Gingham Bride

by Jillian Hart

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Fiona! You daft girl! You are spilling water all over the floor.”

  Ma’s shrill tone, full of fury, penetrated Fiona’s thoughts. She realized she was kneeling on the kitchen floor, her hands wrist deep in suds. The edge of the washboard dug into her ribs.

  “Staring off into nothing when you should be finishing the wash. You’re lazier than ever, girl.” Footsteps pounded from the table to the stove, and sizzling erupted when the cut potatoes hit the hot fry pan. “I do not approve of that man.”

  “I rather like him.” She gripped a pair of her father’s trousers in both hands and scoured them on the washboard.

  “You say that now.” Ma turned, spatula in hand. “Do not think you are so smart, missy. That is the way men are, pretending to be kind and good to you when they want something. Aye, they can sweet-talk you into believing they would do anything for you. All that matters is your happiness. Sound familiar?”

  How did her mother know? Her strength faltered, the garment caught midstroke, and she skinned her knuckles on the corrugated washboard. A streak of blood stained her raw skin. “You and Da have been listening in—”

  “Uh! As if I need to.” Ma’s laugh rang high and cruel. “I have walked in your shoes before. How else do you think I married your da?”

  “I—” The garment in the tub was blurry, probably due to the effects of the soapy water.

  “I was sixteen, and the man who came courting, the man my parents picked for me, was charming. Bringing me flowers and notions for my sewing. I was making a wedding ring quilt for my hope chest.” Ma left the pan sizzling, pounding closer. “Oh, I fell heart and soul for the man who treated me like such a lady, who held doors for me and pledged his undying affection. Who wanted me to have all of my dreams.”

  Fiona wished the barbed words did not find their target, but they did. She kept wringing, and over the splash of the rinse water she heard the echo of Ian’s promises. I followed my heart back to you. The only dreams I have are for you. I care for you, lass.

  He had told her the truth. She would have known if he had been false. She plopped the trousers into the clothes basket and reached for a nearby towel. She would not listen to her mother: it was simply years of unhappiness that made her say terrible things.

  “Don’t believe me.” Ma returned to the stove, stirring the potatoes harder than necessary. Several flew out of the pan and she left them to smoke. “You think your charming Mr. McPherson is a shining knight now, but mark my words. He is out for himself, as all men are.”

  Don’t listen to her, Fee. She mopped up the last of the splashed water and scooped the clothes basket off the floor. Her parents were unhappy with the way Ian was changing things. Da was unhappy that he was no longer in complete control. That was all this was. Her mother’s hurtful words could not be true. She unhooked her coat from the peg and slipped into it.

  “Don’t have anything to say, girl? I know what you are thinking. You think your man is nothing like your da. That’s what I thought about your father, that he was not like mine.” Ma shook her head, grown too hard with her disappointments in life to care about the hurt she was causing. “You might as well smarten up, girl. We are wasting time waiting for the wedding. Marry the boy. I am on pins and needles not knowing for sure if he will keep his word.”

  “I have never said I would marry Ian, and besides, he has paid the bank.” All the proof she needed that her mother was not right. She grabbed the latch and tugged. The door squeaked open.

  “No, he has not. He has only promised to. He went and got some fancy lawyer involved.”

  “Whatever Ian is doing, he is a fair man.” She did not need to list all that he had done for her to prove it. It was one of the things she admired about him. Besides, he had said he didn’t want the farm because of the high mortgage, the very reason Da could not easily sell it. “You shouldn’t worry so, Ma.”

  “No man is fair. Can’t you get that through your thick head? Forget this foolishness. Let us get on to the business of saving our home. I am not going to live out of the back of our wagon.”

  This was what twenty years of unhappiness and unkindness could do to a person, eroding away the tender places. She could not listen to any more; she wrestled down anger as she drew the door closed.

  Ma’s final words drifted out to her. “The moment he gets his name on the deed, he will change, and not for the better. All he wants is the land. So stop being difficult and marry him now—”

  The door clicked shut and Fiona walked away with a heavy heart. Glad she was that Ian wanted her to spend the evenings with him in the barn. She might not be able to work on his coat, but she could make a pattern for it. Perhaps get measurements from his clothes, if she offered to wash them. Her step quickened as she hurried down the steps and plunged into the snowy path.

  The glow from the faded sunset blessed the silent prairie with a rare light. She walked on lavender-hued snow toward the clothesline, breathing in the wonder of the prairie. The hush felt reverent, almost sacred, almost as if God was peering down from heaven through the ragged clouds. One star twinkled at the horizon’s edge, a reminder that night was coming.

  What was Ian doing? She caught sight of the sled, drawn up to the corral’s gate. Perhaps he was inside taking care of Flannigan. She let the basket drop to the ground and dug a half-dozen wooden pins from the hanging bag. She clipped them to the top of her apron before shaking the wrinkles from the first garment she grabbed. Thinking of him made her worries lighter. She did not fret over Ma’s words, because she trusted Ian. The safety and comfort she’d felt in his arms remained like a gift, one she had never guessed could be so wonderful.

  She clipped up one pair of Da’s trousers, and reached for another pair. The wind stirred around her in little swirls, and snowflakes lifted from the ground in a slow, circling waltz. It did feel as if heaven were nearer, she thought, as she reached for another garment to hang.

  A rumbling disrupted the prairie’s peace, angry tones skimming the darkening snow as if riding the wind. They came too softly at first to hear more than the rise and fall of baritone and tenor, but as she reached for another clothespin, the wind shifted to bring the words straight to her.

  “—that is one point I won’t budge on, O’Rourke. Fiona is—”

  “—my daughter, and she stays and takes care of us. We are not as young as we used to be. That’s the deal.”

  “No, that’s not the deal I shook on.”

  “It is if you want the deed signed over to you. Isn’t that what you want? Isn’t the land the reason you are here?”

  “Aye.”

  The clothespins slipped from her fingers and plinked to the ground. Night fell like a blanket over the land and over her shock.

  She could not be hearing them right. There had to be a rational explanation.

  “Good. I’ve spoken with the sheriff. He will be performing the ceremony at noon the day after Christmas. Agreed?”

  The wind gusted, stealing Ian’s answer. It didn’t matter. She didn’t need to hear him agree. She hadn’t misunderstood. She had heard him loud and clear.

  Isn’t the land the reason you are here?

  Aye. He’d answered with resignation, but he had answered with the truth. His first priority was the land—not her. It always had been. She had been too blind to see it. He had lied to her, and she had believed it.

  She had loved him for it.

  The first crack of pain struck like a blow. She grasped at the fallen pins, her fingers fumbling, her whole heart shattering one tiny piece at a time. The snow swirled whimsically at her feet, as if all were right with the world. Stars popped out like hope renewed, as she turned her back on the barn and the men there.

  Maybe if she held herself very still inside the pain would stop. She managed to gather the last fallen clothespin and stood, feeling dizzy. The terrible truth would twirl away like a thousand crystal snowflakes and would be lost on the lonesome prairie. She coul
d go back to believing in the cocoon of Ian’s safe comfort and the hopeful love she felt for him.

  A love he did not harbor for her. By rote, she grabbed another piece of laundry from the basket. The second crack of pain hit her like the strap cutting deep. For Ian, she was a means to an end, that was all. Just like her mother had said.

  “Fiona! What are you doing, standing around like a loon? Get finished up there.” Ma marched into sight. “I need help with supper.”

  “Yes, Ma.” She clipped the last garment—Ma’s Sunday dress—to the line. The cold did not touch her as she grabbed the empty basket and tromped toward the house. The darkness trailed her through the deep drifts, past the strap on the lean-to wall and into the house where more work waited.

  I don’t like the way you are doin’things. O’Rourke’s words taunted him as he beat the ground with the ax. Chunks of frozen soil and sod spewed into the night. Sweat rolled down his face as he swung again. The leverage he had on the man was gone; the tables had turned. Nana had somehow found the money to pay the man his asking price. Fiona is mine, and until you put a ring on her finger, you will not be letting her drive a horse or go running off with those snooty friends of hers.

  Oh, but he was in a temper. He drove the ax downward a final time. Flannigan’s nicker reminded him he was not alone in the corral. He leaned on the ax handle, pulled a handkerchief out of his back denims pocket and swiped the sweat off his face. His breath rose like smoke in the dark. Overhead all but a few stars kept watch; a storm was moving in.

  “Sorry, boy. Let me chain up one last post and after we get it moved, I will treat you to a nice long—” A shadow moved at the edge of his vision, a slim, willowy form in a familiar gray coat. “Fiona. It is too cold for you to be out.”

  “Oh, and it’s not for you?” Her chin went up, the faint starlight finding her.

  “Point taken.” He leaned the ax handle against the pile of rotting posts he’d extracted. “Is that supper I smell?”

  “Yes. When you didn’t come in to eat, I set a plate aside for you.” She stopped to pat Flannigan, and probably to feed him a treat, as the horse lapped her palm and crunched away. Sounded like a carrot.

  “You are an industrious man. Some would wait until morning to start refencing.” She held out a cloth-covered plate. “Smarter men might wait for spring.”

  “I never claimed to be a smart man.” He took it, aware that while she was only a few steps from him, she felt a mile away. The plate’s heat penetrated his leather gloves, proof she had taken care to heat the food well for the trip outside. Thoughtful she was; his chest felt wrenched apart.

  If you want the land in your name, you will marry her. O’Rourke’s demands rocked through him. He set the plate on the flat-topped fence post before he dropped it. I’m back in charge now. I have your grandmother’s money, and I am through waiting. That girl is a burden, and you will take over the cost of supporting her or find another ranch.

  With his financial position, no bank would give him a mortgage. Ian’s stomach soured, hating his choices. “I start my job in the morning, so if I want to get this repaired, then I have to work in the evenings.”

  “Repairing? No, that’s replacing a board or two. You are putting in a whole new fence.” She crossed her arms over her midsection, and with the wind whipping at her skirts, she looked oddly alone and lost. “Are you bringing your horses out here from Kentucky, then?”

  “Aye. I can sell one of them to pay for the rail costs. But I would rather wait to see how much of my wages I can save and pay for it that way.” His hand trembled as he tried to hold the plate steady and lifted the cloth. The buttery scent of hot biscuits and the meaty fried salt pork made his stomach growl, although he did not feel hungry. He was speaking of his dreams, when he had promised to protect hers. “In truth, I don’t know how it is going to work out.”

  “That is the problem with the future. You cannot see it ahead of time.” There was no greater beauty than Fiona in the stardust. Wherever she moved, the light hurried as if to illuminate her path. She climbed onto the remaining part of the fence and swung over to sit on the top rail, and the starlight lovingly pearled her hair and kissed her dear face.

  Love for her filled every crack and hollow in him. He wished that an answering love would show on her face. Impossible, he knew, but maybe with time she would do more than care for him. Looked like now that time had run out, it was not to be.

  He hardly tasted the biscuit or the butter melting on his tongue. How did he tell her what his grandmother had done? He took another bite, memorizing the way she balanced like a lost princess on the barnyard fence. She perched, straight-backed and regal, a spirit of dignity and composure in gingham and braids.

  “Will you be bringing out your grandmother, too? You must worry about her.” Her question came gently, laced with understanding.

  “Aye. I’m guilty for leaving her. If I bring her here, I fear she will be disappointed in the prospects.” He cut into the slice of salt pork with his fork. “She was expecting a grand place.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  “She is absolute kindness. I cannot remember her ever speaking a harsh word.” He missed Nana, but all things changed. He was no longer a boy riding home from school at a racing gallop to tell her of his perfect marks for the day and to share cookies and milk on the front veranda. “She managed all my childhood mistakes with patience. She comforted my grandfather when my father’s gambling ways had shamed them and later when his investments went bust. When I lost what was left, she did not once think of herself. Her only concern was for me. Misplaced, aye, and what I did not deserve.”

  “You must love her beyond measure.”

  “She is in large part to blame for the man I am.”

  “So I see.” Flannigan wandered over, nosing for more treats. She pulled a carrot from her coat pocket and broke it in half. The crack resounded in the forlorn yard, as if emphasizing the broken-down poverty of the place.

  The wind stirred the tendrils that had escaped from her braids as she leaned her forehead against the horse’s neck. He wished he knew what would become of them all—a used-up horseman, an old gelding and a Cinderella girl with no prince to save her.

  “You should bring her here.” She broke the silence between them. “You worry about her disappointment, but from what you have told me, she could never be disappointed in you. She loves you, and she is family. That is what matters.”

  “True.” He wondered at the sorrow on her face, but there was no hint of it in her voice or in the way she dropped from the fence post with a hop. Her skirts swirled around her and her braids thumped against her back. He resisted the urge to draw her into his arms and hold her close, to keep her safe and snug against his chest.

  Instead he watched her take the empty plate and utensils, the cloth and his dreams.

  “Good night,” she said, but it felt like goodbye.

  She took the starlight with her. The night deepened, the shadows took over and the first flakes of snow tumbled from an unforgiving sky. A blast of brutal wind razored through his coat as if it were nothing; he was glad when the flash of light of a door opening told him Fiona had reached the warmth of the shanty.

  The snowfall tumbled like a blanket from heaven, stealing away all sight of her.

  She wrung the last drops of water from the fine wool fabric. The splashes and plunks of the droplets made a pleasant melody as she worked. She could not return cut fabric, and she didn’t want to. There was nothing to be done but to continue on with the coat. The storm gusted against the eaves, echoing in the rafters inches above her head. Her attic bedroom might be small, but the heat radiating off the chimney stones kept her warm enough. But what of Ian? Was he still out there struggling to rebuild what he had lost?

  She wanted to hate him for his deception, for the omission he had kept from her about buying the land anyway. She wanted a great many things as she hung the thick wool over a makeshift line. The fabric would be dry by
morning and tomorrow she would work out a pattern for it. Maybe when she stopped by Miss Sims’s store, she could ask the seamstress’s advice.

  You are a fool of the first water, Fiona O’Rourke. She wiped her damp hands on her apron. She had only herself to blame if her heart was broken. She had started to believe in stories and in schoolgirl fancies that had no place in a life like hers. She was not Meredith from a fine family or Lila with dreams to spare. She did not have Kate’s optimism or Scarlet’s indomitable ways. Stories did not fill her heart like they did Earlee’s. She did not believe in storing away treasures in a hope chest or placing her trust in a man’s love.

  But hadn’t she done that anyway—just a bit—without noticing it? She hefted the small buckets of rinse water and suds and carried them down the ladder. The splash of water and clink of the metal emphasized the emptiness of the kitchen, the barrenness of the home.

  As she padded by the doorway, she caught sight of Da asleep in his chair. The empty bottle of whiskey reflected the single lamp’s glow. Ma’s rocking chair was empty. It was late; likely she had gone off to bed, but her hard words about men came alive in the kitchen again. Try as she might, she could not silence them. The memory kept rolling through her as if without end. All the kindness Ian had shown her, the promises he had made, the happiness he had given her.

  He had not lied, not really. She was at fault, reading more into his goodness toward her and in wishing for what was out of her reach. Her friends, dear as they were to her, were wrong. God did not mean for her to have the kind of love and family that had always eluded her. God was surely watching over her, but what He wanted for her was a mystery, one she did not understand.

  I’m trusting You, Lord. There has to be some good to come from this.

  She unlatched the door and eased the buckets into the lean-to, to be dealt with during her morning chores. The storm blasted her with snow so that she was dusted white and her teeth chattered by the time she shut the door.