from one of the town’s diehard bachelors. And though he hadn’t been prepared to, he was impressed by what he saw.
“More than that,” Brett added as he turned to face his brother, “I can’t believe that you’re the one who’s doing it.”
Finn never missed a beat. He still had a lot to do before he packed it in for the day. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” he asked. He’d been at this from first light, wrestling with a particularly uncooperative floorboard trim, which was just warped enough to give him trouble. That did not put the normally mild-tempered middle brother in the best frame of mind. “I built you a bathroom out of practically nothing, didn’t I?” he reminded Brett. The bathroom had been added to make the single room above the saloon more livable. Until then, anyone staying in the room had had to go downstairs to answer nature’s call or take a shower.
Brett’s memory needed no prodding. It had always been a notch above excellent, which was fortunate for his brothers. It was Brett who took over running Murphy’s and being financially responsible for them at the age of eighteen.
“Yes, you did,” Brett replied. “But don’t forget, you were the kid who always wound up smashing his thumb with a hammer practically every time you so much as held one in your hand.”
His back to Brett as he continued working, Finn shrugged. “You’re exaggerating, and anyway, I was six.”
“I’m not—and you were twelve,” Brett countered. He inclined his head ever so slightly as if that would underscore his point. “I’m the one with a head for details and numbers.”
Finn snorted. It wasn’t that he took offense, just that their relationship was such that they took jabs at one another—and Liam—as a matter of course. It was just the way things were. But at bottom, he was fiercely loyal to his brothers—as they were to him.
“Just because you can add two and two doesn’t make you the last authority on things, Brett,” Liam informed his brother.
“No, running Murphy’s into the black pretty much did that.”
When, at eighteen, he had suddenly found himself in charge of the establishment, after their Uncle Patrick had died, he’d discovered that the saloon was actually losing money rather than earning it. He swiftly got to work making things right and within eight months, he’d managed to turn things around. It wasn’t just his pride that was at stake, he had brothers to support and send to school.
“Look, I didn’t swing by to squabble with you,” Brett went on. “I just wanted to see how the place was coming along—and it looks like you’re finally in the home stretch. Liam been helping you?” he asked, curious.
This time Finn did stop what he was doing. He looked at Brett incredulously and then laughed. “Liam? In case you haven’t noticed, that’s a box of tools by your foot, not a box of guitar picks.”
Finn’s meaning was clear. Of late, their younger brother only cared for all things musical. Brett still managed to get Liam to work the bar certain nights, but it was clear that Liam preferred performing at Murphy’s rather than tending to the customers and their thirst.
“I thought Liam said he was coming by the other day,” Brett recalled.
“He did.” Finn’s mouth curved. “Said watching me work inspired his songwriting.”
“Did it?” Brett asked, amused.
Finn shrugged again. “All I know was that he scribbled some things down, said ‘thanks’ and took off again. I figure that he figures he’s got a good thing going. Tells you he’s coming out here to help me then when he comes here, he writes his songs—and calls it working.” There was no resentment in Finn’s voice as he summarized his younger brother’s revised work ethic. For the most part, Finn preferred working alone. It gave him the freedom to try different things without someone else second-guessing him or giving so-called advice. “Hey, Brett?”
Brett had wandered over to the fireplace. Finn had almost completely rebuilt it, replacing the old red bricks with white ones. It made the room look larger. “What?”
“You think our baby brother has any talent?” he asked in between hammering a section of the floorboard into place.
“For avoiding work?” Brett guessed. “Absolutely.”
Finn knew that Brett knew what he was referring to, but he clarified his question, anyway. “No, I mean for those songs he writes.”
Brett could see the merit in Liam’s efforts, especially since he wouldn’t have been able to come up with the songs himself, but he was curious to hear what Finn’s opinion was. Since he was asking, Brett figured his brother had to have formed his own take on the subject.
“You’ve heard him just like I have,” Brett pointed out, waiting.
Finn glanced at him over his shoulder. “Yeah, but I want to know what you think.”
Brett played the line out a little further. “Suddenly I’m an authority?” he questioned.
Down on his knees, Finn rocked back on his heels, the frustrating length of floorboard temporarily forgotten. Despite the fancy verbal footwork, he really did value Brett’s take on things. Brett had been the one he’d looked up to when he was growing up.
“No, not an authority,” Finn replied, “but you know what you like.”
“I think he’s good. But I think he’s better at singing songs than he is at writing them,” he said honestly, then in the next moment, he added, “But what I do know is that you’ve got a real talent for taking sow’s ears and making silk purses out of them.”
Never one to reach for fancy words when plain ones would do, Finn eyed him with more than a trace of confusion.
“How’s that again?” he asked.
Brett rephrased his comment. Easygoing though he was, it wasn’t often that he complimented either of his brothers. He’d wanted them to grow up struggling to always reach higher rather than expecting things to be handed to them—automatic approval readily fell into that category.
“You’re damn good at this remodeling thing that you do.”
Finn smiled to himself. Only a hint of it was evident on his lips. “Glad you like it.”
“But you don’t have to work on it 24/7,” Brett pointed out. Finn had immersed himself in this huge project he’d taken on almost single-handedly. There was no reason to push himself this hard. “Nobody’s waving a deadline at you.”
“There’s a deadline,” Finn contradicted. He saw Brett raise an eyebrow in a silent query, so he stated the obvious. “You and Lady Doc are still getting married, aren’t you?”
Just the mere mention of his pending nuptials brought a wide smile to Brett’s lips. Just the way that thoughts of Alisha always did.
Until the young general surgeon had come to town, answering Dr. Daniel Davenport’s letter requesting help, Brett had been relatively certain that while he loved all the ladies, regardless of “type,” there was no so-called soul mate out there for him.
Now
