Gingham Bride (12 page)

“Hope to see you Monday.” Mr. Schmidt said nothing more and in moments the Schmidt sleigh was out of sight.

What, exactly, had he been discussing with her friend’s father? The man was infiltrating her life. How did she stop him? He hauled a folded blanket from beneath the seat and shook it. Rich wool tumbled over her, and somehow it was his caring she felt, warm and strong like a hand curled in hers. She found the hem and stretched out the blanket to full length, making sure Earlee had enough to keep her warm. Ian filled her senses, the pleasant male scent of his skin, the rhythm of his breathing and the rustle of his movements. He was the only color she saw in the twilight world.

She barely remembered to wave goodbye to her friends standing shoulder to shoulder in the alley. The sled jerked forward roughly on the rutted snow. Ian’s arm moved against hers as he handled the reins. She didn’t want to notice his tensile strength and his kindness when he spoke to his mare. The wind knifed through her with shocking cold and stung her eyes. The street flew by in a blur.

“Why are you seeing Mr. Schmidt on Monday?” Earlee asked as the horse and sled stopped at the busy intersection. “Is it because you plan on taking Fiona to school?”

“I’m hoping to get a job at the mill. Mr. Schmidt said he would put in a good word for me with his boss.”

“You’re going to find work here, in Angel Falls?” It sounded permanent, as if he was entrenching himself not only in her life but in town. The more he did that, the better the chances were that he would never leave.

“You don’t want me lounging around like your father, do you?” Gently, as he did many things, he smiled at her.

“The less you are like Da, the better.”

It all made perfect sense. Getting a job showed he was responsible—not that she wanted to see any bit of him in a positive light. She refused to like him, and that was that.

Thank heavens there was a break in the traffic. Ian eased his mare into the bustle. The wind gusted, making it too cold to speak, so they glided down the street, decorated for Christmas, in silence.

“Thanks for the ride.” Fiona’s friend climbed out of the sled, clutching her bag. “I hope to see you again, Mr. McPherson. If you’re a churchgoing man, you might want to come with Fiona on Sunday. We have a fun Sunday School class. There are lots of young people our age—”

“I might like that, thank you.” It sounded mighty fine to him. He noticed he was alone in that opinion. Fiona retreated to the far edge of the bench seat, and he felt her horror as simply as if she were still pleasantly against his arm.

“Earlee!” She choked, turning as white as snow. “How could you?”

“I just thought he might want to beau you to church—”

“I’m starting to really dislike that word.” She looked as if she were being torn apart, and he knew why. The wind had carried to him her friends’ whisperings, and he had heard enough to know they assumed a bond had formed between them.

They were not wrong. On his side, at least. A blind man could see the pretty lady’s disdain for him.

“What word? ‘Beau’?” Fiona’s friend asked innocently. “Oh, I see what you mean. You’re right. ‘Beau’ is the wrong word. You’re engaged now. How exciting. I should not tell you this, but I’m going to start a little present for your hope chest. I know you haven’t started filling one yet, and you need help before your wed—”

“That is really sweet of you.” Fiona looked over her shoulder, and he could read the longing on her face as she searched the shadowed, endless prairie. The falling twilight hid the scattering of houses and barns, making it seem lonely and vacant. As if a person could be lost from her problems there forever. “You are the best friend, Earlee.”

“No,
you
are the best friend.” The girl bobbed a curtsy in his direction. “Nice meeting you, Mr. McPherson. I hope to see you both on Sunday. Bye, Fee!”

Well aware he was that his intended opened her mouth to argue, but her friend was already trudging up the snowy driveway to a ramshackle shanty, windows glowing like a beacon in the gathering dark. Her brow furrowed as she studied him. The bruise and swelling beneath her eye was like a bayonet to his chest. Tender emotions set his teeth on edge, because he could not brush those unruly curls from her face and caress the bruise away.

“You are staring at me. Why?” She looked ready for a fight, but he was not fooled.

“How is your head feeling?” He gave the reins an easy snap and Duchess stepped out, choosing her own pace in the difficult snow.

“You don’t need to pretend you care. Actually, I prefer that you didn’t.”

How could such a slight lass hold such fierceness? Not cruel and not harsh, but fiery, like a filly who did not want to be bridled. She reminded him of someone, another female he was fond of, although in a very different way.

He guided Duchess around the sharp bend in the road and directly into the raging wind. He couldn’t say why he hardly noticed the stinging temperatures. His gaze, his senses, his very essence were glued to her.

“I know you are mad at me.” Well he understood, so he did not fault her for it. “I’ve treated you unfairly, coming back like I did. Bargaining with your father for you.”

“For the land,” she corrected him. A less attentive man might have missed the deep well of pain beneath the surface of her words. “You don’t want me. I’m just the means to land you can’t buy any other way.”

“And what makes you think that, little filly?”

“Filly? I am not a horse. Have you not noticed?” She whirled to face him, and although the darkness and shadows cloaked her, it was as if he could see the pain on her face, hidden beneath her anger.

He could not argue with her. He shrugged, unable to deny it because he feared to say the wrong thing. He could not make her hurt worse.

“Hard to believe once I
almost
thought you were a decent man. You are much more horrible than I ever guessed. Then you went and took—” She fell silent.

He heard emotion catch in her voice, hurting with her. “You mean when I took your money?”

She did not answer, but he sensed it. Deep inside it was like a door opening, and he could see her clearly in a way he had never perceived anyone before. The shadows tried to hide her as nightfall descended more deeply over the land and over them, but he didn’t need light to see that her anger was meant to push him away.

“I’m not like your father, Fiona.”

“Maybe, but you seem a lot like him to me.” Her disdain was layered, as if it did not come to her easily.

Her opinion of him weighed heavily. He swallowed the sting in his throat, adjusted the reins into one hand and drew the small packet from his coat pocket. “I’m not completely like the man,” he argued.

She didn’t answer, but he heard a distinctive harrumph, as if she highly doubted his statement. She had every right to her opinion, but did she have no belief left?

The last of the sunset’s blaze disappeared from the underbelly of the clouds, the sky darkened and night fell grim and bleak. The cruel wind moaned, and he could only hope he was doing what God wished. It was hard to tell. He reined Duchess off the main road and onto the narrow drive.

“Here.” He held out the small ledger.

“What is it?” She took it, uncomprehending.

“The record of your savings account at the bank. It’s in my name, but yours is on there, as well. It is safer than stashing it in the barn. You can keep adding to your going-away fund.” He halted them in front of the barn and turned to her with his feelings veiled. “That’s what you wanted, right?”

Chapter Twelve

S
he wished she could see his face to read his emotions. The darkness hid all, making it impossible to see if a lie or the truth shone in his gaze, if he was offering her a dash of hope or taking it away. She clutched the little book tightly. “Is this really mine?”

“Every penny.” The winter air vibrated with his honesty.

He hadn’t taken her savings. That single thought rolled around in her mind, first with disbelief and then acceptance. The hard shell she’d put around her heart cracked a fraction, leaving vulnerable places unprotected. “But if this is in your name, it is technically yours.”

“Aye, by law that would be an argument.” The blanket rustled, and his shadow rose as if into the star-strewn sky. “But this way your father cannot touch it, and you can. You can withdraw the full amount any time you wish. This means you can run. I won’t stop you, lass.”

“You make no sense, McPherson. Last night you dragged me back to the house—”

“Aye, so you would listen to what I’m asking you.” His strong, warm hand curled around hers, warm and significant, and held on tight. His fingers twined between hers were companionable, right. As he helped her from the sled, her fear of him began to drain. She landed beside him, defenseless and small. Snow slid over the tops of her shoes, wetting her stockings, but the sudden cold did not steal her breath the way Ian did.

“What are you asking?” she asked.

“To let me help you.”

“You want to help me run away from you?”

“Aye, why else do you think I have agreed to stay?” He shouldered open the barn door, waiting for her to enter first. “I intend to help you, Fee. I promise you that.”

“And I suppose like any man you think that really means you are helping yourself?”

“I came back for you.” As substantial as truth, as intangible as dream, and yet real all the same. “Why else would I have pawned what I had on me, all but my horse, to come back here?”

“It was for the land.”

“Which is no prize. It comes with a mortgage a man would have to break his back working to pay off. Surely you must know that.”

“Johnny used to talk about it. He said Da was bad with money.”

“I am not.” He waited, his feet planted, his legs braced, and in the shadows the starlight found him. “I came back to help you find a better life. I do not think I can go on with my own unless I know you are safe and well. Only the good Lord above knows why.”

“I almost believe you.” Why was he doing this to her? How did he strip her defenses away with a few honest-sounding words?

Only the Lord knew why she was susceptible to him. She wrenched away, having the advantage of knowing the inside of the barn by heart, and moved through the darkness faster than him. The horses whinnied, moving around in their stalls, and the cow lowed in greeting.

“I pity the man who does marry you.” Amused now, his brief chuckle rang cozily through the barn. His chest bumped her shoulder blade as he reached around her to take the match tin before she could grab it.

“You mean you pity yourself?” She whirled to face him.

“I do, and the man who wins your heart. For he will fall in love with you so hard and strong he would give up anything for you. And you could crush him with a word and that temper of yours.” He struck the match, and the flame worshipped him as he lit the lantern.

Why did he have to be so appealing to her? Why was he tearing her into pieces? When she suspected the worst of him, he proved to be a better man. The small book she clutched felt like a weight on her soul. “I don’t understand you. You make no sense.”

“I’ll not argue with you.” He tugged the ledger from her grip. Outlined as he was by the golden, glowing light a more fanciful girl could imagine him the hero of a dime novel, a man who stood for all that was good in the world, who was both unwaveringly tough and endlessly gentle. He folded open the first page of the booklet and tipped it toward the light for her to clearly see.

There was her money, all twenty-three dollars and forty-six cents. Not that she had doubted him. A strange aching emotion built in her throat, something she couldn’t swallow past—something she was afraid to look at too closely. Because then she would no longer be able to keep trying to hate him. Now there was no way to keep him safely away from her inexperienced heart.

“Let us make a deal, you and I.” His rugged voice vibrated with layers too dangerous to think about.

“I do not make bargains with men of your ilk.”

“Perhaps just this one time, for tonight, you can amend that and come to an agreement with me. Better to deal with me than with your da, right?”

“For a man who does not gamble, you know which cards to play.”

“As your father says, life is a gamble. I have learned much with the losses I have been dealt.” His richly layered words drew both the light and the darkness.

His honesty and sorrow touched her. The earth beneath her shoes tilted—again. She forgot to breathe—again. Every word she knew clumped into an incomprehensible ball in her brain. She hated that he was hurting. What was wrong with her that she wanted to comfort him? She knew sorrow well, and knew, too, that he had lost more than she had ever known. But his betrayal remained, and she could not afford to be kind. “What do you want, McPherson?”

“I want you to stop worrying. You’re not alone. Not anymore.” Tenderness hid in the layers of voice, a tenderness she must be imagining. “Now that you and I are engaged, at least as far as your father is concerned, he will not be trying to hand you over to the next man who comes along.”

“I do not intend to marry you.”

“You can go to school, spend time with your friends, sew to your heart’s content.” He tucked the ledger into her coat pocket. “Hide that. Add to it. When you’re ready, I will help you go. Wouldn’t it be better if you left with a job waiting and someone looking out for you?”

“I don’t need you, McPherson.”

“Aye, I see that. But I need you.” There he went, tricking her with his tenderness and kindness.

He could not be telling the truth. She backed away from him. “I sincerely doubt that. What about the land? That’s why you came and that’s why you are saying these things.”

“Wrong.” He drew himself upright, steeling his spine and setting his jaw. His tenderness vanished, leaving behind a formidable man, one who looked strong enough to defeat any foe. “Fiona, I didn’t come back for the land. That was not the true reason I am here. I will vow it on a stack of Bibles if you want me to. I vow it on my honor.”

“You don’t want to marry me?”

“Now, I never said that. But marriage between us always has and always will be your choice, pretty girl.” He cupped her face with the curve of his hand, tenderness real and tangible, not imagined. The sweetest longing spilled up from her soul. Everything within her wanted to believe him. She squeezed her eyes shut, and the image of the man remained etched in her mind. As did the caring chiseled into his stony features, and his concern reaching out as if to rope her in.

When she opened her eyes, he hadn’t moved. In his secondhand coat, rumpled shirt and trousers he did not at all look the horrible man he that she wanted him to be.

A friendly meow filled the silence between them. A furry paw reached down from the rafter above and batted at Ian’s hat. His buttery chuckle warmed the cold air, and his amusement beat at her falling defenses.

“Hello to you, too,” he crooned to the cat. “Come to see if there’s any milk, have you?”

Mally’s answering meow left no doubt, and while the feline tossed a glance Fiona’s way, it was a mere glance, nothing more.

“You have gone and stolen my cat,” she accused. “I don’t think I shall ever forgive you, Ian.”

“At least you are using my first name, lass. It is an improvement.” He batted playfully at Mally’s paw. The cat, apparently thrilled, grabbed hold of his rafter and reached down to wrestle with Ian properly.

“It’s not an improvement. Simply resignation.” It was easier to let him think she still loathed him than admit the truth. She grabbed a small pail from the nearby shelf. “As you insist on playing, I’ll get started on your work.”

“I left Duchess standing in the doorway.” He chuckled again, dodging the cat’s attempts to knock his hat off. “I’ll take care of her, don’t you worry.”

“You are hardly trustworthy.” She let the mare scent her hand. Once the beautiful mare nodded in greeting, she dared to run her fingers over the rich velvety nose. Softer than it looked, she marveled. “You are like the finest satin.”

Duchess nickered low in her throat with great dignity and dipped her nose in the bucket. Her lustrous red coat seemed to gleam, as if holding light of its own. Breathtaking to be so close to her. She was perfection. Not the kind of horse you leave standing. No, judging by the perturbed look, Duchess was used to immediate attention. She stomped her foot, not at all pleased to find the bucket empty.

“It’s hot water I’ll be fetching for you. I suppose you are used to your oats warm,” she told the mare, fully aware of Ian coming closer. The nerves on her nape tingled in warning at his approach.

“That would be kind of you, lass.” His warm breath fanned across the back of her neck. His hand landed next to hers on Duchess’s silken nose. “I have left her too long already. She’s used to receiving all of my regard.”

“Poor Duchess.” Fiona sympathized. “It must be hard to endure so much of Ian.”

The mare tossed her head up and down as if in perfect agreement.

“I guess that puts me in my place.”

His chuckle followed her out into the bitter cold; she couldn’t rightly say she was running from it. Just as it was not his warm, cozy company she would be missing. It was
not
the promise of hearing his laughter again that had her hurrying down the path toward the shanty’s glowing window.

At least, that’s what she told herself.

A strange power had overtaken him, there was no denying it. Ian ran his hands down Duchess’s legs, checking knee and fetlock and hoof. No warm spots, no swelling, nothing out of the ordinary. Everything his grandfather had taught him about horse care was ingrained, and as he lowered the mare’s hoof onto his knee to check her shoe, the old man could have been with him, standing as he always did with a bit of advice to offer. Fine when Ian was a six-year-old, but how it had annoyed him as a teenage boy.

Warm memories curled around him like his grandfather’s loving presence used to. He almost glanced over his shoulder to see if the older gentleman stood there. Impossible, of course, his grandfather had been gone a full year, but perhaps he was looking down from heaven. And if he was, would he be glad of what he saw? Relieved he was falling for the granddaughter of his best childhood friend? Or would he be ashamed of her circumstances?

Duchess blew out a breath through her lips, a sort of horsey huff. How long had he been kneeling here, with her hoof in his hand? Ian blinked. He had no notion how much time had passed.

“Sorry, girl.” He eased her hoof to the ground and straightened. Duchess forgave him with a low, affectionate nicker.

The barn door creaked open, and Fiona waltzed in. He would have liked to say that his every sense wasn’t attuned to the woman. But no matter how hard he tried, his ears picked up the light, padding rhythm of her boots on the ground and the rustle of her skirts.

The animals turned toward her. Flannigan whinnied in welcome and the cow lowed mournfully. Even Duchess watched with eagerness, and he was able to rise and brush the straw from his trousers as if he were too busy to notice the change in the air or in his heart. Fiona murmured low to the animals. Her sweet voice could melt the frost on the walls.

Aye, it was a strange influence she had over him, but not an unwelcome one. He laid his hand on his mare’s neck to lead her gently, wordlessly to her stall. Duchess trusted him, walking confidently beside him, but her attention, too, remained on the dark-haired dream of a woman in her green gingham dress as she stooped to pet the cat eagerly curving about her heels.

Lord, I am trusting where You lead me, that this will all be well in the end.
He had to turn to prayer, because he could not see. It was like standing at a crossroads in the dark. Trails led off in many directions, and there was no way to know what lay ahead or which was the one that would bring him home. There were no dreams here to be had; he had more money to earn if he were to buy the deed from O’Rourke, and that would be no easy path. Fiona despised him, and that would not change. He did not miss the difference in her, now that she understood his cause. She sparkled, her step was light, happiness warmed her voice as she stopped to rub Flannigan’s nose and explain the hot mash was not for him. The horse leaned into her touch, closing his eyes. When she skipped away, he leaned after her, yearning for more than he could have.

Aye, he knew how Flannigan felt. The light pad of her step and the scrape of the bucket as it landed on the barrel top—every movement she made glanced through him. He could not say why she was dear to him, only that he was alone in that regard. His feelings would never be returned. Aye, he did not need to be a genius to know this. When he ambled close to her, her brightness dimmed as if she were drawing herself in. Clearly whatever friendship they’d had was damaged. Perhaps beyond repair.

He was sorry for it but not for helping her. Not for what it was costing him. He rested his cane against the side of the grain barrel and watched tension creep into the delicate line of her jaw because of his nearness. She was quick to swirl away and put distance between them.

“Thank you for bringing the water.” He prayed no wounded feelings crept into his voice. He pried the lid up and stirred oats into the few inches of water. Fiona had thought to leave a spoon in the bottom of the pail, so he stirred, the scraping filling the silence between them when she did not answer.

Aye, there would be no easy laughter between them again. He was sorry for it, too. More than he ever wanted to admit. He gave the plumping oats a final stir. “I’ll finish up the chores if you want to go in where it’s warm.”