The Bad Luck Wedding Dress (The Bad Luck Wedding series)

by Geralyn Dawson

  “Yes, you are. You and that damned Bad Luck Wedding Dress. Listen to me well. I suggest you stay out of my sight for a good little while. I’ll be less likely to give you the trouble you deserve if I don’t find you in my face all the time.”

  Jenny set her teeth. More threats. She was sick to death of threats. “I’ll make you a deal, sir. You stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours. No more vandalism, or I’ll go to Marshal Courtright.”

  His scowl was ferocious. “Are you attempting to threaten me?”

  She shrugged. “I simply want us to have an understanding.”

  “Well, understand this. I suggest you go home and yank those shoes out from under your bed. Turn your socks inside out and wear ‘em that way until noon. Double check all the beds in your house to make sure nobody’s left a hat on them. In other words, Miss Fortune, do every goddamn thing you can think of to bring you good luck and ward off the bad.”

  He leaned toward her and said, “Because believe me, you don’t want any more troubles to visit my daughters. Especially Mary Rose. Up until now, she has avoided the bad luck—the only Bailey bride to do so. You’d better hope to hell it stays that way.”

  He turned to leave, then paused and drilled her with his gray-eyed gaze. “ ‘Cause otherwise, I’ll kill you. So help me, I’ll kill you.”

  THE WHISKEY tasted bitter going down and rested in Trace’s stomach like glowing coals. “I can’t believe she did that. Are you certain about this, Courtright?”

  “Saw it myself,” the marshal said, nodding. “Miss Fortune all but shook her finger at Big Jack Bailey.”

  Trace groaned. “Dammit, I thought she had more sense than that. You need to do something, Marshal, before this thing gets out of hand.”

  “Now, McBride.” Courtright swirled the amber liquid in a crystal glass. “I can appreciate your concerns, but there is really nothing I can do. You didn’t see anyone; we can’t know for a fact that Bailey was behind this.”

  “Oh, he was behind it all right. Who else but Big Jack Bailey has a motive for leaving ‘gifts’ like the ones left for Jenny Fortune?” Trace took another sip of his drink and recalled what he’d found in her bedroom the night before. A frilly pink-and-white room shrouded in black crepe. A white satin eiderdown soaked in blotches of red. Withered red roses gathered in a bridal bouquet and tied with black ribbon lying on her pillow.

  “Big Jack has always been a bit crazy,” the marshal began. “One time he damn near killed one of his cowhands for stomping on a spider in the ranch house parlor. Said it was bad luck.”

  “See what I mean? He’s tormenting Jenny Fortune because of that blasted wedding dress. He’s crossed the line. I made her tell me about it last night. He’s left her notes, sent her telegrams. Now this. I’m telling you, Marshal, you need to have a chat with Big Jack.”

  Courtright rubbed a palm across his grizzled cheek. “This was the first I’d heard about any notes. Maybe she’s making it all up? Maybe she did up her house like that herself, trying to get a rise of sympathy out of folks.”

  “No, Jenny wouldn’t do that.”

  The marshal’s craggy brow lifted. “That dress shop of hers is in a bad way, according to the newspaper. I wouldn’t put a scheme like that past Miss Fortune, considering who her mother is. Have you ever tangled with that woman … Monique Day? She could break a man like a matchstick.” He punctuated the thought with a quick gulp of whiskey.

  Jenny must take after her mother, Trace thought. He had the feeling she could snap half the men in Fort Worth in two with not much more than a bat of her eyelashes if she put her mind to it. “You’re wrong, Marshal. Jenny Fortune is telling the truth about these threats, and if you don’t do something, she’s liable to end up dead.”

  “Hell, McBride, that’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think? Even if Big Jack is behind this business, he hasn’t done anything other than scare her a little bit.”

  “Yet.” Trace finished his drink and set the empty glass on the bar with a bang.

  The marshal waved a hand. “You’re overreacting. Besides, for all his superstitions, nasty notes and dead roses don’t sound like Big Jack to me. Just can’t picture him playing a few harmless pranks.”

  “These are not harmless pranks. The woman is scared out of her mind.”

  The lawman shook his head. “Nope, I can’t see that. Miss Fortune doesn’t strike me for scared. Braving Big Jack Bailey before breakfast at the Tivoli isn’t the act of a fearful person.”

  “Stupid is the word that comes to my mind,” Trace replied glumly.

  “Why are you so concerned about the dressmaker’s problems, anyway?” Courtright inquired, his eyes sparked with interest. “Is something going on between you two?”

  “No. Nothing but the rent, that is. It’s my property she’s renting for her shop, you know; my building Bailey broke into to steal the dressmaker’s form. Not to mention the fact that my defenseless daughters live one floor above. I reckon I have a stake in what happens to Jenny Fortune.”

  “Defenseless daughters?” Courtright chuckled. “That’s the funniest one I’ve heard all day.”

  Trace averted his gaze, unwilling to listen to any more of the marshal’s jabs. The sight of a boy sallying up to the bar brought a scowl to his face.

  “One bottle of gin, please,” Casey Tate asked the bar tender, his boy’s voice sounding sadly out of place in the surroundings.

  Casey Tate was almost thirteen years old. He lived next door at Miss Rachel’s Social Emporium where his mother made her living on her back, while he earned his keep playing step-and-fetch-it for the madam. When Trace first took notice of the boy, a few discreet questions had assured him Casey played no role for Rachel more unsavory than that of delivery boy. A visit with both the madam and the mother insured it would stay that way.

  In his most authoritative voice, Trace called, “Casey Tate. Haven’t I told you to stay out of the End of the Line? A saloon is no place for a kid.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. McBride,” the boy answered with a freckled-faced grin. “But then, neither is a whorehouse. Miss Rachel is wanting to fix a fancy drink for a visitor of hers, and we ran out of gin about an hour ago.”

  “Did she send any money with you?”

  Casey shook his head. “She said to put it on her tab.”

  Standing, Trace said, “Excuse me, Marshal. I’d best see to business.” Rachel’s tab hadn’t been paid in over three months, and Trace had cancelled her credit two weeks ago. As much as he liked the madam, she was dipping into his pocket. He needed every cent he earned to pay for the completion of his children’s new home.

  He gestured for the bartender to give him a bottle of gin, then said to the boy, “Tell you what, squirt. I need to visit with Miss Rachel. How about if I deliver this for you.”

  Disappointment flickered across Casey Tate’s face. “Hell, Mr. McBride. I didn’t think you diddled the whores.”

  Trace shook his head. “I’m not going there to ‘diddle,’ Casey. Not that it’s any of your concern.” His mouth lifted in a rueful smile as he pushed open the End of the Line’s front doors. He did very little “diddling” these days, what between his fatherly duties and his general distaste for whores.

  Maybe that’s one reason Jenny Fortune kept popping to mind, he told himself. Maybe he just needed to get diddled.

  The wail of a train whistle and the distinct odor of cattle met them as they stepped into the warm September sunshine. Trace led the way across the wide dirt street, carefully dodging a freight wagon going north and a drunked-up cowboy on a spindly legged paint headed mostly south with a few weaving detours east and west.

  Miss Rachel’s Social Emporium lay directly opposite the End of the Line, and as they entered the establishment Trace nodded to a pair of trail-dusty cowboys intently debating whether to spend their last bit of coin on a “nooner” or a steak. After telling Casey to grab some lunch, he climbed the stairs to Rachel Warden’s room.

  The boy should be in
school, Trace thought, watching Casey scamper toward the kitchen. He’d speak with Miss Blackstone about it. Perhaps she had something in the way of scholarships available. People here in the Acre likely would help with the boy’s tuition. Everyone liked Casey Tate. Besides, chances were good assistance wouldn’t be needed for long. It looked like the city was finally ready to get off its butt and finance public schools. Not a moment too soon, to Trace’s way of thinking.

  Upon reaching Rachel’s room, he knocked twice and waited. Etta Norris, a raven-haired voluptuous woman considered to be the most talented of Rachel’s girls, answered the door. Trace held up the bottle, winked, and said, “Delivery.”

  Etta crooned in a husky, southern voice, “Ah, sugar, remind me to start drinking gin.” She swung the door wide and gestured Trace inside. He pressed a kiss to her cheek as he stepped into the room, surprised to see so many of Rachel’s “ladies” within. “What’s going on? Looks like—“ He broke off midsentence.

  His mouth went dry as West Texas in July. The air rushed from his lungs. The bottle of gin slipped from his hand and shattered on the wood floor, the eye-watering vapors rising from his feet in an invisible cloud.

  Jenny Fortune. In black-and-scarlet striped satin. With a neckline cut halfway to China, and a hemline hiked damned close to heaven.

  Good Lord, look at the legs on that woman.

  Trace had a vague awareness of the fuss and fluster over the broken bottle as he locked gazes with the dressmaker. Myriad emotions flashed through those sapphire depths—surprise and embarrassment uppermost among them.

  Glass crunched beneath his boot as he approached her. Almost against his will, his gaze swept her once again. Dressed like this, Miss Fortune showed off womanly charms enough to make every painted lady in the Acre weep with envy.

  Jenny Fortune in a whorehouse. Surely she wasn’t— no, he didn’t believe that. But look at all that lace. What the hell was she thinking?

  From out of his past came the answer, and it ignited a long-buried fury. Almost a full minute passed before he spoke, his words all the more threatening for their soft- spoken tone. “Rachel, I need to speak with Miss Fortune privately.”

  The madam took one look at the light in Trace’s eyes and shooed her twittering trollops away. “I’ll be charging you rent for the room, Trace.”

  He ignored her, waiting like a panther for his prey, until the door clicked shut and he and Jenny Fortune were left alone. Jenny watched him, her gaze apprehensive but unafraid.

  Neither had Constance been afraid all those years ago.

  Trace’s hand snaked out and clenched her elbow. He gave it a shake and asked in a low, angry voice, “What do you think you are doing?”

  She glanced down at her arm, then glared up at him. “Let me go, McBride.”

  His grip clamped tighter and he demanded an answer with a steely gaze.

  “Let me go!” Jenny repeated, clawing at him. Only because he allowed it, she wrenched free, scratching his hand in the process. He heard frustration in her voice as she added, “How many times do I have to tell you? Quit manhandling me!”

  Trace’s smile was ugly as he held up his hand and wiggled his fingers, calling attention to the scrapes. Manhandling? She was the one whose talons had drawn blood. The stinging scratches were nothing; the temper they fed was imposing. “You’re one to talk, Dressmaker.”

  Boldly holding his gaze, Jenny didn’t reply.

  Trace’s lip curled. “But I guess I understand. You want to set the price first. I can live with that. Hands off until we come to terms.”

  “Set the price?” she repeated, her voice rising.

  “Keep in mind I’m cash poor, but I reckon I’m willing to pay a little more than the going rate for one of Rachel’s whores.”

  Her hand lashed out to slap him, but he caught her wrist scant inches from his cheek. “Hands off, remember?”

  Her emotions were written on her face. She fumed. She boiled. She silently raged.

  But rage had its claws in Trace, too. He had no call to speak to her that way, but the picture of Jenny Fortune, dressed like a working girl in a bordello bedroom, brought to mind another woman, another room. Another man.

  He couldn’t think straight when he was thinking about them. He could only feel, and those feelings were mean.

  Trace loosened his grip and she pulled away, this time fleeing clear across the room. From there she faced him, arms folded, and head held proud.

  God, she was beautiful.

  Just like Constance.

  His wife. The whore.

  It is bad luck to bum the wood of a tree that has been struck by lightning.

  CHAPTER 7

  JENNY WANTED TO SCREAM. When he first appeared in the doorway, she thought she’d die of embarrassment. But then his gaze had swept over her, blatant and hot, and she’d known a heady sense of power new to her experience. He’d stolen the feeling with his words and rough touch, and now all she felt was anger.

  Just who did he think he was, coming in here and acting this way? What business of his was it where she went or what she did? The arrogant, domineering, overbearing cad. Let him think the worst of her, she didn’t care.

  With a sugary drawl, she repeated his question. “What am I doing here? You said it yourself, McBride. I’ve come to sell my wares, of course. What do you think? Am I worth the coin?”

  He reacted with sudden and total stillness, but for the fire burning in his eyes.

  Jenny licked her lips. For the first time in her life, she knew the meaning of the phrase “living dangerously.” Her heart pounded so hard she was sure he heard it, maybe even saw it. He was, after all, staring intently at that general area of her chest.

  The goading words she’d hurled didn’t seem as clever now as they had just a few moments ago. She wasn’t afraid of him, not exactly. It was just that the Trace McBride standing before her shared little resemblance with Mr. Throw-Fish.

  He gave her a slow, sweeping look. “Ah, such a question. Are you worth the coin?”

  Jenny’s skin burned beneath his scrutiny. “Not me,” she hastened to say, taking a step backward. “I meant my dress. I need rent money. I need new customers, and the society ladies are afraid. This is a sample, you see.”

  He nodded and stepped forward. “Oh, yes, it’s definitely a sample.”

  A strange combination of apprehension and desire flooded Jenny’s limbs, weakening her knees and adding weight to her feet. His gaze never left her, not even when he interrupted his advance to move a ladder-back chair in his path. A few feet away, he abruptly stopped. “You make a beautiful courtesan, Jenny Fortune.”

  She couldn’t breathe. “It’s the dress,” she croaked.

  He arched a brow. “Is it?”

  Folding his arms, he walked around her in a circle, coming so close at times she could feel the brush of his body against hers.

  “The dress is only the wrapping paper for the package. And your package …” He gave a soft, appreciative whistle. “I imagine a man would consider it Christmas every night.”

  A whimper escaped her lips.

  His look was knowing. “You like that, hmm? You like the power? To know you can make a man ache. To know you can make him want. Want, even though he knows he shouldn’t.”

  She shook her head. The words and his manner had a hard edge that made her uneasy. When he moved to close the gap between them, she backed away. For every forward step of his, she retreated an equal distance. Soon she felt the ridges of flocked wallpaper against her bare shoulders.

  He laid his palms flat against the wall, effectively trapping her between his outstretched arms.

  Jenny swallowed hard. “You said hands off.”

  His smile was slow, predatory. “I don’t intend to use my hands, Jenny. Don’t need to. Every good whore knows that.”

  Emerald eyes drilled her, making promises, making accusations. And then he bent his mouth to hers.

  She’d anticipated anger in his kiss. Instead,
he gave her gentleness. His lips brushed hers like the softest satin, the lightest silk. Jenny’s eyes drifted shut as the liquid sensation returned. Her limbs grew heavy—pliant—as he increased the pressure of his mouth on hers. Her lips parted with a moan and he swallowed the sound, then ventured inside with his tongue. Stroking the slick sides of her cheeks and the rough surface of her tongue, he offered her a taste of whiskey and of the forbidden.

  He made her forget everything but the need to feel his hands upon her. The need to touch him in return.

  Lifting one arm, she tentatively brushed his shirtfront. He made a sound low in his throat, then escalated the intensity of the kiss. Now came the heat. The passion. He pushed his body hard against her, and Jenny felt the unmistakable evidence of his desire.

  Oh, Trace. A thought hovered in the back of her mind, a vague shadow she couldn’t grasp in the heat of the moment. Her fingers slipped upward, tracing his jaw in a gentle caress.

  “Goddamn you, Constance,” he murmured against her mouth.

  Jenny stiffened, his words acting like a pail of ice water on molten emotions, and Trace went still. She tasted his fury just before he wrenched his head away.

  He backed up, his harsh breaths echoing in the unnatural silence. He stared at her from eyes that hinted of untold agonies until, with a blink, they shuttered, and his expression smoothed into an unreadable mask. “I beg your pardon. Now, get dressed. We’re leaving.”

  Jenny’s heart seemed to lodge in her throat. What had just happened here? Who was Constance? His wife? Had Trace been kissing her and thinking of a ghost?

  Insulted at the thought, Jenny lifted her hand and wiped her mouth. “I beg your pardon? That’s all you have to say? And what do you mean ‘get dressed’? I am dressed.”

  “Not enough. Not to go out in public.” He went to stand beside the window where he pushed aside the filmy red curtains and stared outside.