Thimbles and Thistles: (Sweet Historical Western Romance) (Baker City Brides Book 2)

by Shanna Hatfield

  Maggie released the breath she’d held and relaxed. “Daniel was the very best.”

  Ian turned his head slightly to better see her face. “Did you always know him? Grow up with him?”

  She shook her head. “I was born in Texas. My parents decided to move to Missouri when I was three. Daniel’s family lived on the farm next to ours. He was the youngest of five boys, and two years my senior. I don’t know why he decided to take me under his wing, but he did. When I was fifteen, my parents both died and with no other living relation to take me in, Daniel convinced his parents we were old enough to wed. I’d been sweet on him since I turned thirteen, but thought he considered me the sister he never had.”

  “I’m sure you were much more than that to him.” Ian couldn’t imagine settling down at such a young age. At fifteen, he was still playing pranks, like dipping girls’ hair in the inkwells at school, and dropping garter snakes in the outhouse when it was occupied.

  A wistful look settled on Maggie’s face. “Yes, far more, but I had no idea until he asked me to marry him.”

  “What happened?” Ian asked. The pain and loss Maggie suffered losing both her parents at the same time, leaving her alone, must have been devastating.

  A soft smile crossed her lips as she roamed through her memories. “His parents were against it, at first, but Daniel was quite persuasive in his argument. Finally, they agreed and we wed. He moved into the house where I’d lived since I was three and we were so happy, although we both worked hard. My mother had been a talented seamstress before she married my father and taught me what she knew. I began my own business, sewing dresses and suits for our neighbors and a few people in town while Daniel worked our land. He wanted more for us than a hardscrabble existence and when the opportunity arose to venture out West, he talked me into it. We met Thane and Tully in the wagon train that brought us out here. We were near the same age, and Tully and Thane were alone. I cooked for them and they helped us. By the time we arrived in Baker City, we were all close friends.”

  Maggie clearly enjoyed talking about her past. Ian wondered why she kept it bottled up so tightly instead of sharing the good memories she owned. “What about Daniel? What was he like?”

  “Quiet. Daniel was quiet around strangers, but if someone took the time to know him, they’d have a loyal friend for life. He wasn’t tall or brawny like you, but he worked hard. Daniel was an honest, kind man who hummed silly songs while he helped me dry dishes, and never turned down someone’s request for help.” Maggie plucked at the lace trim on her sleeve. “The four years I spent married to Daniel were the best, happiest years of my life.”

  Ian rolled onto his side and watched Maggie brush a tear from her cheek. Propping his head on one hand, he reached out with the other and touched the fingers fisted on her lap. “I’m sorry, Maggie. It must have been so hard for you, especially after losing your parents.”

  “It was horrible. If Thane and Tully hadn’t been here, I don’t think I would have survived the pain of losing Daniel. He was everything to me. Everything. I used to wish we’d never left Missouri. I would rather have been dirt poor with nothing and have my husband alive than rich without him by my side.” Maggie released a shuddering breath and stared at the sky, seeking to regain control of her emotions.

  Lately, she didn’t know what had gotten into her. Tears simmered just beneath the surface and memories she’d carefully tucked away washed over her with relentless force.

  For more than ten years, she’d mourned Daniel, missed him every day. But the last few weeks, it almost felt like she was losing him all over again. It didn’t make sense and she couldn’t figure out any reasonable explanation for her feelings.

  Determined to change the subject and refocus her thoughts, she turned to find Ian intently watching her. “What about you, Mr. MacGregor? Other than your occasional use of a Scottish brogue and the fact you stamp your brand on everything, I don’t know much about you. Did you grow up in Scotland?”

  Ian grinned and rolled onto his back again. “Nae, lass. I grew up in Boston in one of those fancy homes in an elite neighborhood that are pure misery for a rambunctious lad with a vivid imagination and an active sense of curiosity.”

  Maggie grinned. “Might I assume that imagination and curiosity got you into trouble?”

  Ian chuckled. “Constantly. My mother wore out more than one switch on me, for all the good it did. The poor woman tried to teach me manners and civility, but my father’s blood pumps too strongly through my veins.”

  “Was your mother Scottish?”

  Ian shook his head. “Not a drop. She came from good old English stock. In fact, some of her ancestors supposedly arrived on the Mayflower. No, my mother was a well-to-do woman of society. She and a friend happened to be meandering through a park one sunny spring afternoon. A bold lad, quite handsome and charming, asked if she knew how to find a certain store. She gave him directions and somehow, during the course of the conversation, he managed to get her name and address. The next thing she knew, my mother had fallen in love with a penniless Scot, fresh off the boat. Full of all sorts of grand schemes, my father set aside his dreams, married my mother, and went to work for her father as manager of one of his businesses, which happened to be a lumber mill.”

  Maggie gave him an attentive look. “So your father trained you in the lumber business and shared his brogue with you.”

  “Much to my grandparents’ dismay,” Ian said, recalling the disappointment he’d seen on their faces time and time again. “They had detailed plans for my mother to marry well, at least by their standards, but she refused to wed anyone other than my father. Her compromise was continuing to live under their roof. When I was born, my grandparents tried to take the lead in my rearing, but my father put his foot down. I was an only child, as was my mother, so my grandfather intended for me to follow his example. Nonetheless, I preferred to walk in the steps set by my father’s dusty boots.”

  Compassion stirred Maggie’s heart. “It must have been hard for you. I’m sure you wanted to please your grandparents, yet you no doubt felt a sense of duty to stand up for your father.”

  “Oh, don’t feel sorry for me, Mistress Dalton.” A twinkle sparkled in Ian’s eye. “I played both sides of that coin quite well until they all caught on to my game. My grandparents were terribly strict, though. No sliding down the banister. No playing Indians in the parlor. And absolutely no reenacting of war battles in the rose garden. What was a lively, inquisitive youngster to do? Out of desperation to salvage what was left of their immaculate home, I was sent to the mill to work with Dad when I wasn’t in school. He taught me everything he knew about the lumber business and my Scottish heritage. That’s why my brand is important to me. It isn’t just to say ‘ye purchased this from Ian McGregor and he takes pride in his work.’ Nae, lass, it’s to honor my father and the heritage he gave up to offer me a good life.”

  Maggie reached out a hand and gently settled it on Ian’s arm. He stared at it, as if she’d placed some foreign object upon him.

  “I think it’s a wonderful way to honor your father, Ian, even if you do tend to do so in excess.”

  “Excess? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Ian grinned and sat up, taking her hand in his before she could snatch it away. Tendrils of exotic sensations curled up his arm and wrapped around his heart at the feel of her soft hand clasped against his work-roughed palm.

  She shot him a saucy grin. “It didn’t escape my notice that you’ve branded your front gate. If you’ve got a dog, I bet you’ve even branded him.”

  “I don’t have a dog and it would be cruel to brand a canine.” Ian stared at her, insulted she’d think so little of him.

  She squeezed the hand he still held. “I know you wouldn’t. However, I couldn’t help but tease you a little.”

  With his good humor restored, Ian’s eyes twinkled once again. “In that case, I think you should give me another piece of that cake.”

  While Ian ate the cake, t
hey discussed news from town and things they’d both read in the paper, including the end to a nearly thirty year feud that took place in the south between warring families.

  “It’s hard to imagine holding onto anger for so long,” Maggie commented as Ian again rested on the blanket with his hands behind his head as they talked. “I’m just glad the two families brought their feud to an end.”

  “Feuds and fights can draw out the worst in people, that’s for certain.”

  “Did your Scottish ancestors ever feud?” Maggie found his heritage fascinating and wondered about his family. If Ian took after his father, which she assumed he did, he must have come from a very handsome, passionate bloodline.

  Ian chuckled and sat up. “For sure and certain, lass. My father told stories of ancestral feuds.”

  Maggie gazed at him with interest. “What else did your father tell you about Scotland? Did you ever go there to visit?”

  “My parents took me to Scotland three times to visit my father’s family. I went once by myself before I moved here. Dad’s homeland is a verra bonny place.”

  “Would you ever move there?” She hoped Ian didn’t plan to leave Baker City. Although he annoyed and irritated her, she also enjoyed his company and their engaging conversations.

  “Nae, lass. This is my home now. I love it here in Baker City.” Ian waved a hand at the river and trees behind them. “When you’re in the middle of God’s country, why would you want to live anywhere else?”

  “Why, indeed?” Maggie tipped her head and grinned at Ian. “Is it true Scottish men wear skirts?”

  Ian rose to his feet then gave her a hand as she stood. “I should be offended on behalf of all Scots, lass. They are not skirts, but kilts, and any Scotsman worth his salt owns one.”

  “Do you own one?”

  “Aye, as sure as my name is MacGregor I own one.”

  Maggie laughed when his brogue thickened. “I can’t imagine why you didn’t wear it today.”

  Ian raised his eyebrows and offered her a wicked smile. “I dinna want ye lassies faintin’ during the pastor’s sermon. The sight of my handsome legs would have created an unholy disruption at the church service this mornin’, make no doubts about that fact.”

  “You are a vain, vain man, Ian MacGregor.” Her tone held a hint of scorn, but her sparkling eyes and smiling lips said otherwise. Maggie rather liked the idea of seeing Ian’s legs in a kilt. The thoughts inspired by that vision made her cheeks burn so she hurried to fold the quilt, pin on her hat, and tug on her gloves.

  “Are you ready to head home, then, Mistress Dalton?” Ian noticed her cheeks had turned pink and she suddenly seemed overcome with nerves.

  “Yes.” Maggie reached for the quilt, but Ian captured her hand between his.

  “Before we go, I wanted to ask ye… that is to say… I was wondering…” Ian glanced away and took a deep breath. He hadn’t been as nervous around a female since he was a green lad asking a girl to his first dance. “The spring dance is next month and I hoped I might convince you to accompany me.”

  The look on Maggie’s face did nothing to bolster his confidence. “Oh, Ian, I truly do appreciate the invitation, but I prefer to go alone. I don’t want any of the bachelors in town to get the wrong idea.”

  “And what idea might that be?” Ian’s voice sounded strained, even to his ears.

  “That I’m open to receiving gentlemen callers. The fact remains that I’m not.” Maggie didn’t want to hurt Ian’s feelings, especially after they’d enjoyed such a pleasant afternoon. “Besides, how do I know you can dance? You might step on my toes or trip on my skirts.”

  Ian grinned and stepped back from her then executed a few intricate dance steps. “I assure you, my mother made sure I could hold my own at a ball.”

  “It’s not your own I’m worried about. It’s when you’re holding me that causes my concern.” Maggie batted her eyelashes coquettishly, making him laugh as he spun around and took a few more dance steps.

  Delighted by Maggie’s playful response, he didn’t pay attention to his footing and stepped too close to the bank of the river. His arms flailed in the air for a moment before he lost his balance and fell into the water.

  “Ian!” Maggie rushed over to the bank and placed a hand to her mouth, trying to stifle her amusement. One giggle followed another until laughter floated down around Ian like thistle down in a gentle breeze. “You look like a half-drowned…” She gasped for air, unable to speak around her uncontrollable giggles.

  Ian’s wet hair fell across his face like a soggy mop and his suit, one of the finest she’d seen, appeared limp and lifeless.

  Fortunately, the place where he fell in wasn’t deep. Quickly gaining his feet, water flowed around his thighs as he slogged out of the river and scrambled up the bank.

  Maggie looked him over as he stood dripping on the grass. A rip crossed the left knee of his trousers. It wouldn’t much matter anyway because the fine wool of the suit was ruined from the water.

  “I’m so sorry about your suit, Ian. I don’t think it’s salvageable.” Maggie watched as Ian ran a hand through his hair, forking it away from his face. Although he kept it short enough it didn’t brush his shirt collar, the top layers were long. Despite the tousled, somewhat unkempt style, it looked right on him. The most unreasonable longing to run her hands through his damp strands made her tightly grasp the sides of her skirt.

  “I believe you’re right, lass.” Ian looked down and wrinkled his nose. “And there isn’t too much that smells worse than wet wool, unless the wool happens to still be on the hoof.”

  Maggie nodded her head as Ian picked up the picnic basket and began trudging toward his house. She snatched up the quilt and fell into step beside him. “If you give me the basket, I can see myself home.”

  “No. It will only take a moment for me to change then I’ll walk you home.”

  Aware of how alone they were at Ian’s place, Maggie entertained the thought of going home anyway and reclaiming the picnic basket later. Nevertheless, her curiosity got the best of her and she followed Ian through his front gate, down the walk, and up the steps of his welcoming home.

  “It’s a beautiful place, Ian. When do you find time to take care of it?” She admired the flowers blooming in flowerbeds edging the house and in pots on the porch.

  “I must confess that I hire help to tend to things around here. Mr. Byron takes care of my animals, maintains the yard, and keeps an eye on things when I’m not around. His wife cleans my house and keeps it looking presentable.” Ian opened the door and motioned for Maggie to precede him inside his home.

  Chapter -

  “Oh, my,” Maggie whispered as she stepped across the threshold into Ian’s home.

  A grand oak staircase stood to the left of the entry with a hallway leading toward the back of the house. To her right, a splendid sitting room beckoned to her.

  Ian smiled at her. He set down the basket he carried and took the quilt from her hands, draping it over the top of the basket. “Go right in, lass. I’ll be back in a moment.” Before she could respond, he bounded up the steps, leaving her gaping at his home.

  The outside was impressive, but the inside was awe-inspiring.

  She stepped into the large room with a high ceiling and took in the dark green tone of the wallpaper, along with the oaken beams overhead. Bright red and green plaid cushions decorated a long midnight blue sofa with side chairs covered in both blue and green velvet upholstery.

  The expensive furnishings drew her interest as she walked around the room. A coat of arms and a bookcase filled with books and interesting objects covered one wall.

  She stopped in front of the fireplace as her gaze settled on a collection of weaponry hanging above the mantle. Drawn forward by inquisitiveness, she studied the strange-looking weapons. Absorbed in imagining the purpose of each piece of weaponry, she failed to hear Ian’s approach.

  “Admiring my family’s tools of their trade?” Ian spoke as he stepped
beside her. He wore a simple pair of denims, a cotton shirt, and a plain vest that he made haste to button.

  “I’ve never seen anything quite like that,” Maggie said, pointing to a primitive-appearing weapon. A broad, spear-like head, sharpened on one side, looked like a cleaver on a pole. The back of the weapon had a wicked-looking hook. “What is it?”

  “That, Mistress Dalton, is a Lochaber axe. It is relatively short as pole arms go, but the shorter haft was designed to provide a greater level of control. The hook on the back enabled the man holding the axe to yank a mounted warrior off his horse.”

  “My gracious!” She pointed to a long, heavy sword. “What about that one?”

  Ian stepped up to the fireplace and removed the sword from the hooks where it rested. Maggie didn’t know if she should be more impressed by the sword or the muscles bunching in the arms of the man holding it.

  “This is a Claymore. It’s a two-handed battle sword. Would you like to hold it?” Ian moved closer to her.

  Maggie started to shake her head, but realized she might never again have the opportunity to hold an ancient battle weapon. “I believe I would, Mr. MacGregor.”

  Carefully, Ian placed the sword in her hands. The weight drug her arms down and she struggled to keep the blade from striking the luxurious carpet covering the floor. Ian stepped behind her, bracketing her with his arms while his hands covered hers. “Here, lass. Like this.”

  He lifted the sword up and bore the brunt of the weight so she could examine it. Although the sword held her interest, the man pressed close to her back fascinated her. She wanted, more than anything, to lean into him, to surrender to his strength.

  Unsettled by her thoughts, she pulled her hands away and stepped out of the circle of Ian’s arms. “I can’t imagine trying to wield that in a battle.”

  “Try this broadsword on for size.” Ian returned the Claymore to its spot and removed a smaller sword with a wide blade. “You should be able to hold this one.”