Bluebonnet Bride

by Jillian Hart

  There was dislike in Ginny’s voice. He wondered at that. “It must have been the daughter I saw tonight. She was out watching the wild horses in the fields. They were a beautiful sight.”

  “A nuisance. I lost half my winter’s feed to those creatures.” Ginny sounded bitter and turned her face. “Linnea must have been doing chores.”

  “I suppose.” He remembered the wood she’d gathered from the porch, lithe and graceful even performing a mundane chore. He was a man and couldn’t help noticing a woman’s beauty. “Then you know her.”

  “It’s best to keep away from her.” Ginny’s mouth narrowed into a harsh line. “That woman has caused nothing but trouble in this family.”

  He didn’t know what to think, but he remembered the woman’s voice, dulcet and wistful, hesitant and wary. She did not seem like a troublemaker, but then Ginny’s warning didn’t matter. Not truly.

  His heart had long been buried with three caskets in a graveyard outside of Miles City. His time for loving a woman was past and would never be again.

  “I made up a room for you in the attic like you asked.” Ginny broke quietly through his thoughts. “I’m not sure if that’s acceptable. I’ll be happy to trade you—”

  “The attic is fine.” He tried to keep the anger from his voice and failed. He could see that by the way Ginny’s shoulders hunched just a little.

  “I don’t need any special treatment,” he told her, gentling his voice. “You don’t have to be afraid of my temper, Ginny. I’m not your father and I’m not your husband.”

  “I know.” She smiled up at him with tears in her eyes.

  Need. It tugged at him, when he’d worked so hard to cut all ties to his heart. Like winter, he wanted a thick mantle of ice and snow to protect him from feelings too painful to face.

  So he grabbed his saddlebags with one hand and carried the tray to the kitchen with the other, refusing Ginny’s assistance. He bade her good-night and climbed the narrow ladder up into the dark. The bed was comfortable, the best he’d had in a long while.

  He slept and dreamed of wild horses and the woman who watched them, her unbound hair waving in the wind.

  Chapter Two

  Snow fell from sky to earth in heavy, wet flakes. The wind shaking the cottonwoods and pines and creeping beneath the doors didn’t feel quite as frigid, a sign that winter would soon be over. But that was little consolation as Linnea stood at the kitchen window, debating.

  Did she want to break a path all the way to town? They had no horses, sold long ago to pay for her father’s burial. Maybe, if the snow stopped falling, she could manage it.

  “Linnea, wishful thinking will not alter the weather,” Mama commented, voice warm with love and brittle with age. “I can feel the spring in the air, even though I know it is snowing.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I can hear the hush. Now come here. You eat too little and work too hard. You are nothing but skin and bones. Finish your breakfast and tell me. Do you think you will get good wages for the shirts?”

  “Mrs. McIntyre said she will always pay for men’s shirts.” Linnea tried not to let her weariness show.

  She loved making beauty with fabric and thread, but the mundane sewing of the same practical garments over the years had drained the joy from her art. Still, she needed the money to support them. Without it they would be destitute, with no way to pay for the roof over their heads. No, the practical sewing was necessary.

  Maybe today she would gather enough courage to try to make a change.

  “Those McIntyres. They do not pay you well enough for your work.” Mama blew on her morning coffee to cool it. “They take advantage of you. How it angers me.”

  “They are the only ones in town who will pay.” Since a dressmaker had moved to Bluebonnet last year, she’d had a harder time. The surrounding area was small and the demand for ready-made clothes even smaller. “Unless I wish to find work in town—”

  “No girl of mine will wait on tables.”

  An old argument. She would make better money, but that would leave her mother alone all day, blind and in fragile health. “I never said that’s what I intended.”

  She would put it off as long as she could, for Mama’s sake.

  “The snow is stopping.” Turning her blind eyes toward the window, she set down her cup neat as a pin in the saucer. “Good. Now you can go. I know you’ve been hoping for a trip to town.”

  “Just to sell the shirts and to do a little shopping.” She gathered the empty plates and stood. She would not think about what she planned to do today or her stomach would twist into knots. “Would you like anything from the mercantile?”

  “You know I need for nothing as long as my daughter is with me.” A lifetime of love shone in her eyes, a beautiful bluebonnet blue. “You go on ahead and leave me to do the dishes. I am not helpless.”

  “But they’re mine to do.” Linnea emptied hot water from the reservoir and filled the washbasin. “Let me pour you a second cup of coffee—”

  “Do what your mother orders.” Older hands covered hers and squeezed gently. “Go to town, sell your shirts and buy some little luxury for yourself, dear flicka.”

  “But I need for nothing, for I have you.”

  “Ah, you are my heart. Now hurry and listen to your mother. Do not forget something nice for yourself. I wish to see it when you return.”

  Linnea hurried to wrap the waiting shirts, neatly starched and folded, in an oiled canvas to keep out the snow as she’d done all winter and for many winters before.

  Heart pounding, she laid the shirts over her most recent quilt, carefully hand-stitched with white on white in a rose design, the alternating blocks a bright splash of wild calico roses, appliquéd through long evenings before the warmth of the fire.

  Maybe Mrs. McIntyre would like the quilt. Maybe she would place it on consignment in her store. What if she would buy it outright? It could lead to more work, something more interesting than the endless fitting of shirtsleeves and interfaced collars.

  “There, now, are you dressed warmly enough?” Mama’s fingers fluttered over Linnea’s ears and throat. “Tie that scarf tight, dear. The last thing you need is to catch a touch of quinsy.”

  “I’m not five years old.” She almost laughed, that was how happy she felt. “The wood bins are brimming full, and I’ve left a sandwich covered on the counter. You’ll be all right while I’m gone?”

  “I am able to care for myself, dotter.” Mama’s kiss brushed light and sweet on Linnea’s cheek. “Now go and have fun in town.”

  She hated leaving her alone, but the walk through the snow was too difficult for the old woman. Maybe the snow wouldn’t last much longer. Linnea tipped her head back to study the heavy charcoal clouds above. It was a warmer sky than it had been only yesterday.

  That thought brought another touch of happiness to her heart. She didn’t mind wading through the new foot of snow along the pristine road. Her boots squeaking and crunching seemed like the only sounds in the bright white world.

  As she struggled along, she watched pine boughs laden with heavy snow shake tiny clods of white from their green needles. Split wood fences seemed to will the narrow stands of snow from their top rails. The river, frozen to all but the very center, sent a current of water to chip away at the encroaching ice. It was a beautiful morning.

  Then she heard the squeak of a sleigh’s runners on fresh snow and the muted clomp of steeled hooves on the road behind her. She tensed, going through a list of who might be passing by her. The Neilsons, the Hanssons, the Schwartzes, or Ginny McIntyre—all of whom she dreaded meeting on the road.

  She straightened her spine and prepared to meet her neighbors, determined not to look down this time, not to be intimidated.

  The clomp and squeak grew louder, closer. She saw the sheen of a beautiful black horse, far grander than any she’d seen before. None of her neighbors owned such a fine animal, not even Ginny McIntyre.

  “Whoa, boy.�
� A voice deep as midnight, rich as satin, more masculine than she’d ever known rumbled behind her.

  And she knew it was the man from last night. The starch drained from her spine and a panic set her pulse to racing. Not only because he was a stranger, but also because she wasn’t prepared for this.

  Going to town took a certain kind of courage and had ever since her reputation had been ruined beyond repair, ever since her actions had been the cause of her dear father’s death.

  “Would you like a ride to town?” that wonderful deep voice asked.

  “No, thank you,” she said calmly, taking another step, refusing to look to her side, where he sat in a sleigh, holding the reins in broad, gloved hands.

  She didn’t dare look at his face. He was probably handsome and young and strong. He was no man for her, that was for sure. She eyed the embankment and wished the endless row of split rail fencing didn’t hem her in.

  To be seen unchaperoned with a man again... Her chest squeezed so tight she couldn’t breathe. No, she could not go through that humiliation one more time.

  But his horse and sleigh kept pace with her as she walked. She could feel his gaze, feel his questions.

  She walked faster.

  “My name is Seth Gatlin.”

  She couldn’t resist the urge to turn and look. To see the man who belonged to that voice. She nearly stumbled.

  Why, he wasn’t a striking man, not handsome in a traditional way. But he was pleasant-looking. No, more than that. He was impressive with a dark shock of hair tumbling over his brow and lines carved into a face browned by the sun, even in the last weeks of winter.

  “Since I’m new to town, do me a favor and ride with me.” He didn’t quite grin, but there was a hint of sparkles in his eyes as he considered her. “I need to find the hardware store and don’t know where to look. You could show me.”

  “Try Front Street. You’ll recognize it by all the tall storefronts and the traffic.”

  “You’re a big help.” A hint of a grin touched his straight mouth.

  “Bluebonnet is a small town. You won’t need directions to find your way.”

  “I was using it as an excuse. Can’t ride on and leave you here struggling through all this snow.” He sounded kind in the reassuring masculine way that a woman dreamed of. “I try to be a gentleman when I can, so you don’t need to worry about bad behavior on my part.”

  She kept walking. Just like last night when she shouldn’t have said a single word, she wanted to answer. “You’re telling me that you’re not a scoundrel.”

  “That’s right. Women in need of rides to town are always perfectly safe in my sleigh.”

  “I don’t even know you.”

  “I don’t know you, but I’m willing to risk offering you a ride.”

  “The risk is not the same for a man.”

  “True, but I’m a gentleman, remember?”

  “You said you tried to be.” Linnea felt his warm steadiness and some of her uneasiness faded. He was new to the area, and he didn’t know anything about her. That didn’t mean she should even consider...

  No, he was just being kind. Offering her a ride to town was a polite gesture. It spoke well of him, for she could name any number of her neighbors who would not do the same.

  “That’s quite a load you’re carrying.”

  “And I’ll carry it all the way to town.” She kept glancing at him, her soft oval face framed by her gray hood.

  She looked like a winter bird, dark and colorless against the snowbound world, fragile and easily startled.

  “You’re telling me that you won’t accept a ride from a stranger, is that it? But I’m your neighbor.”

  She flashed him a warning look, like one a schoolteacher might give a misbehaving student. She was strong, he could see that in the firm cut of her jaw. But she was kind, too. It shone in her eyes deep and true, and he couldn’t help looking twice.

  She halted in the road, her heavy and bulky package held tight in both slim arms. “Are you the Hanssons’ new hand?”

  “No. Helping out my sister. Ginny McIntyre.”

  “Oh, I see.” The bright gleam in her eyes faded. She took a step back, graceful as the breeze. “I really can’t accept a ride. Good luck finding your way to town.”

  “I said the wrong thing.”

  “No. Good day to you.”

  She turned and kept walking. He didn’t know what to do. He just might follow her to town, to make sure she arrived safely.

  But then, she didn’t appear to want his protection. She didn’t turn to look at him as she waded through the wet snow, her bundle awkward in her arms.

  She probably looked at him and saw a man worn of heart and too old for her. She was young and feminine, her face as soft-looking as white silk.

  He didn’t know why he kept watching her. She just reminded him of a time when he didn’t feel so hopeless. When he lived for the sight of another woman’s smile.

  Just lonely, he supposed. And he couldn’t help wondering at the stiff set of her spine. There was a reserve to her, as if she were far too used to protecting herself.

  That was what drew him, he realized. He recognized a kindred soul when he saw one.

  His sister’s words came to mind, warning him away. A troublemaker, she’d called this woman with the curls of sunshine peeking beneath her dull gray hood and eyes the color of bluebonnets.

  Trouble came in all different sorts, but Seth would bet good money Linnea Holmstrom had known trouble rather than caused it in her short life. And he knew that kind of burden, too.

  He drove past her, slowly. If she so much as moved a finger he would stop, but she stared hard at the ground over her burdensome package.

  He sensed pushing her any further would only upset her, so he rode on but didn’t stop wondering about the woman he’d left behind.

  * * *

  Linnea recognized Seth Gatlin’s horse and sleigh tethered in front of the hardware store. The back of the vehicle was already loaded with bright honey-gold lumber. She tried not to look, but her gaze kept sliding across the street. He’d been kind to her today, nothing more.

  Still, a part of her kept hearing the rum-smooth tone of his voice and remembering the faint glimmer of his grin.

  The sun broke through the clouds and it felt almost balmy as she crossed the slushy street to the mercantile.

  McIntyre’s was crowded with shoppers. The noise of conversations and the jangle of the bell on the door sounded unnaturally loud after her quiet walk to town.

  As soon as she pushed through the door, she saw Mrs. McIntyre’s nod and went to the back counter to wait. All the clerks were busy, including those at the yard goods counter where several women stood in line talking about the latest spring fashions in Godey’s and did not make eye contact.

  Linnea stood to the side and studied the colorful array of threads. The bundle in her arms no longer felt heavy as she hugged it tight.

  What if Mrs. McIntyre liked her idea? That would mean the chance to start on her next project right away. Something in shades of blue, perhaps, with greens and yellows.

  “Miss Holmstrom.” Mrs. McIntyre nodded, terse as always. “Show me what you brought.”

  With trembling fingers, Linnea unwrapped the dozen shirts. They would only bring a few dollars apiece, but they were well made, she saw to that. She laid each work shirt on the counter, smoothing the wrinkles out of the cotton. New buttons gleamed in the lamplight.

  “Fine work, as always.” Her mouth pursed into a hard line and she didn’t make contact, although that she accepted the work was praise enough. The woman turned, already walking away. “I’ll take all of them, and another dozen the first of next month.”

  “Mrs. McIntyre.” Linnea took a deep breath. “I wanted to ask you to take a look at this.”

  She rolled back the canvas, exposing the snowy white cotton to the light. She could hear the women in line silence as a multihued appliquéd rose appeared.

  Heart pounding
, she caught the merchant’s gaze. “This quilt drapes a double bed.”

  Mrs. McIntyre’s heels rang on the floorboards as she approached. There was a sparkle of interest in her hard brown eyes, but her mouth remained an unforgiving narrow line. She paused at the counter’s edge and ran a thumb over the precise stitching.

  Seconds ticked by. Linnea endured the store owner’s silence and the heat of the women’s gazes. She tried not to notice, not to remember the past.

  She watched a muscle jump in Mrs. McIntyre’s throat. She’s going to say no.

  “This is fine work, Linnea.”

  “You like it?” Hope soared in her chest. “I would be willing to offer the quilt on consignment if you’d rather.”

  Seconds stretched forever. Linnea couldn’t hear anything over the rush of her pulse in her ears. Mrs. McIntyre’s gaze didn’t stray from the quilt. Maybe she really was going to take it.

  “I’m afraid I just can’t.” Those unforgiving eyes showed a brief, surprising gleam of apology. “Considering our past, be grateful I purchase what I do from you. Mrs. Johanson was in here just last week, swearing she could do better work and for cheaper, too.”

  “I see.” It took all her courage to face the woman now. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. McIntyre.”

  The woman’s mouth drew tighter and she turned without a word. Linnea vowed not to remember the past, not to feel it heavy and condemning on her back as she wrapped the quilt. Her fingers shook, and she hated that her feelings showed so easily. The store remained silent, the women in line watching her.

  The eldest McIntyre girl at the front, tallying up a purchase, slipped an envelope across the counter to her. The quiet measure in her eyes was one of sympathy. Once she and Shannon had been best friends in school, but their friendship had been broken long ago, even if the memories from better times remained.

  “These are fine shirts, ma’am,” a man’s voice rumbled, not louder than the other voices in the store, but distinct and familiar. “I’ll take a half dozen.”