write poetry?“Did you make that up?”

He held his hand out to her. “No. The Scottish poet Robert Burns wrote it. Shall we head back to the house?”

“Yes, I guess we should. We’ll plan better next time.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Let’s go.” She turned toward the door and then stopped. “You said there was something you wanted to talk to me about. What was it?”