Gingham Bride (5 page)

Ice spiked into his skin and crept in fragments beneath his collar, but he ignored the cold and discomfort. He gathered a patched wool blanket from the end stall, where it sat on top of an equally old quilt, and stepped around the pillow and the small sewing basket tucked in the soft hay. He had spotted this private corner when he had been rubbing down the horses before supper.

“Let’s get this around you before you freeze.” He shook the folds from the blanket.

“Oh, I can take care of myself.” Her chin came up and her eyes squinted, as if she were trying to judge his motives.

“I don’t doubt that, lass, but let me.” He swept close to her, near enough to breathe in the softness of her hair. She smelled like roses and dawn and fresh snow. He swallowed hard, ignoring a few more unexamined feelings that gathered within him. Emotions that felt far too tender to trust. He stepped around the cat rubbing against her ankles to drape the blanket around her shoulders. Tender it was, to tuck the wool against her collar so that she would be warmer. “I have an unexplainable need to take care of others.”

“A terrible flaw.” Amusement crept into the corners of her mouth, adding layers of beauty.

He felt sucker punched. Air caught in his chest, and his hand was already reaching before he realized what he was doing. His fingers brushed the curve of her cheek, soft as a spring blossom. Her black hair felt like fine silk against his knuckles. Shyness welled up, stealing all his words. It was too late to pretend he didn’t care and that he could simply walk away without a backward glance come morning.

“How is your hand?” Her fingers caught his wrist, and it was like being held captive by a butterfly. Now he knew how runaway Flannigan had felt, forced to choose between Fiona and his freedom.

“It’s been better.” His voice caught in his throat, sounding thick and raw. He ought to step away now, put a proper distance between them and keep it that way. Best to remember he had not come here to get sweet on Fiona O’Rourke.

“Are you trying to go back on your promise?” Humor tucked into the corners of her pretty mouth.

Captivated, he could only nod. Then, realizing he had meant to shake his head, gave a half shrug.

“Too bad, McPherson. You will do as I say or pay the consequences.” She tugged him across the aisle with the wash basin in one hand and the blanket cloaking her like a royal robe. “You promised I could doctor your cut to my heart’s content, and I fully intend to. You need a stitch or two.”

“It’ll be well enough with a cleaning and a bandage,” he croaked in protest. Perhaps she didn’t notice the croaking or, worse, the bashfulness heating his face.

“So you’re a tough guy. I should have known.” She didn’t sound as if she approved of tough guys. “Sit down and stay while I fetch the iodine.”

A more dashing man would have the right thing to say, meant to charm and make the lass toss him a beautiful smile. A smarter man wouldn’t tempt fate and would sit quiet and stoic, determined to do the right thing and not stir up feelings he had no right to. But sadly, he was neither dashing nor smart because he eased stiffly onto the pile of bagged oats stacked against the wall and savored the sight of her. His eyes drank her in, memorizing the slight bounce to her walk, the life that rose up within her here, in the safety of the barn. Gone was the withdrawn and pale girl who’d sat across the table from him. His fingers itched for his pen to try to capture the fairy-tale woman and the adoring cat weaving at her ankles.

What harm can come of this, boy?
Nana’s voice replayed in his memory.
Time to face your duty. You marry the girl, and you have property. Think of it. Our champion horses would be grazing on McPherson land again. Our name will have the respect it once had.

But at what cost? He still reeled from his grandmother’s betrayal. She was the only family he had left, and he loved her. But if she were here, she would have sold her wedding ring for the money to seal this deal, holding on too tightly to what was past.

“Are you all right?” Fiona waltzed back into the lantern’s reach. The light seemed to cling to her, bronzing her as if with grace and illuminating the gentle compassion on her sweet face.

“I’ve been better.”

“Me, too.” Every movement she made whispered through the darkness. She knelt before him and set a small box down on the floor, the straw crinkling around her. “Why did you do this? Why did you come?”

“Because my grandmother is dying and I could not say no to her.” He fell silent as she gathered his injured hand in her soft, slender ones. Tender emotions tugged within him. “She wants to find what is lost, and I—” He could not finish, the wish and the words too personal.

“I overheard you. You’re penniless.”

“Aye, and that’s not good when you have a sick grandmother needing care.” He winced as she untied his bandage and the wound began to bleed fresh. “I regret coming. I’ve made things worse for you.”

“No, you were not the cause.” Dark curls tumbled forward like a lustrous curtain, hiding her face. “I will be all right.”

“I fear you won’t. You cannot look at your parents the same way after tonight.”

“True.” She searched through the dim interior of the small box at her knee, focusing too hard on the task. She had such small, slender hands. Too tender for what lay ahead of her.

He could sense the hardship she tried to hide because it was too painful to speak of. He knew that feeling well. There was more hardship to come for her and her family, and he didn’t like being the one to bear the news. “Before your father told me to get out of his house, he admitted something. The bank is ready to take back the property. At month’s end, you all will be homeless.”

“So that’s why.” She shook her head, scattering dark curls and diamond flecks of melting snow. Stark misery shadowed her innocent blue eyes. “Most of the harvest fell in the fields without Johnny to harvest it. Ever since then, we have been scraping by.”

“Your father let the harvest rot?”

“He says he is not a working man. He lives as if he still has his family’s wealth, although he has not had it since he was probably our age.” She uncapped a bottle and wet the edges of a cloth. “Now he needs money to stop an eviction. I see. He ought to know he isn’t going to find any takers that way. Who would buy a woman? Especially me.”

He bit his lip, holding back his opinion. He was not an experienced man by any means, but Father’s lack of decency had given him more than a glimpse of the bad in the world. The land was ideal but mortgaged beyond its value. A man could work himself into the ground trying to keep up with the payments. How did he tell her it wasn’t the land that would attract a certain kind of man?

Unaware of the danger, she leaned closer. Her face was flawless ivory and he could not look away. He did not feel the sting of the iodine. There was only her, this beauty with her gleaming midnight curls and soft pink mouth pursed in concentration. Her touch was the gentlest he had ever known, like liquid gold against his skin. When she drew away, he felt hollowed out, as if darkness had fallen from within.

“I don’t know how to thank you for your act of mercy.” She cast him a sidelong look through jet-black, lush lashes as she rummaged in the small box once again.

“Just doing the right thing.” He remembered how small she had looked in the lean-to, and the horror filling him when he realized she was about to be hit and hit hard.

“And do you often do the right thing, Ian McPherson?” A needle flashed in the lantern light.

“It can wear a man to the bone trying. If only life were more cooperative.” He cast her a grin, choosing to keep his stories private. What would she think of him if she knew how he had failed his loved ones? How he had lost his future trying to hold on to the past? He cleared his throat, struggling to let go of things that could not be changed. “I see you were serious about the stitches.”

“Is that a note of fear I hear in your voice?”

“Not me. I’m not afraid of a needle and a bit of thread.”

“Yes, how could I forget you are a tough one? Grit your teeth, then, for this will do more than sting.”

“These will not be my first stitches.”

“No, I suppose not.” The corners of her mouth drew down as she threaded the needle, and he could easily follow her gaze to where he’d left his cane leaning within easy reach.

Thank the Lord, it was a question she did not ask and so he did not have to answer.

Chapter Five

H
omeless by month’s end? Fiona’s hands trembled as she tied the last knot. The needle flashed in the lamplight as she worked it loose and used her sewing scissors to snip the thread. One last douse of iodine to Ian’s wound, and she wrapped it well with clean bandages from the roll she kept on hand in the barn. She could not bear to think of the times her kit had come in handy, for Johnny had been always getting a cut here or a gash there. She could almost hear his voice echoing in the pitch-black corners of the barn, as if whispering beneath the beat of the wind.

No wonder Da wanted her married. It all made sense now. She rose on weak knees, clutching the box. Ian cut quite an impression, even in lantern light. The single flame did little more than chase away a bit of the dark, but it accented his fine profile and the powerful line of his shoulders. What had he given up to come here? A trip from Kentucky was expensive, and if he was all but penniless then this trip had been a risk, too.

“What kind of work have you been doing?” She fit the lid on the box and stood with a rustle of straw.

“Barn work, mostly. Horse work, where I can find it.” He glanced briefly at the cane leaning near to him, and the flame chose that moment to flicker and dance, casting him in brief shadow and stealing any hint of emotion that passed across his granite face.

Sympathy welled up within her. That had to be difficult work with a lame leg—or was it simply injured? She stowed the box on the corner shelf, unable to forget how he’d ridden to the rescue. The poetry of him on horseback with the snow falling all around him like grace clung to her, as did the memory of her cheek against his solid back as they rode together through the storm.

“Truth be told, I’m grateful for any work I can get.” The shadows seemed to swallow him.

“Me, too.” She bit her lip, but it was too late. The words were already out, her secret already spoken.

“Where do you keep the kerosene?” He moved through the darkness, his uneven gait commanding.

It took her a moment to realize the lantern had sputtered out. “Here, on the shelf, but there isn’t much left in the can.”

“It will be enough.” He stood beside her, close enough to touch. “You work for wages in town, too?”

“I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean to.” She shivered, not only from the chill air driving through the unceiled board walls. “Ian, you won’t say anything to them.”

“To your parents? No, I will not.”

“Good. It will be our secret.” She glanced upward into the dark rafters and thought of her savings buried there. An uncontrollable urge to go check on it rolled through her, and she fisted her hands. She could not do so now, not with Ian here.

“What sort of work do you do? Wait, let me guess.” His voice smiled, making her wish she could see the shape that grin took on his face. His boots padded across the barn. “You sew.”

“How did you know?”

“The extra sewing basket in the empty stall.” His footsteps silenced and the lantern well squeaked as it was opened. “I noticed it when I was putting up the horses. You come out here after supper and sew when you can.”

“Some afternoons and most evenings.” She wrapped her arms around her middle like a shield. “I realized that without my brother, I was as good as on my own. If I wanted something better than my life here, I had to work for it.”

A match flared to life like a spark of hope. Although darkness surrounded him, the light bathed him in an orange-gold glow as he closed the glass chimney and carefully put out the match. The single flame struggled to live and then grew, brightening like a blessing on the cold winter’s night, a blessing that touched her deep inside. Even standing in the shadows, she did not feel alone.

“Now that our agreement is broken, you are free to marry someone else.” He came toward her empty-handed, except for his cane on which he leaned heavily. There was no disguising the tight white lines digging into his forehead.

Was he in pain? The new, gentle light within her remained, growing stronger with every step he took. She didn’t know what was happening or why she felt as if the vast barn were shrinking and the high rafters coming down to close her in. Everything felt small—she felt small—as Ian opened the stall gate next to her.

Realizing he was waiting for her answer, she cleared her throat. “I don’t want to be any man’s wife.”

“You don’t want to marry?”

“No. I’ve always dreaded the notion. Our betrothal has been hanging over my head since I was a little girl.”

“Were you that frightened of me?” His fingers brushed a stray curl from her face. “I hate to think the thought of me worried you all these years.”

“Yes. No.” She swallowed; her throat had gone unusually thick. Her thoughts scrambled, too, and she couldn’t figure out what she wanted to say. The caress of his thumb against her temple could soothe away a bushel of her fears, and the way he towered over her made her feel safe, as if nothing could hurt her. “I don’t want my mother’s life.”

“Aye, I can understand that.” He pushed the strand of hair behind her ear. “What about children? Don’t you want a family?”

“I want a real family more than anything.” The truth lifted through her, a force she could not stop around Ian McPherson. “When I was a little girl, I would pray every night as hard as I could for God to use His love to heal my family. To make my mother smile and to want to hug me, and to make my father kind. But, as you can see, it did not work. Apparently God’s love cannot fix everything that is broken here on earth.”

“And that makes you afraid to believe.”

“If God’s love is not strong enough to heal what’s wrong, how could a mere man’s be?”

“That’s a puzzle I can’t answer.” He withdrew his hand, but the connection remained. “There is a lot wrong in this earthly life and more challenges than a man feels he can face. But I believe God will make it right in the end. Maybe you will find your family one day, Fiona.”

A family? She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting to keep a picture from forming, an image of dreams she once held dear. Loved ones who loved her in return, little children to cherish and raise. Her friends all had hopes for their futures, dreams of a husband and marriage they sewed into their pillowslips and embroidered on their tablecloths to tuck away into their hope chests. But she had no hope chest to fill.

“I don’t know if I have enough belief for that. I’ll keep faith that you find what you’re looking for, Ian McPherson.” She did not know what pulled within her like a tether rope tied tight, only that she did not have to think on it. Tomorrow, God willing, the storm would be over and McPherson gone and she would have a new set of problems to face.

She gripped the edge of the door tightly so the wind wouldn’t tear it from her grasp. She then slipped out into the bitter night before Ian could move fast enough to help her. Her last sight of him was striding down the aisle with the lantern light at his back. If his kindness had followed her out into the stinging cold, she pretended she didn’t feel it.

He had
not
affected her, not in the slightest. Truly. She clung firm to that belief as she battled the leveling winds and sandpaper snow. The blizzard erased all signs of the barn behind her, making it easier to pretend to forget him. She would not let her heart soften toward him. Not even one tiny bit.

But hours later, tucked in her attic room working on her tatting by candlelight to save on the kerosene supply, her mind did return to him and her heart warmed sweetly. Yes, it was a mighty good thing he would be gone tomorrow. She bent over her work, twisting and turning the fine white thread as if to weave dreams into the lace.

Ian stripped the last of the milk from the cow’s udder and patted her flank. “There’s a girl. All done now.”

The mournful creature chewed her cud, narrowing her liquid eyes reproachfully.

“Aye, I’m not Fiona and sorry I am for it.” He wagered the animal was sweet on the woman. Who wouldn’t be? He straightened from the three-legged stool, lifted it and the bucket with care and climbed over the low stall rails. The black cat let out a scolding meow the instant Ian’s boot touched the ground.

“I have not forgotten you, mister.” His leg gave a hitch, sending pain streaking up and down his thigh bone. He set his teeth on edge, concentrating on slinging the stool into place on the wall hook and missing the cat underfoot. “You’re acting as if you’ve not seen food for a week. I know you snacked on my beef jerky last night. I caught you in my rucksack.”

The cat denied all knowledge of such an event, crying convincingly with both eyes glued on the milk pail. He crunched through fine airy inches of snow and followed the feline to a bowl on the floor. He bent to fill it and received a rub of the cat’s cheek to his chin.

“You’re welcome.” He left the tomcat lapping milk and wondered how he could get the full bucket through the high winds to the shanty without spilling. Snow drove through the boards and sifted between the cracks in the walls. He’d never seen snow do that before. And the cold. His teeth chattered as he set the pail down to bundle up. How did delicate Fiona do all this barn work in harsh winter conditions, and without help from her father?

Anger gripped him, strong enough that he didn’t notice the bitter air when he hauled open the barn door.

“Oh!” A white-flecked figure jumped back. Fiona, mantled in snow and sugar-sweet. “You startled me.”

“I seem to be making a habit of it.” He ignored the meow of protest from the cat at the sweep of below-zero air into the barn. All he saw was Fiona. Her face had followed him into sleep, haunting his dreams through the night. The hours he had spent in the low lantern light with his notebook and charcoal had not made him grow tired of her dear face. She was only more lovely to him this morning with her cheeks pink and her jewel-blue eyes sparkling.

“Come in.” He held the door for her, drawing her into the relative warmth with a hand to her wrist. She felt delicate this morning, as if last night’s shock had taken a piece of her.

She brushed past him into the aisle, little more than a slip of a shadow, leaving the scent of snowflakes and roses in her wake. Why such a strong reaction to her? he wondered. Why was being near to her like a bind to his heart? His chest warmed with strange new emotions, and he did his best to ignore them as he let the door blow closed. He was a man with problems, not one in a position to care about a woman or to act on what had troubled him the night through. Best to stick to the plan. He squared his shoulders and faced her. “I was hoping to spare you a trip out into the cold this morning, but I’m too late.”

“The milk.” She glanced at the two buckets by the door and down the long aisle. She tugged her icy muffler from her face, revealing her perfect rosebud mouth and chiseled chin. “And you’ve tended the livestock.”

“The animals have been fed, watered and their stalls cleaned.” He was glad he could do that for her and make her burden lighter, even for this one morning.

“You did my chores.” Delight and surprise transformed her. Her flawless blue eyes were compelling as any lyric, her vulnerability captivating as any poem. She waltzed to the nearest stall, her small gloved hands brushing Flannigan’s nose. “And done well, too. Oh, Ian, thank you. This is wonderful.”

“It’s nothing I haven’t done every morning at home. Or used to.” Sketching her for hours last night had not been enough. He planted his feet, longing to capture the snow glinting like jewels in her midnight-black hair and her shining happiness. “When our stables were full, the morning chores took me from before dawn to noon.”

“My grandmother spoke of your family’s horses.” She swept off her snow-dappled hood. Ice tinkled to the ground at her feet. “I met her when I was a little girl, hardly knee high. She took me on her lap and told me about the thoroughbreds.”

“There was never a more lovely sight than a pasture full of them grazing in the sun, their coats glistening like polished ivory, gold, ebony and cherry wood.”

“We have never owned animals like that. Just workhorses. My friend Meredith’s family has a very fine driving team, some of the nicest in town, and a few of the wealthier families have horses like that. It’s like poetry watching them cross the street.”

“Aye, and to see my grandfather’s horses run, why, that was pure joy.” He ignored the bite of emptiness in his chest, longing for what was forever lost. Failure twisted deep within him, and he couldn’t speak of it anymore. “So as you can see, tending two horses and a cow was no trouble at all.”

“It hurts you to talk of what is past.”

“Aye. Just as it is painful for you to talk about what is to come.” He wished he were a different man, one who knew the right thing to do. Leaving could not be right, but staying could be no solution. Fiona wasn’t his concern, although he’d spent his life hearing of the pretty flower of a girl he was expected to marry. Perhaps that was bond enough. He cleared his throat. “It was hard when we lost the last of our land. We sold off parcels one at a time, but we could not stave off losing all of it. The hardest part was letting go of the good memories that happened in the house where I was raised. Where my ma would bake cookies for me before she passed away and my grandmother would play the piano in the afternoons. When I was working with my grandfather in the corrals, the music would drift over to us on the wind.”

“You are a rich man, Ian McPherson, although I do not think you know it. To have had a family who loved you and memories to hold close like that has to be the greatest wealth there is.”

“I’ve never thought of it that way before.” Material wealth had always been a great source of pride in his family, and the loss of it was a great humiliation that had taken the fight out of Grandfather and weakened Nana’s heart. He had been fighting so hard to restore his family’s wealth, he had not taken the time to consider anything more. But seeing what Fiona had here and how loveless her life was, he saw his childhood with a new perspective. His nana’s kindness, his safe and secure upbringing in spite of his father’s excesses and tempers and a long apprenticeship with his grandfather, who had taught him more than a profession but a way to face life, as well.