Gingham Bride (2 page)

“Well, young fellow, that sounds mighty good.” O’Rourke seemed pleased and held out the whip. “I suspect you might need this.”

Ian looked with distaste at the sinuous black length. “I see a rope looped over the fencepost. That will be enough.”

“Suit yourself. It will be here if you need it.” O’Rourke sounded amused as he tossed down the whip and sank boot-deep into the snow. He gestured toward the harnessed gelding, standing head down, as if his spirit had been broken long ago. “I’ll leave this one for you to stable.”

It wasn’t a question, and Ian didn’t like the sound of mean beneath the man’s conversational tone. Still, he’d been brought up to respect his elders, so he held his tongue. O’Rourke and how he lived his life were not his concern. Seeing his grandmother through her final days and figuring out a way to make a living for both of them was his purpose.

He ought not to be giving in to his fanciful side, but with every step he took he noted the gray daylight falling at an angle, shadows hugging the lee side of rises and fence posts, but not over the girl. As he loosened the harness and lifted the horse collar from the gelding’s back, he felt a strange longing, for what he did not know. Perhaps it was the haunting beauty of this place of sweeping prairies and loneliness. Maybe it was simply from traveling so long and far from everything he knew. There was another possibility, and one he didn’t much want to think on. He led the horse to the corral gate, unlooped the coiled rope from the post, used the rails to struggle onto the horse’s back and swiped snow from his eyelashes.

Where had she gone? He breathed in the prairie’s stillness, coiling the long driving reins and knotting them. He leaned to open the gate and directed the horse through. No animal stirred, a sign the storm setting in was bound to get worse. Only the wind’s flat-noted wail chased across the rolling and falling white prairie. Different from his Kentucky home, and while he missed the trees and verdant fields, this sparse place held beauty, too.

“C’mon, boy.” He drew the gate closed behind them. The crest where he’d last spotted the girl and horse was empty. He pressed the gelding into a quick walk. Falling flakes tapped with greater force and veiled the sky and the horizon, closing in on him until he could no longer see anything but gray shadows and white snow. He welcomed the beat of the wild wind and needle-sharp flakes. The farmer in him delighted in the expansive fields and the sight of a cow herd foraging in the far distance. Aye, he missed his family’s homestead. He missed the life he had been born to.

When he reached the hill’s crest, hoofprints and shoe prints merged and circled, clearly trailing northward. A blizzard was coming, that was his guess, for the wind became cruel and the snowflakes furious. At least he had tracks to follow. He did not want to think what he would find when he was face-to-face with the woman. He could only pray she did not want this union any more than he did. And why would she? he mused as he tucked his cane in one hand. The girl would likely want nothing to do with him, a washed-up horseman more comfortable chatting with his animals than a woman.

Perhaps it was Providence that brought the snow down like a shield, protecting him from sight as he nosed the horse into the teeth of the storm. Maybe the Almighty knew how hard it was going to be for him to face the girl, and sent the wind to swirl around him like a defense. He could do this; he drew in a long breath of wintry air and steeled his spine. Talking to a woman might not be his strong suit, but he had done more terrifying things. Right now none came to mind, but that was only because his brains muddled whenever a female was nearby. Which meant that somewhere in the thick curtain of white, Miss Fiona O’Rourke, his betrothed, had to be very close.

He heard her before he saw her. At least he
thought
that was her. The quiet soprano was sheer beauty, muted by the storm and unconsciously true, as if the singer were unaware of her gifted voice. Sure rounded notes seemed to float amid the tumbling snowflakes, the melody hardly more than a faint rise and fall until the horse drew him closer and he recognized the tune.

“O come all ye faithful,” she sang. “Joyful and triumphant.”

He wondered how anything so warm and sweet could be borne on the bitterest winds he’d ever felt. They sliced through his layers of wool and flannel like the sharpest blade, and yet her sweet timbre lulled him warmly, opening his heart when the cruel cold should have closed it up tight.

“O come ye, oh come ye…” The snowfall parted enough to hint at the shadow of a young woman, dark curls flecked with white, holding out her hand toward the darker silhouette of the giant draft horse. “To Bethlehem. Come and behold him…”

The horse he rode plunged toward her as if captivated. Ian understood. He, too, felt drawn to her like the snowflakes to the ground. They were helpless to take another course from sky to earth just as he could not help drawing the horse to a stop to watch. Being near to her should have made his palms sweat and cloying tightness take over his chest, but he hardly noticed his suffocating shyness. She moved like poetry with her hand out to slowly catch hold of the trembling horse.

“Born the king of angels. O come let us adore him.” Her slender, mittened hand was close to touching the fraying rope halter. “O come—”

“Let us adore him.” The words slipped out in his deeper baritone, surprising him.

She started, the horse shied. The bay threw his head out of her reach and with a protesting neigh, took off and merged with the snowy horizon.

“Look what you have done.” Gone was the music as she swirled to face him. He expected a tongue-lashing or at the very least a bit of a scolding for frightening the runaway. But as she marched toward him through the downfall, his chin dropped and his mind emptied. Snow-frosted raven curls framed a perfect heart-shaped face. The woman had a look of sheer perfection with sculpted high cheekbones, a dainty nose and the softest mouth he’d ever seen. If she were to smile, he reckoned she could stop the snow from falling.

He took in her riotous black curls and the red gingham dress ruffle peeking from beneath her somber gray coat. Shock filled him. “
You
are Fiona O’Rourke?”

“Yes, and just who is the baboon who has chased off my da’s horse and will likely cost me my supper?” She lifted her chin, setting it so that it did not look delicate at all but stubborn and porcelain steel. She looked angry, aye, but there was something compelling about Miss O’Rourke and it wasn’t her unexpected beauty. Never in his life had he seen such immense sadness.

Chapter Two

W
ho was this strange man towering over her and what was he doing in her family’s fields? Fiona swiped her eyes, trying to see the intruder more clearly. The storm enfolded him, blurring the impressive width of his powerful shoulders and casting his face in silhouette. The high, wide brim of his hat added mystery; he was surely no one she had seen on the country roads or anywhere in town. He did not seem to have a single notion of what he had just done, scaring off Flannigan again, when she’d almost had his halter in a firm grip.

“What possessed you to trespass into our fields?” She was working up a good bit of mad. Time had to be running out. She had not been watching the road well, but Da’s sled might come down the road at any moment. She had no time to waste. “Why are you here?”

“I heard your singing.”

“What? And you felt you had to join in the caroling?” Men. She had little use for them. Aside from her brother, she did not know a single one without some selfish plan. “Go sing somewhere else. I have a horse to catch.”

“Then hop up.” He held out his hand, wide palmed, the leather of his expensive driving gloves worn and thin in spots.

“Hop up? You mean ride with you?” Was the man delusional? She took a step back. Angel County was a safe, family place, but trouble wandered through every now and then on the back of a horse. The ruffian in front of her certainly looked like trouble with his quality hat, polished boots and wash-worn denims. And his horse, there was something familiar about the big bay who was reaching out toward her coat pockets as if seeking a treat.

“Riley?” Her chin dropped in shock, and she knew her mouth had to be hanging open unattractively. She could hear her parents’ voices in her head.
Close your mouth, Fiona. With your sorry looks you don’t want to make anything worse, for then we’ll never be rid of ya.

She snapped her jaw shut, her teeth clacking. “What are you doing on our horse?”

“I know your father” was all he said.

“My da was driving Riley. Does that mean he is back home so soon?”

“Aye.” His brogue was a trace, but it sent shivers down her spine. Something familiar teased at the edges of her mind, but it wasn’t stronger than the panic.

“My father is home,” she repeated woodenly. “Then he must know the other workhorse has gone missing.”

“Afraid so. We had a good view of you racing after the horse from the crest of the road.” His hand remained outstretched. “Do you want me to catch him for you, or do you want to come?”

She withered inside. It was too late, then. She would be punished even if she brought the horse back, and if not, then who knew what would happen? This strange man’s eyes were kind, shadowed as they were. Yet all she could see was a long punishment stretching out ahead of her. After the strap, she would be sent to her tiny attic room, where she would spend her time when she was not doing her share of the work. And that was
if
she brought the horse back.

If she lost Flannigan, she could not let herself imagine what her parents would do. This man had no stake in finding the horse. She did not understand why he was helping her, but her hand shot out. The storm was worsening. There wasn’t a lot of time. “Take me with you.”

“All right, then.” He clasped her with surprising strength and swept her into the air. Her skirts billowed, the heel of her high barn boot lightly brushed Riley’s flank and she landed breathlessly behind the man, her hand still in his.

“Who are you?” The storm fell like twilight, draining the gray daylight from the sky and deepening the shadows beneath the brim of his hat. She couldn’t make out more than the strong cut of a square jaw, rough with a day’s dark growth.

“There will be time enough for that later. Hold on tight.” He drew her hand to his waist. He could have been carved marble beneath his fine wool coat. With a “get up!” Riley shot out into an abrupt trot, the bouncing gait knocking her back on the horse’s rump. She slid in teeth-rattling jolts, each bump knocking her farther backward. Her skirt, indecorously around her knees, slid with her.

A leather-gloved hand reached around to grip her elbow and hold her steady. “Never ridden astride before?”

“Not without a saddle.” The words flew out before she could stop them. If her parents knew she had ever ridden in such an unladylike fashion, they would tan her hide for sure. But the stranger, whoever he was, did not seem shocked by her behavior.

“Just hold on tight to me and grip the horse’s sides with your knees.”

Did she ask for his advice? No. Her face blushed. She might not have been bashful riding this way with her brother watching, but this man was a different matter. She fell silent, bouncing along, staring hard at the stranger’s wide back. Riley’s gait smoothed as he reached out into a slow canter, and she raised her face into the wind, letting the icy snow bathe her overheated skin.

Lord, please don’t make me regret this.
Yes, she was second-guessing her impulsive decision to ride with this man, this stranger. Maybe he was the new neighbor down the way. The Wilsons’ farm had sold last month. Or maybe this was the new deputy come to town. Either way, she needed to find the horse.

“Hold up.” The stranger had a resonant voice, pleasantly masculine. He leaned to the side, studying the ground. The accumulation rapidly erased Flannigan’s hoofprints. “I think he’s turned northwest. There’s a chance we won’t lose him yet.”

“We can’t lose him.” Terror struck her harder than any blizzard.

“I’ll do my best, miss. Are you sure you don’t want me to turn around and take you back to your warm house?”

“You don’t understand. I can’t go back unless I have the horse.” She shivered and not from the cold. No one understood—no one but her best friends, that was—how severe her life was. She had learned a long time ago to do her best with the hand God had dealt her. She would be eighteen and on her own soon enough. Then she would never have to be dominated by anyone. She would never have to be hurt again. “Please. We have to keep going.”

“You sound desperate. That horse sure must mean something to you.” Gruffly spoken, those words, although it was hard to tell with the wind’s howl filling her ears. He pressed Riley back to a canter. The storm beat at them from the side now, brutally tearing through layers of clothes. Her hands hurt from the cold.

Night was falling; the shadows grew darker as the stranger stopped the horse to study the ground again and backtracked at a slow walk. With every step Riley took, her heart thudded painfully against her ribs.
Please, don’t let me lose Flannigan,
she begged—prayer was too gentle of a request. She should have been more vigilant. She should have realized something was amiss when the horse hung back in the corral instead of racing to the barn for his supper. Had she been quicker, this never would have happened. And she wouldn’t be fearing the beating to come.

You could just keep on going.
The thought came as if whispered in the wind. They were headed away from town and toward the eastern road that would take her straight to Newberry, the neighboring railroad town. She could send word to her friend Lila, who could gather the girls and find a way to unearth her money sock from the loose floorboard in the haymow.

“There he is.” The stranger wheeled Riley around with a confident efficiency she had never seen before. The huge animal followed his light commands willingly, this gelding who had lost his will to care long ago.

It was impossible to see around the broad line of the man’s back. When he unlooped the rope and slip knotted it while he directed Riley with his knees, hope burrowed into her and took root. Maybe catching Flannigan would be quick and painless, if the stranger was as good with a lasso as he was with the horse.

“Hold on. He’s bolting.”

That was her only warning before he shouted “Ha!” and pressed Riley into a plunging gallop. Snow battered her from all directions, slapping her face. The horse’s movements beneath her weren’t smooth. He was fighting through the uneven snow and she jounced around, gripping the stranger’s coat tightly.

“Can you stay on?” He shouted to be heard over the cadence of the horse and the roaring blizzard.

She wanted to but her knees were slipping, her skirt had blown up to expose her red flannel petticoats and long johns and she was about to slide off the downside slope of Riley’s rump. “No,” she called out as she slid farther. A few seconds more and there would be nothing beneath her but cold air and pounding hooves.

“I’ll be back for you.” To her surprise, the stranger twisted around, caught hold of her wrist and swept her safely to the side, away from the dangerous hooves. She landed in the snow on her feet, sinking in a drift past her knees. Horse and rider flew by like a dream, moving as one dark silhouette in the coming night.

Cold eked through her layers and cleaved into her flesh, but she hardly noticed. She stood transfixed by the perfect symmetry between man and horse. With manly grace he slung the lasso, circling it twice overhead before sending it slicing through the white veil. Without realizing it, she was loping through the impossible drifts after them, drawn to follow as if by an invisible rope. Perhaps it the man’s skill that astonished her as the noose pulled tight around defiant Flannigan’s neck. She could not help admiring the strength it took to hold the runaway, or the dance of command and respect as the horse and rider closed the distance. A gloved hand reached out, palm up to the captive gelding. The stranger’s low mumble seemed to warm the bitter air. Her brother could not have done better.

“Our runaway seems tame enough.” He emerged out of the shadows, towering over her, leading Flannigan by a short lead. He dismounted, sliding effortlessly to the ground. “He got a good run in, so he ought to be in a more agreeable mood for the journey back. Let me give you a foot up.”

He was taller than she realized; then again, perhaps it was because her view of him had changed. He was bigger somehow, greater for the kindness he had shown to Flannigan, catching him without a harsh word or a lash from a whip, as Da would have done. She shook her head, skirting him. “I’ll ride Flannigan in. He ought to be tired enough after his run. He’s not a bad horse.”

“No, I can see that. Just wanted to escape his bonds for a time.”

Yes. That was how she felt, too. Flannigan nickered low in his throat, a warm surrender or a greeting, she didn’t know which. She irrationally hated that he had been caught. It was not safe for him to run away, for there were too many dangers that ranged from gopher holes to barbed wire to wolves, but she knew what it felt like to be trapped. When she gazed to the north where the spill and swell of land should be, she saw only the impenetrable white wall of the storm. Although the prairie had disappeared, she longed to take off and go as fast and as far as she could until she was a part of the wind and the sky.

“Then up you go.” The stranger didn’t argue, merely knelt at her feet and cupped his hands together. “I’m sure a beauty such as you can tame the beast.”

Did she imagine a twinkle in his eyes? It was too dark to know for sure. She was airborne and climbing onto Flannigan’s back before she had time to consider it. By then the stranger had limped away into the downfall, a hazed silhouette and nothing more.

You could take Flannigan and go. It was her sense of self-preservation whispering at her to flee. It felt foolish to give in to the notion of running away, right now at least; it felt even more foolish to lead the horse home. Da had fallen into an especially dark mood these last few months since he had lost much of the harvest. Thinking of the small, dark sitting room where Da would be waiting drained the strength from her limbs. She dug her fingers into Flannigan’s coarse mane, letting the blizzard rage at her.

“I’ll lead you.” His voice came out of the thickening darkness. There was no light now, no shades of grayness or shadows to demark him. “So there will be no more running away.”

Her pulse lurched to a stop. He couldn’t know, she told herself. He might be able to lasso a horse, but he could not read minds. That was impossible. Still, her skin prickled as Flannigan stepped forward, presumably drawn by the rope. His gait rolled through her, and she felt boneless with hopelessness. The wind seemed to call to her as it whipped past, speeding away to places unknown and far from here, far from her father’s strap.

This was December. She had to stick it out until May. Only six months more. Then she would have graduated, the first person in her family to do so. That meant something to her, an accomplishment that her parents would never understand, but her closest friends did. An education was something no one could take from her. It was something she could earn, although she did not have fine things the way Lila’s family did, or attend an East Coast finishing school as Meredith was doing. An education was something she could take with her when she left; her love of books and learning would serve her well wherever she went and whatever job she found.

It will be worth staying, she insisted, swiping snow from her eyes. Although her heart and her spirit ached for her freedom and the dream of a better, gentler life, she stayed on Flannigan’s broad back. His lumbering gait felt sad and defeated, and she bowed her head, fighting her own sorrow.

“I know how you feel, big guy.” Going home to a place that wasn’t really a home. She patted one mostly numb hand against his neck and leaned close until his mane tickled her cheek. “I almost have enough money saved up. When I leave, I can keep some of it behind for payment and take you. How would you like to ride in a boxcar? Let’s just think of what it will be like to ride the rails west.”

Flannigan nickered low in his throat, a comforting sound, as if he understood far more than an animal should. She stretched out and wrapped her arms around his neck as far as they could reach and held on. Come what may, at least Flannigan would not be punished. She would see to that. She would take full responsibility for his escape.

And what about the stranger? She couldn’t see any sign of him except for the tug of the rope leading Flannigan inexorably forward. There was no hint of the stranger’s form in the gloom until they passed through the corral gate and she caught the faintest outline of him ambling through the snow to secure the latch. Flannigan blew out a breath, perhaps a protest at being home again. She drew her leg over the horse’s withers and straightened her skirt.