Harrison Bridger limped out of the elaborately decorated town hall on the arm of a very sweet Meg Brooke, trying not to wince at the pain that assailed him as he took each step.  He believed it was the right thing to do – it was the right thing to do – but did it have to be so painful?
        "I-I'm sorry for stepping…stomping on your foot so hard," Meg apologized, a hesitant look on her pretty face.
        "No fear, Mrs. Brooke.  You did just as I requested, and I thank you," Harrison assured her, offering a weak grin on her behalf.
        "That was a very valiant thing to do," she said softly after a long moment, meeting his gaze.
        "Having you stomp on my toe?"  His eyes twinkled.
        "I feel terrible for doing it so hard," she admitted, a faint blush tingeing her smooth cheeks.  "But, no, stepping out like that so Jo could be with Nick."
        At that moment, they neared his carriage, and Harrison quickly shifted his weight to the side of the vehicle, not wishing to burden Mrs. Brooke any more than necessary.
        "It was the least I could do," he said with a half-hearted grin, hoping she could not see right through his façade – the real feelings he struggled with.  Perhaps he was being foolish, wishing Jo Bhaer might care for him the way she so evidently cared for the dashing Mr. Riley?
        "It was very kind of you…especially with her lack of enthusiasm.  I'm afraid Jo never has been good at doing something she doesn't want to do.  Oh, I don't  mean—" Meg's eyes widened at her slip.  What an awful thing to say!
        "It's not that she didn't want—"
        "No need to apologize, Mrs. Brooke.  I understand."  He tipped his hat and moved towards Tumbleweed's head to gather the reins.  Still limping, he flipped them over and started bringing them back up towards the seat of his carriage.
        "Well," Harrison started, preparing to climb up, "it would be most ungentlemanly of me to keep you from Mr. Bullock any longer."
        "Yes, Mr. Bullock."  Meg nodded, as if remembering the man for the first time that evening.  "You are right, I should get back inside.  Thank you again, Mr. Bridger, for being so kind."
        "I would not have been able to forgive myself, keeping her to myself for the entire evening while, at the same time, knowing she would—and understandably so—much prefer to be in the company of Mr. Riley."
        Lines of a frown formed on her forehead.  Poor man.  She felt terrible for him.  How uncomfortable he must have felt, thinking, knowing how much Jo disliked being with him at the dance.  Had her younger sister no decency, no concern for another man's feelings?  She knew and could not ignore the fact that he had printed things in the newspaper during the lawsuit against Plumfield.  But he had been so sincere in his apologies for the pain he had caused her, not to mention the follow-up article he had written to publicly retract his unfair accusations.
        "Please don't think that, Mr. Bridger," she entreated, her gentle nature showing through.  "Jo and Nick…they…they seem to be prone to…miscommunication."  She gave a small shrug.  "Jo was just…just irritated over that, I think.  Please don't take it personally."
        Harrison regarded her for a moment, his respect for this woman standing in front of him growing.  He appreciated her sweet and genuine concern for him as a person, her evident forgiveness for his rash acts of foolishness that had happened in the months before, when she could easily despise his existence like her sister.  "Thank you, Mrs. Brooke.  I appreciate your kindness."  He gave her a warm smile—the easiest one he had offered to anyone the entire evening.
        Meg's cheeks colored an innocent shade of red, and she stepped back, though she did not make an immediate move to return inside.
        Preparing to mount his buggy, Harrison swallowed against another sting of pain that zipped up his leg. Just before pulling himself up, he stopped and turned back to her, surprising even himself for the question he was about to ask of her.  "Mrs. Brooke?"
        "Yes?"  Her response came as a mild surprise to him.
        "Would you…would you care to join me for a picnic one afternoon?" The hesitant expression that flickered across her sweet face was answer enough and he regretted the questions as soon at it slipped from his mouth.  She was courting another man, Edward Trenton—and even though he had not meant the invitation for romantic purposes, he knew it would not be proper in the eyes of society. How could he have been so thoughtless, so careless as to thrust her into such an awkward situation?
        "I'm sorry," he said then, feeling ashamed.  "I didn't mean—"
        "Please don't apologize," Meg said softly, offering him a small smile as if to console his fears of offending her.  "I understand.  You've not offended me."
        He seemed to visibly relax at her assurance.  "I won't keep you any longer," he said once more, meaning to keep his word rather than talking on as he touched the brim of his hat.  "It was a pleasure dancing with you this evening, Mrs. Brooke."
        Meg laughed.  "I stepped on your foot!"
        "You are a very talented foot-stomper," he replied with a wink, a jovial grin on his face.  "Good evening, Mrs. Brooke.  I hope I haven't kept you so long that your sisters have sent a search party out after you."
        "Good evening, Mr. Bridger."  Meg smiled again, and, after making sure he made it into his seat all right, she turned and walked to rejoin the ball taking place inside the town hall.
        Harrison sat for a long moment, the town quiet with the exception of the soft music drifting from the building he was so near.  Meg Brooke was a sweet, gentle, and kind woman—one any man would be lucky to have.
        Jo Bhaer was very much the opposite.  While she still possessed those traits, especially while attending to "her" children, she had a fire about her; a feisty, stubborn, strong-minded and opinionated fire.  But he admired her strength, her will to live—and succeed—in a male-dominated world.
        She would never care for him in such the fashion that she cared for Nick Riley, though.  He knew that, and he was learning to accept it.  He would never be anything more than just a newspaper guy to the vibrant Josephine Bhaer.
        "Giddyup, ol' Girl," he coaxed, slapping the reins over the faded chestnut hindquarters of his trusty mare, "Let's go home."
        So, once again, it was just he and Tumbleweed.
        Maybe that was the way it was meant to be.
 
 

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