by Caroline Lee
Ian couldn’t help chuckle when Max’s guffaws started. “Yeah, but it was after a poker game, and Ox’d helped finish a bottle of whiskey, as I recall.”
“Yes.” Gaston tried for a serious nod. “So maybe it is not likely she will appear for the auction, yes?” He turned to Ian. “Just as well. You should wish to bid on a real woman.”
Ian shook his head slightly, but kept his grin in place. “Not this time around, I think. There’s no one in particular who’s caught my eye.” Since they were still in the church yard, he felt a little guilty at uttering that lie, but tamped down on the urge and told himself it was true. Ella wasn’t going to be one of the gals up there on that stage, waiting for a bid. She’d be the one who would tempt him; he’d pour all of last month’s profits into making sure she shared her basket with him.
“No one who’s caught your eye?” Max’s good-natured grin was teasing. “Are you blind, even with those glasses?” He slapped Ian on the back again, and Gaston joined in his laughter. When was the last time he’d been teased by a friend? Ian couldn’t remember. Probably in the army.
So he was grinning when he shrugged off the insult. “No, I just figured that I’d sit this year out, to give you another chance to bid on whatever young woman interests you. If I were bidding, you wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Well, I make a living knowing what people like. I’m refined, and well-dressed, whereas you…”
Max narrowed his eyes. “Are you insulting me?”
“I’m sorry, was I too subtle?” Ian’s grin grew. “You’re ugly.”
Ox’s uproarious laughter was infectious, and soon all four of them were chuckling and slapping their knees and tossing insults. Max’s dark complexion might’ve bordered on “swarthy” when compared to his golden brother, Roy Jr., but Ian had seen the way the town ladies eyed his new friend, and knew that he was considered a catch. Gaston had just pointed that out—probably to tease him—when Max turned their attention once more.
“I’m not the only catch! Do you see the way they’re staring?” He jerked his chin subtly to the group of well-dressed young ladies standing on the other side of the yard. The five of them were spinning parasols and twittering at each other behind their fans, but Ian could see them staring, as Max said.
Poor Ox was nervous, not wanting to turn around and be caught staring back. “Are they really starin’ at us? Which ones?”
“Rose and her sister Snow, and the Miller girls.”
Ox’s sigh was part satisfied, part dreamy. It would’ve been funny, if Ian hadn’t sighed just like that a few times over the last month while thinking about Ella. “Them White gals is somethin’ else.”
“Indeed.” Max jabbed Ian in the ribs. “But I hate to tell you; I’m pretty sure they’re staring at our friend Ian here.”
“Me?” It must’ve sounded like a squeak to his friends too, because they all began to laugh again.
“Yes, Ian.” Gaston’s huge mustache made him look like he was still laughing. “You are a catch, I have heard.”
“Me?”
Ox was scowling. “He’s not so great. Rose and Snow wouldn’t want him.”
The other man’s words sent a shot of reality through Ian’s good humor. “Because I’m a cripple.”
“Nah, because you’re a red-head.”
Well, that was ridiculous. Ian’s mood lifted as suddenly as it had soured. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Max leaned a little closer so that he could lower his voice, and gestured with his chin. “See the three blondes? They’re the Miller sisters. Their father owns the second-biggest ranch in the area, behind my pa. The two on the left, though…” Ian sucked in a breath when the red-head turned his way. She was gorgeous. “Yeah. That’s Rose, and her sister is Snow. I thought that might’ve been who you meant, when you were looking for your mysterious black-haired beauty. But Snow, bless her heart, can’t sew worth a damn. And they’re determined to have lots of golden-haired little babies, so that means you and me are out.” He smiled again. “Ox still has a chance, though.”
“And I aim to use it this year, long as you pretty boys don’t get in my way!”
Ian chuckled and held up his hand, palm out. “I won’t stand in your way, my friend.” Rose was lovelier than Ox deserved, but there was no accounting for taste. “Why such an odd requirement?”
Gaston shrugged. “A curse, I once heard. Who can say, what a woman is thinking, yes?”
That earned another round of laughter and agreement, Max loudest of all. It… it felt good. Ian had no reason to be sitting here, laughing about women… but it felt right. Like he belonged.
“So Miss Rose is looking at Ox, here. Not me.”
Max waved off his objection. “They’re all staring at you, Ian. They know Ox. Look at Zelle standing over there with her father, Doc Carpenter; I’m glad he’s let her out for this, she needs the chance to let her hair down every once in a while. Or Arabella Mayor, she’s supposed to be watching her boy play with Mrs. Boone’s twins. They’re all staring pretty hard.” Moving only his eyes, Ian flicked his eyes around the church yard, noticing all of the eligible young women looking his way.
“You’re the mystery man, Ian. The one who’s been hiding in his shop. Yes you have,” Max said when he started to protest. “You’ve got your own business, your own house. Not one of us cowboys, bunking with a bunch of smelly animals.” He nodded at Ox, who scowled good-naturedly. “Trust me, I know women. Hell, I’m friends with Snow—since I’m off-limits as a potential husband—and even Arabella. Women want a man who’ll keep ‘em here in town, so that they can parade around to all their social events.” Was it Ian’s imagination, or was there just a hint of bitterness in his friend’s voice?
He decided not to push it, but thought about Max’s words instead of his tone. After years of hearing women’s pity, it was hard to accept that he might have something to recommend him. But sure enough, the five lovely ladies across the yard, as well as others, had been smiling in his direction since he sat down here. Could Max be right?
But why would they be interested in him? They didn’t know him; didn’t know anything about him.
It wasn’t until Gaston chuckled that Ian realized he’d said that last part out loud… and worse, had sounded like a whiny child in the process. “You wish to know plenty about them, I think though, yes?”
No. None of them had thick, coal-black hair and a skittish smile and a heart big enough to see him. But if he was going to make an effort to fit in here in Everland, he really should be polite. “All right. Tell me about them.”
“Better yet, I’ll introduce you!” Max slapped him yet again on the shoulder, and jumped to his feet, offering his hand to Ian. Without thinking, Ian let his new friend pull him upright, and didn’t object when Max handed him his crutch. It hadn’t felt pitying, it hadn’t felt shameful. It was just a simple gesture of friendship, and Ian doubted that Max knew how much it had meant.
When they were both standing, Max smiled. They were of a height, but the other man’s shoulders weren’t as broad. “Sibyl Miller is too young for you, and Mabel Miller is too horrible, and Gaston already has a claim on Eunice.” Ian heard the Frenchman mutter darkly. “And their father is a dyed-in-the-wool Confederate, so he wouldn’t have you anyhow. The White girls, though…”
His new friend walked slowly enough that Ian had no problem hobbling along beside him. Despite his gait—or lack of it—he hadn’t felt this equal to another young man in… well, probably since this day, twelve years before. It was an odd feeling. It was a good feeling.
It looked like, thanks to Abuela Zapato’s advice, Ian was going to be able to make a place for himself here in Everland, after all.
Ella called it “the magic hour”; that brief amount of time in the early afternoon between cleaning up from lunch and getting ready for supper. She tried her hardest to get her daily chores done in the morning, and as much of the
cleaning as she could squeeze in. Usually, after making up her stepsister’s beds and readying their wardrobes for the following day, she had to dust at least one of the downstairs rooms, and tidy the parlor behind her stepsisters. But then, right around two o’clock, she had an hour or so to focus on one of her own projects. Usually that was some sort of sewing.
She loved to sew. It had been something that Mama had taught her, all those years ago, to give her something to do to help support them. Some of her fondest childhood memories had been spent by Mama’s side next to the warm hearth, bent over her tiny stitches and listening to Mama sing. Once they’d come out here to Wyoming, Mama had still sewed, only then it was for four little girls instead of clients. Ella helped her, and when she died, the little girl took over her mother’s duties.
The house was suspiciously quiet as she climbed the big stairs. She hadn’t been aware of any social events this close to the big July Fourth celebration, but perhaps her sisters had found someplace to take themselves off to. Or they were ensconced in their own rooms, napping from the strenuous morning activity of giving her their demands for their picnic baskets. Mabel and Eunice insisted on everything being fresh, so Ella hadn’t been able to get started on cooking yet. Tomorrow—the third of July—was going to be brutal.
For now, though, she had just enough time to put the finishing touches on her yellow dress. She’d finished Eunice’s dress right after Mabel’s, even though she’d been so horribly distracted by Papa’s ultimatum. Hopefully, her sisters hadn’t noticed, and Eunice had been as pleased with her fringed green silk gown as Mabel had been with her pink lacy one. Since Sibyl’s had been finished as well, Ella felt okay staying up late to work on her own. It was… odd, to be spending so much time on a new dress for herself, rather than just fixing up ripped hand-me-downs. For the last few nights, she’d had to pin herself together, and then transfer the whole thing to her mother’s wickerwork dummy to finish. It had been awkward and exhausting and wonderful. She’d never had a dress as lovely as this one, with its crisp white ribbon and the bits of lace at the wrist and waist.
Of course, thanks to Papa’s new ruling, she had no place to wear it. She’d hoped to be able to ask—beg even—to attend the picnic, now that she’d have a gown worthy of being seen in. Papa and her sisters had always called her “dark and ugly” and didn’t want her associated with them. At least, that was the reason Mabel always gave her for why she wasn’t allowed to attend church or any of the other social occasions. But now, now that she had a lovely new dress, Ella had been hopeful that she’d be allowed to come along too, even just to sit by the refreshments table and watch.
But her stepfather’s harsh voice had put an end to that dream as well. You will remain on my property. You will never, ever be allowed into town again. Ella’s heart clenched at the memory, and she sagged against the wall for a moment, afraid that the despair she’d felt when he’d uttered those words would never leave her. She was trapped here… forever. It almost seemed silly, to keep working on the yellow dress, as if she was ever going to be able to wear it anywhere. But it was the only thing that kept her smiling. She labored over the tiny stitches, and imagined what Ian would say if he could see her in it… And despite knowing that there was no future for the two of them, she couldn’t force herself to stop dreaming about him. The many kisses that he’d given her in her dreams—the way that he held her like he would never let her go—were just that; dreams. But they were her only bright spot in the last week of disappointment, and so she let herself relive them while she worked on the dress.
And today, Ella had an hour to work on the final touches. It was probably silly to be spending time on this project, especially when tomorrow was going to be so busy, but she needed this. She needed an hour to just be Ella, to work on something to make her happy for a change.
But when she pushed open the door to the sewing room, she found her sisters. Sibyl was sitting at the vanity again, and Eunice was on the ottoman they used as a stool, and Mabel was standing the middle of the room. They all froze when Ella entered, but it didn’t matter. It was obvious what they were doing.
All around them, spread all over the room, were parts of her yellow dress. The dress that had been almost finished. The dress that was going to be her one new dress. The dress that she’d hoped would be lovely enough to be allowed to be seen in public with them. Without thinking, she took two steps into the room, and then her knees buckled and she sank to the ground, pulling part of the skirt towards her and looking up incredulously at her stepsisters.
Why would you do this? She wanted to scream it, but she couldn’t seem to make her voice work; couldn’t even make her breath work. She watched Sibyl drop the piece of yellow cotton she’d been holding, and place the tiny seam-picking knife back on the vanity, a vaguely ill look on her face. But Eunice and Mabel just smirked cruelly. Ella’s oldest stepsister lifted what remained of the dress’s bodice, and yanked. With a thoroughly depressing riiiiiiiiiiip, the two pieces came apart, and Mabel smiled, satisfied.
It wasn’t until her knuckle popped that Ella realized she was clutching the material in her fists tight enough to ache, but she couldn’t seem to make herself stop. Why? Why would you do this to me?
Mabel’s smirk told her that she understood Ella unspoken plea. With a flourish, she dropped the pieces of the lovely dress to the floor, and tossed her head dismissively. “You were using my lace, Ella dear, without permission.”
You weren’t using it. Ella wanted to defend herself, to explain that Mabel’s dress had eighteen times the amount of lace—Ella would know, after all—and that since it was complete, Ella assumed that she could use the last few feet. But she also knew that any attempt to rebut Mabel’s cruel words would result in a greater punishment. And besides, Ella couldn’t seem to make herself speak. Her breaths were coming in short gasps, and she felt herself getting light-headed.
“Besides, I’ve decided that I want a bit more lace around the collar on my dress. So I needed to remove it from your dress, so you can put it on mine.”
“You ripped the whole thing apart.” It was part accusation, part incredulous question.
Mabel shrugged, as if her actions had no real consequences. As if Ella wasn’t fighting the urge to leap at her fingernails bared. “Well, I was just going to take apart the seams with the lace—” Ella could read the lie in those cold blue eyes, “—but then I saw how poorly made the stitches were—” Another lie! “—and I called in the girls to help me.”
Mabel took two steps towards Eunice, and scooped up the sad little pile of lace that had been on her sister’s lap. Dangling it between her thumb and forefinger, so that it twisted and snaked with each movement, Mabel crossed to stand over Ella.
Ella refused to look up, to give her sister the satisfaction of craning her neck. Instead, she stared resolutely at the tail end of the lace, dangling in front of her eyes. But she could hear the satisfied smile in Mabel’s voice when she said, “I’ll expect this piece on my collar by this evening, Ella dear.”
When Mabel dropped the lace into her lap, Ella couldn’t make herself let go of the yellow cotton—what had once been her dress, her hope of some kind of excitement and pleasure—to pick it up. Wasn’t sure if she could, without feeling sick from her sisters’ casual cruelty.
Mabel swept past her, knocking Ella to one side, and Eunice followed, her chin up. Sibyl stood to follow her sisters, and made it as far as the doorway. When she paused, Ella forced herself to meet her youngest stepsister’s guilty gaze. “For what it’s worth, I think it was a lovely dress.” Her whisper didn’t linger any longer than Sibyl did, and then Ella was alone.
Alone with the remains of her dream.
CHAPTER SEVEN
July third was as hard as Ella had thought it’d be. Her morning was full of last-minute demands from her stepsisters, and her afternoon was spent in the kitchen. She had so much to do that she barely had the time to mourn her dress, and the lost chance it represented. Eunice’
s pasta salad was cooling, and Ella was plucking the chickens when Maisie came in to start preparing supper for the men. Ella was planning on serving fried chicken tonight, and prepping an extra half to fry tomorrow morning for Mabel’s basket. Eunice’s ham just needed to be sliced, and her cinnamon apples were ready to go. She still had to figure out cookies for both baskets, but figured that she could do that tomorrow morning.
Ella was so caught up in her menu—mentally listing everything that she still needed to do—that she just didn’t notice Maisie’s quiet mood. Usually the other woman kept her talking and laughing throughout the afternoon, but not today. It wasn’t until Ella had gone out to wash the chicken feathers from her hands and forearms that she realized her friend’s mood.
“What’s wrong, Maisie?” Sometimes direct questions worked better than trying to guess.
Maisie shrugged, and continued to knead the dough for the night’s biscuits. She was going to make a few loaves of her cornbread too; half each for the baskets, and the rest to take to the picnic to share. But her preoccupation had nothing to do with her cooking, Ella could tell.
“You know, if you just told me, maybe we could figure out a way to solve this.” It was, word-for-word, what her friend had said to her yesterday, when Ella had returned to the kitchen, heartbroken, and clutching the remains of the yellow dress. She’d told the story in fits and starts, and soon Maisie was crying alongside her.
The other woman’s lips quirked, and Ella knew that she remembered. They were friends, and friends told each other everything. So Maisie sighed, and punched the dough a little harder than was necessary. “Them DeVille boys be over here again. Guess they figure to start celebratin’ early.”
