Gingham Bride

“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.

“I’ll help you.” His baritone surprised her and he caught her just as she started to slide. Against her will, she noticed the strength in his arms as she was eased to the ground. She sank deep and unevenly into a drift. His helpfulness didn’t stop. “Can you find your way to the house, or should I take you there?”

“I have to see to the horses.”

“No, that’s what I plan to do. Let me get them sheltered in the barn and then I’ll be seeing you safely in.” Stubbornness rang like a note in his rumbling voice.

She had a stubborn streak, too. “I’m hardly used to taking orders from a stranger. These are not your horses, and what are you doing on this land?”

“Your da invited me.”

“A drinking buddy, no doubt. It must be poker night already.” She shook her head, plowing through the uncertain drifts and trailing her mittens along Flannigan’s neck until she felt the icy rope. She curled her fingers around it, holding on tight. “I don’t allow intoxicated strangers to handle my horses.”

“Intoxicated?” He chuckled at that. “Missy, I’m parched. I won’t deny, though, I could use a drink when I’m through.”

Was that a hint of humor she heard in his lilting brogue? Was he teasing her? He had a gentle hand when it came to horses, but he could be the worst sort of man; any friend of her father’s would be. Birds of a feather. She saw nothing funny about men like her da. She pushed past him, knocking against the iron plane of his chest with her shoulder.

“Go up to the house, then, and you can wet your whistle, as my da would say.” Why was she so disappointed? It wasn’t as if she cared anything about this man. She didn’t even know his name. It just went to show that men could not be trusted, even if they were prone to good deeds.

“That’s it? I help you bring in your horse and now you are banishing me from your barn?”

“Yes.” Why was he sounding so amused? A decent man ought to have some semblance of shame. “Likely as not, my Da already has the whiskey poured and waiting for you.”

“Then he’ll be a mite disappointed.” The stranger grasped the rope she held, taking charge of Flannigan. “Come along. The barn is not far, if I remember, although I cannot see a foot in front of me.”

“Just follow the fence line.” She was tugged along when she ought to stand her ground. There was something intriguing about this stranger. It was not like one of Da’s fellows to choose barn work over cheap whiskey.

“This is better.” She heard his words as if from a great distance, but that was the distortion of the wind and the effort as he heaved open the barn door. She realized she was the only one gripping Flannigan’s rope and held him tightly, leading him into the dark shelter of the main aisle.

“Where is the lantern?” His boots padded behind her, leading Riley into the barn.

“I was just getting to that.” Really. As if she expected them all to stand around in the dark. She wrestled off her mittens, ice tinkling to the hard-packed dirt at her feet, and felt with numb fingertips for the match tin.

“Need any help?”

“No.” Her hands were not cooperating. She balled them up and blew on them, but her warm breath was not enough to create any thaw. She must be colder than she thought. Boots padded in her direction, sure and steady in spite of the inky blackness. Although she could not see him, she could sense him. The scent of soap and clean male skin and melting snow. The rustle of denim and wool. His masculine presence radiating through the bitter air.

The shock of his touch jolted through her. She stumbled backward, but he held her hands, warming them with his. The act was so unexpected and intimate, shock muted her. Her mouth opened, but not a single sound emerged. He was as if a part of the darkness but his touch was warm as life and somehow not threatening—when it should be.

We’re alone, she realized, her pulse quickening. Alone in the dark, in the storm and with a strange man. She felt every inch of the yawning emptiness around her, but not fear. Her hands began to warm, tucked safely within his. She wanted to pull away and put proper distance between them, but her feet forgot how to move. She forgot how to breathe.

“There. You are more than a wee bit chilly. You need better mittens.” He broke the hold first, his voice smooth and friendly, as if unaffected by their closeness. “Now that my eyes are used to the dark, I can almost see what I’m doing.”

Her hearing registered the scrape of the metal match tin against the wooden shelf on the post, the strike of the match and Flannigan’s heavy step as he nosed in behind her. Light flared to life, a sudden shock in the blackness, and the caress of it illuminated a rock-solid jawline and distinctive planes of a man’s chiseled, rugged face.

A young man’s face. Five o’clock shadow hugged his jaw and a faint smile softened the hard line of his sculpted mouth. He had to be twenty at the oldest. As he touched the flame to the lantern wick, the light brightened and highlighted the dependable line of his shoulders and the power of his muscled arms. A man used to hard work. Not one of Da’s friends, then, or at least not one she had seen before.

“How do you know my father?” Her voice scraped along the inside of her throat, sounding as raw as it felt.

“I don’t.” He shrugged his magnificent shoulders simply, an honest gesture. He shook out the match and stowed it carefully in the bottom drawer of the lantern’s base. “I never met him until this day, although I grew up hearing tales about him and my father. And I know who you are, Fiona O’Rourke.”

A terrible roaring filled her ears, louder than the blizzard’s wail, louder than any sound she had ever known. The force of it trembled through her, and she felt as if a lasso were tightening around her neck. Her dreams cracked apart like breaking ice. “Y-you know me?”

“Aye.” Gently came that single word.

“But how? Unless you are—” Her tongue froze, her mind rolled around uselessly because she knew exactly who he was. For she had grown up hearing those same tales of her da and another man, the man whose son now towered before her. “No, it can’t be.”

“Ian McPherson. Your betrothed.” Since the lantern was lit, he seized a cane that she now noticed leaning against the post. He leaned on it, walking with a limp to snare Flannigan’s lead rope. “Come, big fellow. I’ll get you rubbed down. That’s a fine coat of lather you have there.”

Ian McPherson. Here? The ground beneath her boots swayed, and she gripped a nearby stall door. For as long as she could remember, Ma and Da would talk of better times when they were young and of their friends the McPhersons. Sometimes they would mention the old promise between older friends that their children would one day marry. But that was merely an expectation, a once-made wish and nothing more. Whatever her parents might think, she was certainly not betrothed and certainly not to a stranger.

The barn door crashed open, startling the horses. Flannigan, now cross tied in the aisle, threw his head and tried to bolt, but the lines held him fast. Riley, who was not tied, rocked back onto his hindquarters, wheeled in the breezeway and took off in a blind run.

Da grabbed the reins, yanking down hard enough to stop the gelding in his tracks. The horse’s cry of pain sliced through her shock and she raced to Riley’s side. Her hands closed around the reins, trying to work them from her father’s rough hands.

“I’ll take him, Da. He needs to be rubbed down—”

“McPherson will do it.” His anger roared above the storm. “No need to see how the gelding got loose. You nearly lost the second one, fool girl. If I hadn’t been standing here to stop him, he would have gotten out. Come to the house.”

Fiona wasn’t surprised when he released his iron hold on the reins to clamp his bruising fists around her upper arms and escort her to the door.

“McPherson, you come on up when you’re done. Maeve has a hot supper ready and waiting.”

Fiona heard the low resonance of Ian’s answer but not his words. The hurling wind beating against her stole them away, and she felt more alone than ever as she was tugged like a captive along the fence line toward the house. Her father muttered angrily at the storm and at her, promising to teach her a lesson. She blocked out images of the punishment she knew was to come, her feet heavy and wooden. As Da jerked her furiously along, the wide, endless prairie, hidden in the storm, seemed to call to her. She stumbled but did not fall.

Chapter Three

The lean-to was black, without a single flicker of light. Da’s boots pounded like rapid gunshots across the board floor, the sound drowning out her lighter step. The sharp scent of coal in the far corner greeted her as the door slammed shut behind her with a resounding crack. Even the blizzard was angrier, beating at the closed door with immeasurable fury.

At least she was numb now. She had tucked her feelings deep so that nothing could really hurt her. The inky darkness made it easier. She heard Da’s steps silence. The rasp of leather as he yanked the strap from the nail came louder than the raging storm.

“You’re darn lucky that McPherson hasn’t changed his mind outright and hightailed it back to Kentucky.” Low and soft, her father’s voice was deceptively calm as he ambled close.

Although she could not see him, she sensed his nearness as easily as she sensed the strap he clutched in both hands. “You didn’t tell me he was coming.”

“Doesn’t matter if you know or you don’t. You will marry him.”

“But why?” She choked against the panic rising like bile in her throat. Her instincts shouted at her to step back and run. The door wasn’t far. A few quick steps and she would be lost in the storm. Da couldn’t catch her, not if she ran with all her might.

But how far would she get? The storm was turning deadly, with the temperature well below zero. Even if she could make it to Earlee’s house, her friend lived more than half a mile away. She would freeze if she tried to walk that far.

“It’s not your place to ask questions, missy.” Da grabbed her roughly by the shoulder and shoved her. “It’s your place to do what yer told.”

Knocked off balance, Fiona shot her hands out, but she couldn’t see the wall. Her knuckles struck wood and she landed hard against the boards. She hardly felt the jolting pain, because it wasn’t going to be anything compared to what was coming.