Читать книгу Gingham Bride - Jillian Hart - Страница 10

Ma turned down the wick to save kerosene, and the small orange flicker turned the kitchen to dancing shadows. Darkness crept in from the corners of the room like the winter’s cold. “Don’t forget to wipe down, Fiona, after you throw out the dishwater.”

“Yes, Ma.” She dried her hands on the dish towel and hung it on the wall behind the stove to dry. Tiny tremors rippled through her, as they had been doing for the last half hour or so, ever since she’d heard her da’s fateful words. Tell your grandmother the arrangement is off.

Thank the heavens. Gratitude and relief pounded through her. A terrible fate avoided, and she was grateful to God for it. As she unhooked her coat from the wall peg by the door, she caught sight of her mother pouring a cup of tea in the diminished light at the stove, her one luxury. She worked with great care to stir in a frugal amount of honey. Fiona winced, turning away from the sight, fighting pity she didn’t want to feel. She herself had narrowly missed that kind of fate although her feet remained heavy as she slipped into her coat and hefted the basin of dirty wash water from the table. How could her parents do such a thing? And why? With the way Da was asking for six hundred dollars, she might as well be livestock up for sale.

Angry tears burned behind her eyes as she buttoned her coat, blurring the image of her ma’s threadbare calico dress and apron, of her too-lean frame as she took a first soothing sip of tea. Fiona didn’t have to look to know exhaustion hollowed her mother’s face. That she would spend the rest of the evening sewing quietly with her head down while Da ranted and raved about their troubles.

Tiredly, she trudged through the lean-to and, sure enough, her father’s voice followed her.

“You get that look off your face, woman.” Da’s shout rang too loud and slurry. “You keep that up and you’ll be living in the back of a wagon. Is that what you want?”

“I didn’t mean anything by it—”

“I don’t care what you mean. I thought that boy had money. His family was richer than Midas. What in blazes did they squander it on? We have need of it, and that pipsqueak shows up whining about being broke. Time to get back the money we put into that girl, if you ask me. If McPherson won’t take her, there’s others who will.”

And just who would that be? She stumbled into the brunt of the storm. The blizzard had grown, beating at her as if with enraged fists, her face full of ice so that she couldn’t breathe. Her father wasn’t making any sense, as usual. But he did sound determined to find a husband for her, someone who could hand over money to them. How could they do this to her? Could they actually force her to marry? No, this was America, not the homeland. It was modern times, not 1700.

But that was no comfort, none at all. The storm seemed to cage her in, blocking out the entire world. As if drowning, she knelt and upended the basin, letting the hot water steam and spill safely away from the pathway. She had underestimated her father’s callousness again. Ever since Johnny’s death, she had taken over all the chores Johnny used to do. His criticism had become unrelenting, and now he expected her to marry just so he could get some gain from it? She thought of her money sock tucked safely away, the savings she had set aside one coin at a time that no one knew about. Not even Johnny had known.

“Still at work?” The rugged baritone startled her.

She dropped the basin, shocked, as the hammering storm diminished. An unmistakable shadow appeared, standing between her and the fierce gusts, towering above her like righteousness. Ian McPherson.

“I couldn’t hear you because of the storm.” She straightened on unsteady legs. She felt beaten and battered. Did she have to face this man now, when she felt ready to crack apart? “What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be in with my father trying to barter him down to a better price?”

“You’re angry with me.”

“You’re smarter than you look, McPherson.” Anger was easier. It was the only thing keeping her strong. She swiped annoying amounts of snow from her lashes and squinted. Yes, that was a pack slung over his left shoulder. “Why aren’t you inside with a whiskey bottle? Or are you on your way to buy another bride?”

“No, not tonight. Maybe tomorrow when the storm breaks.” He knelt and retrieved the basin. Night and shadow shielded him and his voice was layered, too. She could not be sure, but maybe a hint of dimples teased at the corners of his mouth. “Sorry. I see this is no joking matter.”

“To you, maybe. I don’t know how anyone could think—” She stopped, biting her bottom lip. This had to be a nightmare, a bad dream she would wake from at any moment, wipe the sweat from her brow and thank the heavens above it was just a dream. But it wasn’t. The cruel wind gusted, chilling through her layers of wool and flannel, and she shivered, hard. Her teeth chattered. “Just get away from me, McPherson. I’m not fooled by you any longer.”

“I am sorry.” He lumbered close, gripping his cane tightly as he leaned on it. He remained straight and strong. “I didn’t come here to hurt you.”

“I’m not hurt.” Devastated. Betrayed. Disillusioned. Sure, she was all of those things. She knew her parents were not the best of people, but never had she believed they would bend this low. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“You’re lying more than a wee bit.” His leather gloves brushed her brow. His thumb rasped across her lashes, wiping away the snow because it could not be tears.

She reared away from his touch, pulse thumping as if with fear. It was too dark to see the expression on his granite face. She snatched the basin from him. “Just get going. Go on. Town is that way. Just follow the fences.”

“Eager to be rid of me?”

“More than you can guess.”

“I cannot blame you for that.” His hand fell to her shoulder, his baritone dipping low with regret. “You’re freezing out here. Let’s get you back in the house.”

“No, I can’t go there.” She thought of the four walls closing in on her and the darkness pounding with the blizzard’s wail. Her ma would not look at her, and her da, if she were lucky, might already be deeply drunk with his feet up on a stool. They would be sitting here as they did every evening, as if everything were the same as it always had been.

But it wasn’t. She could not stomach the notion of looking at them, or of knowing how wrong about them she had been. Sure, they were strict and often harsh. But deep down she had never thought they were this cold. She could not step foot in the sitting room, knowing what she was to them.

“You cannot be staying out here, pretty girl.” Well-meaning, he shielded her from the brunt of the wind as he steered her toward the fence line. The wooden posts were nearly buried, but offered dark bobbing buoys to follow in the strange, pearled darkness.

He was taking her to the barn. Her knees went weak with relief. She turned her back on the house, gripped her skirts and followed his tall shadow through the drifts. Snow needled her face, crept down her collar and over the tops of her shoes. The prairie was out there, still and waiting, calling like an old friend. Did she listen to it? Should she set aside her hopes to finish school and leave while she could?

“Careful. It’s deeper here.” Nothing but a shadow ahead of her blocking the worst of the storm, Ian stopped to reach back and take her elbow. Shadow became flesh and bone, and a stranger’s compassion softness in the brutal night. His grip was firm, a band of strength holding her as she struggled to lift her boot high enough to step out of the impossible drift. Her boot scraped over the berm of snow and then it was like falling, trying to find where the earth began. She went down and Ian held her safely until her toe hit ice and she found her balance.

“Want to head back?” he asked, releasing her.

The thought of being in the sitting room made her throat burn. She shook her head, letting him lead her through the darkness, and shivered deep inside, where no cold wind could possibly touch her. The image of her mother bending quietly to her task of stirring a drop of honey into her tea became all that she could see.

What if her parents thought they could pressure her to marry? Already they pressured her into doing so much. A good daughter would do more for her parents. A Christian girl would honor her parents with her obedience. Only a selfish girl would think of her own future when her family was running out of money for food and coal. Like they always did, would they talk at her and team up and make her feel as if helping them by marrying was the only right thing to do? She could hear their voices as if part of the brutal wind, chipping away at her like water against rock until she thought they might be right.

But this? Marrying a stranger against her wishes? How could that ever be right? She let the strong grip on her arm keep her upright, forcing her legs to keep moving and her feet to lift and fall into the unbearably cold snow. If her parents had their way, she could imagine her life twenty years from now: worn down by hardship and thankless work and hardened by a harsh marriage to a joyless man. That wasn’t the future she wanted. That wasn’t the way she wanted to live.

“Fiona?” Ian’s rough voice brought her back, straining as he fought the powerful wind to hold open the barn door. He was waiting for her, a kind presence on a heartless night.

“Sorry.” She stumbled across the threshold, passing so close to him she could feel the warmth of his breath. Tiny shivers skidded down her spine, from closeness or warning, she didn’t know which.

“You have a lot on your mind, lass.” The door banged shut, echoing in the dark.

“I wish I didn’t.” What she wanted was to go back to believing her future was bright. She wanted to turn back time and start over the day, armed with answers she did not now have. She knew her parents were hurting financially, but with every step she took all she could hear was her father’s words. If McPherson won’t take her, there’s others who will.

“I know the feeling.” His kindness could drive the cold from the air and the hopelessness from the night. Heaven help her, for she could turn toward him in the inky blackness as if she saw him. The thud of his rucksack hitting the ground and the pad of his uneven gait only confirmed it. His hand found her shoulder. “It’s a tough night you’ve been having. Let’s get you dry and warm. Come with me.”

“I can take care of myself.” Her deepest instinct was to push him away, to shrug off his comforting touch and turn away from his offer of help. Except for her friends, whom she trusted, she was wary of help from others, for there was always a price that came with it.

“Aye, I’m sure of it, but tonight you are heart weary. Let me help.” The smoky layers of his voice could charm away the winter. His fingers brushed her chin, tugging at the hood ties until they came free. Bits of snow rained off the edge, but before they could hit her in the face, he brushed them away, every one, as if he could see them quite clearly. “You, Miss Fiona, are in worse straits than I have ever seen.”

“I know. My father said—” She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to speak aloud the horrible words. “Why are they doing this? Why now?”

“Your teeth are chattering.” He eased down her hood and knocked the driven ice from around her collar. “There are blankets in the corner. Come with me.”

“Are you still considering marrying me?” She stood her ground.

“Not anymore.” The full truth, he couldn’t deny it. From the moment he had spotted her in the fields looking like snow-speckled poetry, he had been drawn. He didn’t want to admit it, but something had changed. Maybe it wasn’t anything more serious than pity for the girl—there was certainly a lot to feel sorry about in her circumstances—but he knew his awareness of her was not that simple. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he could see her wide, honest eyes, the cute slope of her nose and the new sadness on her face that tonight’s events had drawn. “I came here hoping you would feel the same as I did about our betrothal.”

She turned away. Her hair tumbled like a curtain shielding her from his view, but he could sense her smile, small and thoughtful and pure relief. He was able to herd her down the main aisle. The runaway horse stretched his neck over his stall gate and nickered in greeting.

“Hello, handsome.” She stopped with a spin of her skirts and a stubborn set to her jaw. Tension tightened the muscles of her shoulder beneath his gloved hand, and he let her go. She breezed away from him, ice crackling in her clothing, a lithe shadow that was like a spring breeze moving through him.

Just ignore it. The feelings are bound to go away. He set his teeth on edge, tucked his cane against the post and lifted the match tin off the ledge. He needed a moment, that was all, and the feelings would pass. At least, he prayed they would pass.

“You are such a good man.” Her quiet praise made the horse nicker and the other animals peer around their gates to call out for her attention. A meow rang from the rafters above. Sure enough, a black-faced cat crept into the shadows, eyes shining, to preen for the girl below.

“Mally, where have you been? I haven’t seen you all day.” Her greeting made the feline purr and the cow moo plaintively, as if anxious for Fiona’s attention, too.

The emotions stirred within him like embers coming to life in a hopeless place. He struck the match and lit the wick, unable to keep his gaze from following her as she reached up to touch the cat’s paw. The feline’s purr grew rusty as he batted at her playfully.

His fingers itched to capture this image, the Cinderella girl with her patched clothes and her Midas heart. Everything she touched seemed to love her. The cow leaned into her touch with a sigh, and the other gelding—the one he had ridden earlier—leaned so far over his stall that he cut off his air supply and began to choke.

“Riley, you poor guy. I won’t forget you.” She unwrapped her arms from the gelding’s neck and the lantern light found her, highlighting the curve of her face, gleaming on her ebony locks and revealing her gentle nature.

He grabbed his cane and followed his shadow down the aisle. The melody of her voice trailed after him. He was not surprised when the cat bounded along the wooden beam overhead, hopped onto the grain barrel and plopped to the ground. Hurrying for more of Fiona’s affection, no doubt.

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.