Gingham Bride (9 page)

I don’t need any man, she reminded herself. What she needed was to gather her common sense, toss these foolish thoughts right out of her head and make wise use of the time she had to escape. Da would be coming, and then it would be too late.

Please God,
she prayed,
just a little help.

“The bleeding is slowing.” He pressed a clean, folded handkerchief into Fiona’s free hand. “In case it starts up again.”

“Thank you.” Her fingers squeezed his before she let go. “Something bad would have happened to me. I know it.”

“You never figured on being glad to see me.” He pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes.

“I’m grateful, Ian.”

“Grateful is how I’m feeling, too.” He could make out the pain on her delicate features. Far too much sadness for one small woman. She broke him, that’s what she did, changing him as surely as stars changed the night. “Where are you going?”

“Away from here. My father will be pounding through that door, and I don’t intend to be here when he does.” She grabbed hold of a rung and started to climb, her skirts swishing and her face ghostly white in the half-light. “Why did you stay, McPherson?”

“Thought I would stick around and do some sightseeing. This is mighty pretty country.”

“Did you miss your train?”

“No. I got as far as Newberry, where I stabled my horse.”

“Your horse?” Her voice echoed like a stretch of music in an empty church, drawing him closer.

“I rode horseback all the way from Kentucky.” He grabbed a rung and followed her into the rafters.

“It’s winter outside.”

“Aye, I was well aware of that as I slept night after night on the frozen ground.” He climbed over a low beam, and the sight of her kneeling in the hay was a sweet sight. Her hair was atumble, bits of dried grass and seed clung to her clothes. She looked like a lost orphan in need of a home and a hot meal. Wanting nothing more than to be her shelter, he knelt beside her. “What? You think I have money to waste on comfortable hotel rooms?”

“Then how come you arrived on the train?” The question crinkled her forehead, completely adorable.

Hard it was to look at her bruised and swollen face and fear staining her perfect blue eyes. He would do anything to take away her fear. He would give up everything so she could be safe. “I got as far as Newberry, but the drifts were too much for Duchess. She’s expecting a foal come spring, so I stabled her in town and bought a ticket here. It was only twenty miles, so the journey did not cost much.”

“You rode the train out of consideration to your horse?”

“Aye, it was a dollar I did not want to spend, but she is the best friend I have. What is a fellow to do? You, on the other hand, cannot catch a train until tomorrow.”

“I’m not going to take the train.” She swept hay from the floorboards in front of her. “Why did you come back?”

“It seems I had no choice.” He thanked the Lord for leading him back. What would have happened had he not followed his conscience? His stomach knotted. He couldn’t stay the urge to caress the side of her soft cheek with his knuckle. A gentle touch, and he wished it could take away her pain, heal what was bruised and battered.

“Did you leave something behind?” She hauled up a small length of board.

“You might say that.” There was nothing to say but the truth. “I could not make myself ride another step east, so I followed my heart back to you.”

“Back to me? I don’t understand.” She pulled out a small box, which she hugged to her. The first hint of moonlight streamed over her as if it, too, wanted to hold her dearly.

“I’m here to help you.” It was the deepest truth he had ever known on this earth, a commitment that bound him as surely as God was in the heavens. “I’m going to make sure you are never frightened like that again.”

Duchess chose that moment to whicker, a low nervous sound in her throat. Flannigan neighed, and a thud of steeled horseshoe connected with a wood wall. Sounded like trouble was coming. Ian was already rising when the barn door slammed open like a hammer-strike.

“Fiona! What in blazes is going on in here?” O’Rourke’s color was high from fury and whiskey, made brighter by the lantern he carried. “McPherson. What are you doing here?”

“I’ve reconsidered the offer.” He pushed the wooden box back into the hiding place. “Fiona is my fiancée from this moment on.”

He heard Fiona’s gasp of shock, and if he feared she would hate him for it, then he ignored that fear. He wanted to give her time to hide what had to be her money, so he climbed over the beam and down the ladder to discuss the rest of his terms with O’Rourke.

Chapter Nine

F
iona is my fiancée from this moment on.
Ian’s words rang in her head like a funeral bell with every step she took carrying the water buckets back to the house. Da had ordered her out of the barn and the rise of temper ruddy on his face made her knees knock. She’d fled into the frigid twilight, longing to know what the men were discussing.

How could she feel so much gratitude toward Ian and hate him even more? How could Ian do this to her? She’d trusted him.
I followed my heart back to you,
he’d said. Trying to charm her, no doubt, when he really saw her as a means to get the land he couldn’t buy any other way.

Wasn’t that a man for you? She felt torn apart, like the aftermath of a twister leaving rubble in its path. The edge of the bucket slammed against her shin with a clang and a snap of pain.

Pay attention, Fiona. She shook her head, trying to scatter her thoughts, but it did no good. Her mind looped straight to Ian, how tenderly he had cared for her and his kindness in the loft. Before he’d announced he intended to marry her against her will. What happened to being friends?

“Hurry up, you lazy girl,” Ma bellowed from the doorway. “You have caused enough trouble for one evening. That man, the one who came to meet you, he left angry. You have much to make up for, young lady.”

Miserable, she stumbled up the steps, spilling water as she went, hardly able to see where she was going. Her vision was still blurry, and her nose was throbbing. She let the kitchen door slam shut and heaved the buckets onto the small counter.

“You are getting snow everywhere.” Ma whirled from the stove. She had to notice the blood and the swollen cheekbone, but she simply pointed her spatula at the mess on the floor. “I have enough to do. You clean that up and then you get to work.”

“Yes, Ma.” She grabbed the broom and dustpan and knelt to swipe snow chunks into the pan. Her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out Ian’s remembered words.
I’ve reconsidered the offer.
He had gotten as far as Newberry and what did he do, start thinking about what awaited him in Kentucky? His family lands—gone. His family fortune—spent. What did he care about her future when he was more concerned with his?

“You had best be on your good behavior when your da gets in this house. We are not happy with you, Fiona.” Ma turned the ham slices in the fry pan one by one. “We’ve a house full of your father’s friends and Mr. Newton storms into the house saying you’ve attacked him. We’re to lose our home because of you. You’re a thoughtless, selfish girl, Fiona, and I can’t stand the sight of you.”

She leaned the broom in the corner by the door and emptied the snow into the waste bucket. She had done the right thing all her life. She had been quiet when her parents told her to be. She did the work her parents told her to do. She prayed day and night. She studied her Bible, she lived faithfully and she did well in school. And for what?

She washed her hands in the corner basin, breathing in the sharp scent of the plain lye soap. All she could see was her life in this kitchen, working in the half-light of a turned-down wick to save on the cost of kerosene day after endless day. That was her future unless she decided on another course. With twenty-three dollars to her name, how far could she get? She dried her hands on the small towel and hung it neatly on the stand’s hook. Ian was the problem. Would he let her go?

“Stop lollygagging.” Ma checked on the simmering soup with a slam of a pot lid. “Supper’s almost ready.”

She grabbed a towel and knelt to rescue the biscuits from the oven. They were golden-topped and fluffy, so she carried the sheet to the table and filled a waiting basket.

As she placed the basket on the table, an uneven gait tapped outside the kitchen door. Ian. Her mind looped to him like a lasso arcing through the air. Seeing him towering over her protectively, hauling the man away, feeling his caring touch to her cheek, hearing the kind rumble of his voice made her feel confused—angry and used and needing his tenderness again. What had he promised her?
I’m going to make sure you are never frightened like that again.
That’s what he’d said, probably thinking that by marrying her he would be keeping her safe. That was probably his justification for his broken promises.

The door squeaked open, and there he stood looking like goodness itself. Her hatred peaked. A pressure built inside her throbbing head. If only part of her still didn’t care—the stupid, needy part of her that had believed in him. And it hurt worse than any blow.

“Smells good in here, ladies.” He stepped into the room as if he belonged there.

“The men are in the front room.” Ma glanced at him with what passed for surprise, but after a huff went back to her cooking. That would change once Da told her what Ian had done.

Fiona ignored the silent apology that radiated off him and hefted the ironware from the shelf. The rattle of the stacked dishes betrayed her. She was not calm. She was not unaffected. She wanted to hurl the plates at him; she wanted to turn time back like resetting a clock and stay in that place where she had trusted him, where he was her friend.

Hurt and outrage blazed through her, staining her vision red, making the top of her head feel a strange pressure. She turned her shoulder and passed the plates around the table, holding back two for her and Ma. They would eat in the front room, out of the way of the men. Their loud raucous language and laughter roared through the thin board walls. Da’s voice joined then, jovial. Then, why wouldn’t he be?

The last plate hit the table with a clink. She kept her gaze down and her back turned. Sure, she could feel the sensation of his gaze traveling over her face, trying to make eye contact, perhaps wanting to exchange a smile or two. Maybe he was even hoping she would forgive him. He had no notion she was breaking inside, losing the little drop of faith she ever could have had in a man.

She yanked open the drawer and counted out forks, knives and spoons. She told herself she didn’t care as his step tapped close and he waited for her attention. Turning her back, she didn’t acknowledge him. If she felt his hurt feelings like a slap to her cheek, she ignored it. She did not care at all. Absolutely not. Not a little bit.

She sorted through the flatware, aware when his slow step left the room. Shame filled her. She laid a fork and spoon on a plate with a clatter. She was lying and, worse, it was to herself.

Seeing how Fiona despised him made something within him die a little. All through the meal at the kitchen table, with men he neither knew nor liked, he thought of her in the front room, eating quietly with her mother. There had been nothing quiet about the anger flushing her cheeks and flashing in her eyes. He could still hear the echoing clatter and clinks and clanks as she’d set the table, angry sounds he could not dismiss.

“That woman. Gettin’ slow.” O’Rourke ambled back to the table like a king settling onto his throne. “Don’t know why I keep her some days.”

“She’s a fine cook, Owen.” One of the men patted his belly and leaned back in his chair. “Can’t say my Martha can make biscuits like that.”

Footsteps padded closer and the rustle of skirts grew louder. Fiona was coming. He felt her nearness like a touch to his spirit. He knew the exact moment she entered the room because the sharp edge of her anger hit like a dagger’s blade to his back.

She will understand, he argued with himself, but it did not ease the bad feeling in his gut. He’d hurt her with his actions. O’Rourke had burst into the barn before there was a chance to explain, to try to make things right with her. Now, he feared it was too late. The damage had been done.

“Hurry up!” O’Rourke spat to the women, his features turning narrow and mean as he pulled a deck of cards from his pocket. “We don’t got time to waste.”

Ian’s fists curled, but he stayed in his seat. He was too reactive where Fiona was concerned. Too involved. Too invested. He didn’t know how it happened, but it took all his self-discipline to sit still. The need to protect Fiona beat inside him with a blizzard’s fury. But judging by the way she kept her back to him as she snatched his plate and bowl from the table, he guessed she didn’t want him coming to her aid any time soon. Maybe never.

Looked like he’d made a mess of things, and he was sorry for it. He pushed out of his chair.

“Stay and play, McPherson,” O’Rourke commanded.

“I’m not a gambling man.” He snagged his coat from the row of wall pegs. He may have been talking to her father, but his gaze stayed fixed on Fiona. Red stained her face, and the muscles in her jaw bunched and jumped. She kept her head down as she worked, taking plate after plate and stacking them into the fold of her arm. Her nose was swollen, her cheek was bruising, her face ashen. Some emotion too elusive to name tangled within him. He shrugged into his coat, wishing he knew how to make things right for her. All he saw was a long string of heartache for them both.

God may have led him here, he realized, but it was not the easiest path. Maybe not even a possible path. He could lose what little he had left of his dreams and his grandmother’s hopes for the family.

“We’re all gambling men.” O’Rourke’s tone might have been jovial, but something glittered in his eyes. Something mean and cold. He wasn’t happy that the lowlife varmint who’d attacked Fiona had decided he didn’t want her after all. Too cantankerous, he’d said. That meant O’Rourke had to settle for what Ian was offering or wait for another offer for his sorry piece of land and his innocent daughter.

Bitter fury filled him, and Ian’s mouth soured as if he’d tasted something vile. He did not have time to examine it because Fiona stayed on his mind. The stubborn jut of her delicate chin was the only sign of her fury as she swept to the small corner counter and set the plates down next to the wash basin.

“Every day is a wager,” O’Rourke was saying. “You never know if you’re going to win, draw or fold.”

“A man’s lot in life is uncertain.” Hard not to agree with that. “But if he works hard, trusts God and does the right thing then most times it turns out.”

“I’ve learned it’s better to take matters in your own hands. Sit down, McPherson. I’m bein’ hospitable.”

“I’m not interested in your brand of hospitality.” He tipped his hat, settled it on his head and wrapped his hand around the battered wooden latch. Fiona was within reach, hating him. Everything within him yelled to go to her, to lay a comforting arm around her delicate shoulders and whisper in her ear. Let her know it was okay. The misery pinching her battered face destroyed him.

But he feared O’Rourke’s wrath. The man was not happy with the bargain struck; well, he wasn’t alone in that. Ian didn’t like it, either. Enough responsibility weighed on his shoulders, and now he had another. Fiona, carving shards from the bar soap, each falling into the steaming basin with a plop. Tenderness gathered like a storm within. If he comforted her now, her father would see it and guess how much the girl meant to him.

Worse, he feared Fiona would push him away, so he drew open the door. Regret clawed at him. He’d hurt her every bit as much as the man responsible for the dried blood staining her collar. He hated that. He forced his feet to carry him out of the room feeling less than the man he strived to be.

Alone in the lean-to, the cold and dark wrapped around him like a shroud.

Her parents’ voices murmured through the floorboards as she moved in the half dark of her little attic room. Moonlight filtered through the small window enough for her to see. She folded her last pair of woolen long johns into the top of the secondhand satchel her friend Meredith had given her.

However was she going to stand to leave her friends behind and without saying goodbye? She snapped the top closed and wished she could close her feelings as easily. But no luck. Her gaze strayed to the window and across the darkness to the barn, where the faint lick of a candle danced and flickered between the cracks in the plank walls. Ian was still awake. She didn’t want to wonder what he was doing. Thinking of him made her miserable in too many ways to count.

She’d been the foolish one to believe in him and to think he didn’t look at her and see a good worker or a means to get something for nothing. Fresh fury flowed through her, growing stronger with each wave. So huge she became tall with it, strong with it. She curled her fingers around the smooth wood handles of the satchel so hard her knuckles burned. Anger made the pounding behind her cheekbone worse as she laid her ear to the door. Conversation floated through the ill-fitted boards.

“I don’t like it, either, Maeve. But we’re better off than we were. We might not have the money, but we more than likely will get to keep the house and get a strong back to work around here. It’s the best offer we’re gonna get, considering she ran off the one man who would pay more.”

“That girl cost us a good opportunity.”

“And I won’t be forgettin’ it.”

She wrapped a bubble around her heart to protect it from her parents’ words. She eased the satchel to the floor, packed and ready to go. All she needed was to wait for her parents to go to bed and Ian’s light to go out. The night silenced, as if waiting, and the enormity of what she was about to do frightened her. This was not her plan, running away when there was no train to whisk her away quickly and without enough money to see her far. Her stinging cheek and throbbing head reminded her of how serious it was to be alone in the world. If Ian had not come along—

She blinked back the hot wetness in her eyes. She was not a girl given to crying or sentimental foolishness. She did not feel anything more than a distant gratitude for the man—really, and if that wasn’t the truth, then it would be. She would think of all his faults until this confused need to like him disappeared. She would do everything she could to forget the apology in his eyes back in the kitchen. It wasn’t working. Beneath her anger wasn’t really hatred at all, but recognition. They were two like souls, one who had lost his dreams and one who intended to find hers.