Gingham Bride Page 9

  His gut twisted tight, a sure sign he was acting against his conscience.

  “Sure is a nice saddle you’ve got.” Russell lumbered into sight. “Don’t see gear like this in these parts.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve got an offer for it, too.”

  “If you’re interested, let me know. No pressure.” With a friendly grin, he hefted the saddle onto a nearby sawhorse. “If you’re in these parts again, I hope you drop by. I sure would appreciate your business.”

  “I will.” His mind had already decided. He had lost all reason and erased the long list of his obligations back home. Of his grandmother depending on him. What about the debt he was in the middle of settling, the horses needing his care and the weight of his family’s fallen dreams? They felt like nothing against the image of one woman he could not forget.

  Duchess bumped his shoulder to get his attention.

  “It’s all right now, girl,” he told his mare. “I won’t be leaving you again.”

  In the distance he heard another sound, the approaching blast of the westbound train. The train that would take him back the way he’d come and back to Fiona’s door.

  What do I do, Lord? He glanced upward, hoping that the Good Father could see him in spite of the storm. There was a choice he had to make—one was sensible, the other borne on emotion alone. Only God would know the consequences of each. Only God could lead him the right way. He bowed his head to pray.

  Another dollar. Fiona tied the top of her money sock into a knot. It wasn’t a fortune, but the twenty-three dollars in coins would have to be enough. Her stomach knotted tighter as she tucked the thick bundle into the little wooden box her grandmother had gotten her. It was meant to be a jewelry box, but she’d had no jewelry to store in it until now.

  She brushed the locket with her forefinger. The memory of her grandmother was dim, but she’d been a smiling, gentle woman who smelled of cinnamon rolls. Maybe it was because she had been baking them that day Fiona’s family had come to visit. There had been an argument, and she had never seen the woman or heard from her again.

  Let me tell you about the man you will marry one day, her grandmother had said in her quiet way. Like music the words came, although she did not sing them. Fiona remembered being a little girl, snuggling close to her grandmother’s side, wanting to hear more of the story. Her grandmother had obliged. Ian is a mere boy, barely a year older than you, but I hear he already has his grandfather’s gift with horses. He’s a born horseman. They say McPherson thoroughbreds are the prettiest sight in all of Landover County. You will live there one day, my dear, and gaze upon the green fields where the magnificent horses race in the sunshine. What do you think of that?

  Remembering the love that had shone in her grandmother’s words drove the cold from the air. She realized she was smiling as she closed the box’s fitted lid. She had forgotten the musical sweetness of the story; over the years the family’s agreement to marry the McPherson heir had lost all wonder. Da spoke of his exploits of drinking and gambling and pranks done together as boys until she began to see Ian’s father and Ian himself as the worst nightmare she could dream up.

  She’d been wrong. Her smile lingered, remembering the kind, strong man. It was tempting to want to turn to him. She almost altered her plans to run westward and go to Landover County instead.

  Foolish, though, wouldn’t it be? She slid the small box beneath the loose floorboard and laid the wooden planks flat to hide her treasures. She knew Ian’s offer of help had been a genuine one, but he had troubles of his own. He did not need her to add to them.

  The barn door flew open, startling her, and cracked against the wall. The animals cried out in alarm, trampling nervously in their stalls below. Mally flew from his soft bed in the hay beside her with his claws out and tail bristling to dive for cover. Likewise, she covered the floorboards with an old burlap sack and a hunk of hay.

  “Fiona!” Da’s shout didn’t sound as angry as it usually did, echoing in the shadowed rafters. “Get down here. We’re having guests to supper.”

  “Guests?” Her knees weakened as she pushed to her feet. What guests? A man like the one today? Fear gripped her. She still had time to grab a few things and meet the four o’clock train. If she hurried and ran most of the way, she could make it.

  “My turn to host the poker game.” Da came to the base of the ladder, his gaze pinning her in the half-light. There was warning in his eyes and in the hard set of his jaw. That always spelled trouble for her. “I’ll expect you to help your ma.”

  “It’s Thursday,” she realized. One of Da’s regular poker nights. Her knees turned watery with relief.

  “Get your lazy self down here. I brought you up to work, and it is work you’ll be doing or else. I don’t want any nonsense tonight. You hear me, girl?”

  “Yes, Da.” She cast one last look toward her hidden box. The wind gusted against the north wall of the barn, howling as if in protest. She gripped the top rung of the ladder, wishing she could ignore the clench of nerves deep inside.

  It’s going to be all right, she told herself, but in truth, she could not be sure.

  Chapter Eight

  The distant toot, too-oot of the westbound train called across the prairie, muffled by the lessening snowfall and by the thick, panicked pulse thudding in her ears. Was it four o’clock already? Fiona stopped stock-still in the middle of the yard, forgetting the empty buckets in both hands, forgetting that Ma had a sharp eye on her. She shivered, but not from the cold penetrating her coat. Her parents had kept her busy with one task after another, and every time she slipped away to pack a few necessary clothes, they called her to do some other chore. And now here she was, home and not on the depot’s platform with a ticket in hand.

  And why was the train on time in this weather, instead of running behind? Oh, why couldn’t it have been fifteen minutes late, just today? That was all she needed to get the water from the pump and slip back out of the house.

  “Fiona!” Ma’s shrill anger rang loud enough for the neighbors, a quarter of a mile away, to hear.

  Or at least it seemed that way. Fiona jumped, her heart thudded and the bucket handles slid from her grip.

  “What are you doing, standing around like a loon? Get to work.” Face ruddy, mouth drawn tight in anger, Ma stood at the top step, her spatula raised as if ready to strike. “An important visitor is to come, and if he sees you lolling about like an idiot, your father will have your hide. You understand?”

  A visitor? What visitor? Surely this could not be another would-be husband for her, and so soon. “I thought it was just Da’s poker night.”

  “And he is coming to play cards, too.”

  All the daylight drained from the sky. Winter’s cold burrowed deep within her. “I won’t do it, Ma. I’m not going to marry anyone.”

  “We are your parents, and you will honor us as the Bible says. You will do what you’re told.” Ma’s face sharpened, and a harsh look twisted her features.

  What could she say to that? Anything would be seen as disrespectful, and even God’s word was clear. A child must honor her parents, but surely He did not mean for her to obey in this. Snowflakes struck her face like tears. In town, a mile away, the train was at the depot, idling on the tracks. Each moment that passed was one moment closer to the train’s departure. If she hurried, left her belongings but grabbed her treasure box, she could run to town before the train left. But if her parents spotted her, then Da would come after her on one of the horses. She could not run fast enough to evade him.

  “Fiona!” Ma’s voice hit like a slap to her cheek.

  She knelt to retrieve the fallen buckets, but she missed one of the metal handles and had to reach for it three times. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught her mother turning with an economical swish of her skirts and disappearing inside the lean-to. Time and defeat had stooped her spine, and misery covered her like a shawl.

  If she did not run, would that be her one day? She shivered, des
pair heavy within her. Snow grabbed at her boots just like dread at her heart. If she married as her parents said it was her duty to do, would life always be this way? Would one day follow another, filled with hard work and a cold man’s cruel words? When the color in her hair had faded to gray and her face became roughened with deep lines, would she, too, speak harshly with unhappiness?

  She reached the well and fit one bucket’s handle into the groove. If she squinted, she could make out the shadowy boxes of the town’s buildings. Run. The wish rose up as if from her soul, and longing filled her. She wanted to hitch up her skirt and take off through the fields straight to the depot. To her surprise, she was already twisting away from the hand pump, reaching for her skirts when a hard voice stopped her.

  “Fiona! Stop fooling around.” Da appeared around the corner of the shanty. “Come stable this man’s fine animal.”

  She swirled to a stop, vaguely noticing the bucket had fallen from the pump and hit the snow with a ringing clank. Her gaze went straight to the black horse standing obediently at Da’s side and the short, bony man next to it.

  The man from the schoolyard. The wind seemed to push at her, urging her to run. But it was too late.

  “Come here, child.” A wide hat brim shaded the man’s face, but he reached toward her, holding out his hand. The glove he wore looked to be of the finest leather. “Come meet my horse. He’s a purebred. There isn’t one finer in all of Angel County.”

  “You had best not trust him to me, then.” She did not know exactly why she feared the man. Perhaps it was his small smile that didn’t look genuine, or the jovial way Da tried to wave her closer.

  “Come on, lass. You’re sweet on the critters. Come take care of this gentleman’s horse so we can get started with our game.” Da nodded to her, as if everything was going to be all right. He wasn’t even angry with her for the fallen bucket or the fact that she’d been dawdling when it came to fetching water for his supper.

  Warning enough that something was wrong. She could not make her feet move.

  “Don’t make me come get you.” The warning came subtly and with a cold promise. “I’ll be makin’ sure you regret it if I do.”

  “Yes, Da.” She left the buckets where they lay and tried to uproot her shoes from the earth. Her pulse rattled like dried leaves in a wind and she shuffled forward. She felt afraid, although she couldn’t say exactly why.

  “Nice to meet you, miss.” The stranger tipped his hat to her, as a gentleman might. He looked dapper with his tailored clothes and long duster. But there was something in his cold liquid eyes, something she didn’t understand.

  “Sir.” Her curtsy was shaky under her father’s watchful eye. The wind swirled against her as if to grab her away, and the departing train’s whistle mocked her with what might have been. She gripped the reins her father held out for her and turned on her heels.

  It wasn’t a terrible thing—surely this would go as before. The man would stay to supper and then speak with her father. She still had time. Relieved, she clucked to the horse and he followed her obligingly. She was panicking for nothing. It wasn’t as if the minister was coming. Wedding preparations took time. She swiped the snow from her eyes with her free hand. If this really was a man wanting to marry her, she could take her money to school with her tomorrow morning and walk to the depot. Her parents would think she was at school. And chances were this man wouldn’t be interested in a wife less than half his age. What were her folks thinking? It just went to show how desperate they were.

  She wrestled the barn door open and ignored the flickering anxiety in her midsection. She had to stay calm. Rational, instead of acting on fears that weren’t real. She led the horse into the aisle. Flannigan neighed out a warning, for this was his barn. Riley reached out as far as his stall would allow, straining against the groaning boards. The cow, chewing her cud, seemed unimpressed with the newcomer. By the time Mally let out a meow from the overhead rafter and reached down to try to bat at her, the knot in her stomach had eased.

  See? Everything was fine. Likely as not, this evening would turn out much like Ian’s visit. The instant Da mentioned that money would be part of the bargain, the old guy would head out the door so fast he would be nothing more than a blur.

  The hinges creaked, and the inside of the barn went dark. It took her a moment to realize someone had shut the door. Flannigan trumpeted in protest. The horse she held tugged at his bits. They were no longer alone.

  “Hello?” She dropped the reins and felt her way to the first main pole. She groped for the match tin, bumping the lantern. It rocked on its nail with a scraping sound, like fingernails on a blackboard.

  “I thought we oughta get better acquainted.” A stranger’s voice lifted out of the shadows. Footsteps padded toward her on the hard-packed earth. His voice sounded closer. “I hear you’re lookin’ for a man.”

  “You heard wrong.” She found the edges of the match tin and lifted the lid. “My father is looking for money.”

  “A pretty penny, too, but then you are a very pretty girl.” His shadow hulked out of the blackness, within arm’s reach.

  Tiny fissures of alarm snaked through her. She struck the match, chasing away the darkness. Sure enough, the black-horse guy was within hand-shaking distance. She touched the flame to the lantern’s wick. “You aren’t really interested in me, are you? It’s the farm. Is that why you’re here?”

  “I’m a lonely fellow, and lookin’ to settle down. I got my own place east of here.”

  “Lonely?” She blew out the match, wishing she could extinguish her bad feeling as easily. “I would make a terrible wife. You ought to find someone else. Maybe someone your age? Maybe you could attend church. There are plenty of nice older ladies there.”

  “Now I know why your pa is desperate to get rid of you.” A sour expression crossed the man’s ruddy features. “You’ve got a smart mouth. That can be cured.”

  “I doubt it.” She closed the lantern’s squeaky door. “Why don’t you go play cards. I’ve got work to do, and I—”

  “Did I say you could talk?” His temper flared, as if out of nowhere. “I like what I see, but you have some learnin’ yet to do.”

  “Leave me alone, you—” She didn’t see the blow coming, it was so fast. His palm shot out and connected to her cheek. Pain bulleted through her skull, and white stars danced in her head. Her knees no longer held her upright. He’d hit her, she realized, as her head cracked against the wood post, and she hit the ground on her back. She tried to focus on the rafters overhead, but they were blurry. Her ears rang like church bells.

  “I don’t like sass and I don’t take orders.” He towered over her, fists clenched, ready to swing again. “Listen here, missy. You will do what I say.”

  Fear crackled through her nerve endings as she inched backward. Her father was in the house, and she knew the sheriff was, too; she’d seen him arrive. “I don’t understand why you would want to marry me.”

  “Who said anything about marrying you?” He grabbed for her arm and she rolled away. “My last gal run off, and I have need of someone to cook and clean and keep me warm.”

  Shock choked her. She gasped for air, but nothing came. Just a garbled sound, a terrified sound. Dimly she wondered what would happen to her. If he intended to take her with him tonight, with her father and the sheriff watching to make sure she obeyed. She would have no chance to say goodbye to her friends. They would go to school tomorrow and know nothing of why she wasn’t there. The future she’d wished and saved for, the one with hopes for a happy life working at some pleasant job in a nice town and her own little house one day—all that would vanish.

  “Git up!” The stranger grabbed for her again.

  She leaped to her feet, evading him. Flannigan neighed angrily. Riley lunged and reared in his stall. They sensed the danger, too. What else did this man intend to do to her? Her fingers closed around the worn smooth wood of the pitchfork handle. She presented it, tines out.

&nbs
p; “Go away.” She might be able to scare him off, or make him angry enough to run and get her da. That would give her the time she needed. Time to run and hide in the falling darkness.

  “How dare you give me orders!” His face twisted with rage and he lunged toward the pitchfork as if to rip it from her hand. But he was jerked off his feet from behind.

  “Fiona? It’s me.” Ian McPherson emerged from the shadows, as strong as a hero, as shadowed as twilight. “It’s all right now, I promise you that.”

  “I’m dreaming you up, aren’t I?” She started quaking so hard the pitchfork shook. It was a cruel trick her mind was playing on her.

  “The last thing I am is anyone’s dream, lass.” He looked real enough as he hauled the cursing man to the door by the back of his collar, handily, as if he were carrying a varmint by the scruff of the neck. “Reckon it’s a good thing I’ve come back.”

  “I’ll not argue with that.” A good thing? A blessing it was. He had come just when she needed him most. She watched in disbelief as he deposited the man outside in the storm, exchanged heated words with him and strode inside to grab the black horse by the reins. When he slammed the door shut, they were alone.

  “It did not take long for you to get into a wee bit of trouble.” He ambled toward her, his limp pronounced, as if he’d strained his injury. “I was right. Your father wasted no time finding a man to take my place.”

  “You were the far superior candidate.”

  “Your nose is bleeding. Sit down.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and shook out the folds. “Tilt your head back. Pinch the bridge of your nose.”

  “I don’t have time.” Her head might be foggy and now that Ian mentioned it, blood was running down her face, but she couldn’t stand here. The man—with Da—would be back. “Could you saddle Flannigan for me?”

  “Saddle him? What for?” He dabbed gently at her nose, close enough that she could see the day’s shadow whiskering his chin and smell the winter wind on his coat.