His Brother's Bride. Judith Bowen

The band, almost indistinguishable in the corner behind a haze of smoke, had started up an old-fashioned swing tune, and couples were moving onto the sawdust-covered dance floor.

      Abby felt comfortable with the handsome stranger, all of a sudden. Maybe it was the second gin. Maybe it was the realization that he’d known exactly what she meant—regulars on the show circuit met people from year to year at the same events. You became friends with someone you saw for only a day or two, two or three times a year. Friendships were struck quickly when there was no time to waste in preliminaries. It was easy to make a mistake that way, but then a few days later, you pulled out of town and left your mistakes behind you. You had a few months, maybe a year to think things over. Generally, by the time you saw the person again, if there’d been any problems, they were all forgotten.

      “Dance?” The cowboy was smiling at her and holding out his hand.

      Impulsively, Abby took it. Why not? She hadn’t danced in ages, and the music was catchy.

      The floor was crowded by now, and Jesse Winslow held her close. Abby’s head was reeling. She breathed in his masculine scent, so near-leather and sweat and a faint, pleasant manufactured scent of some kind, probably aftershave. His hand on her waist was firm and decisive. He steered her clear of any collisions with the other dancers, a few of whom weren’t all that sober. Her hand in his felt very protected, very safe. He was an excellent dancer.

      Trouble was, she couldn’t think of a thing to say.

      Neither could he, it seemed. The silence became heavier and heavier, and Abby’s imagination ran wild. One instant she pictured this man, the man she’d met all of twenty minutes ago, naked, all muscle and brawn and hairy broad chest. Then, horrified, she clamped down on her thoughts and the next thing she knew she imagined him kissing her, unsnapping her bra....

      Omigoodness. What kind of lonely, sex-starved creature was she?

      “Oh, there you are, Abigail!” Marguerite yelled, as though it were Abby who’d done the deserting. Marguerite was in the arms of a tall, thin blond man wearing an expensive-looking gray Western-cut suit. Abby recognized one of the organizers of the stock show. Marguerite obviously had her eye on the main chance....

      “I see you’ve met someone—good! Take your mind off your troubles, hon, just like I told you—” Then, when Marguerite met her again a few seconds later, after the man in the suit had spun her, she continued, “I’ll be going to a party with Stan here-” She winked at Abby. “Maybe you could take a cab to the motel? Or drive my car?”

      She was being ditched. Abby nodded, embarrassed, and was glad when Jesse steered her discreetly in a different direction.

      “Your friend, I presume?” he said, gazing down at her.

      He was so close. Abby caught her breath. “Yes.” She was determined to offer no excuses, either for her choice of friends or for Marguerite’s rude behavior.

      “You want to drive her car home?”

      “No. I’ll take a cab.” Abby looked up as he held her a little closer. “I don’t like to drive when I’ve been drinking, especially someone else’s car.”

      “Drinking!” Jesse laughed. “How many?”

      “That’s my second, the one you bought,” Abby replied. What was so funny?

      “Your second, eh? Well, you aren’t exactly drunk, Abby Steen.”

      “No. But I’m not used to it, either. I feel a little, uh—”

      “You okay?” He looked concerned.

      “I’m fine. I just feel a little queasy, that’s all.”

      They danced one more number, then returned to their table and Abby finished her drink. Her head was foggy. She was more than ready to go back to the motel. She dug in her purse for change, coming up with everything but a quarter. Jesse Winslow watched her for a few moments, then stood and held her chair.

      “Here. Let me take you home. I’m about ready to leave, anyway.”

      “Heavens, no! I’ll take a cab. Can you give me change for a dollar?” She smiled, feeling extraordinarily foolish.

      “Forget it.” He sounded very firm. “I’ll drive you.”

      Abby closed her purse and got to her feet. Jesse put his arm casually around her shoulders, to guide her through the dancers, now thickly crowding the dance floor. Abby couldn’t see Marguerite. Oh well, she’d more or less said goodbye already.

      The evening was crisp and cold, and Abby pulled her jacket more tightly around her. She took a deep breath, which cleared the smoke from her lungs. Early November in northern Minnesota could be colder than this. At least, there wasn’t any snow on the ground yet.

      Jesse led the way to a late-model pickup truck with dual rear wheels, probably the vehicle that had pulled the Winslow stock trailer to Minnesota from Alberta. He handed her into the passenger side, not speaking until he’d climbed into the vehicle and shut the door.

      He paused, his hand on the ignition. “Where you staying?”

      “The Spruce Valley Inn.”

      “That’s the one right near the exhibition grounds?”

      “Yes.” The town’s motels and hotels were pretty well full this week with the out-of-towners visiting the stock show. Her niece and nephew were staying with some friends they’d met on previous trips to Carlisle with Abby’s father, their grandfather. Abby wasn’t keen on that situation, as she couldn’t keep an eye on them the way she was sure her sister would want her to, but on the other hand, she was able to get the early nights she preferred.

      “I’m just down the street. At the Alta Vista.”

      “Oh.” Abby felt like a fool. She was no conversationalist. Why hadn’t she taken a cab? They were strangers, although they’d danced and he’d bought her a drink and she supposed he must be interested in her. They had nothing to say to each other, nothing in common except that they both knew the difference between a Black Angus and a Holstein. They weren’t even in the same area there--he was beef and she was dairy.

      He drove to her motel through the empty streets, not more than a five-minute drive. He didn’t say anything. She supposed that was another thing they , had in common-neither of them was much for chitchat. Abby looked out the window. The shops were dark, of course, but so were most of the cafés and restaurants. Even the movie theater was deserted. Not even midnight yet, but it seemed the good folks of Carlisle went to bed with the chickens, as her father said. Abby smiled to herself wryly. A live wire like her would fit right into this kind of town.

      Abby had often wondered about the kind of town she’d fit into. She’d grown up in Wicoigon. She’d gone to school there, then lived in Grand Falls during her college years. She’d moved back to Wicoigon to teach elementary school. She and Frank had honeymooned in Hawaii, a big splurge that had taken all their meager savings, but that was about as far as she’d traveled. She’d only been out of state a handful of times besides her honeymoon. Twice to a 4-H meet and once to a friend’s wedding in Nebraska. The occasional stock fair back when she traveled with her father. Sometimes she recalled the days she’d yearned to see the world, meet other people, go to the places she’d read about in books. All that had changed when she married Frank, and then when both Frank and the baby they’d wanted so much passed out of her life. Everything was different now. She’d gone to earth like an injured fox; she’d turned to her family and the town she’d always known. She had nothing else to turn to. Neither arrangement was perfect, but then life so rarely was.

      They were at her motel. She’d have to say something....

      She had her hand on the door of the truck. “Well, thanks—”

      “Wait a minute. You going to be all right?”

      “Me?” Abby was slightly bewildered.

      “Yeah. You said you weren’t