The Bad Luck Wedding Dress Page 15

  As he scanned the golden grasses of late summer stretching across the prairie, Trace was still a little woozy from all of the worry. He felt certain he would remember until the day he died that moment when Emma and Maribeth had burst through the doors at the End of the Line with scraped hands and knees and a tale that had turned his knees to water; Kat missing from the train depot, Em and Mari banged up from jumping off a moving train.

  He’d probably aged ten years between that moment and when he rushed into his kitchen and spied Katrina sitting at the table drinking a glass of milk. In those next few moments, his body had gone limp as a dishrag put through the wringer and hung out to dry.

  He didn’t feel much better than that now. Giving his mount a little kick, he spurred him to speed. He needed to hurry if he intended to catch up with the dressmaker in time to bring her back to Fort Worth before dark. And Trace had every intention of doing so. It’d be asking for trouble to spend the night, just the two of them alone on the prairie beneath a star-filled Texas sky.

  As he eyed the sun’s position, his brows lowered in a frown. He gave his horse an extra kick.

  Crazy woman. The fellow at the wagonyard had been right. The day before her wedding day, Miss Fortune forgets all about herself and rides off to rescue his children. Of course, it shouldn’t have come as any great surprise. He’d known she was that kind of person when he offered her the job. She’d done what any good mother would have done under the circumstances.

  She wasn’t anything like Constance.

  Shame curdled in his gut like sour milk every time he thought of his actions that day at Rachel’s. And he thought about it a lot. He couldn’t seem to forget it. Not the way she’d tasted or the way she’d fit so perfectly in his arms. He especially couldn’t forget the little sigh she’d made when she touched him.

  Damn. He had to stop this. The woman was getting married tomorrow.

  Marriage. That’s what she’d been fishing for that day at the swimming hole. He had been slow to pick up on it, true, but he wasn’t stupid.

  Or maybe he was stupid. He’d actually considered it. Only for a second, true, but the fact that the idea had even entered his thoughts made his skin crawl. “Good Lord,” he muttered, gigging his horse. He was acting as absurd as Big Jack Bailey.

  It must be the fatigue. His bones ached with it. As grateful as he was to Jenny for trying to rescue his girls, he’d rather be back at the End of the Line getting drunker than a hoedown fiddler than chasing after her with the news that the rescue wasn’t needed. Not this time anyway. Between the worry and the hard gallop across the prairie, he was near to being played plumb out.

  At least one good thing had come from today’s debacle. Reaching down, he gave his horse’s neck a pat. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel guilty for having indulged his passion for fine horseflesh.

  He’d bought the roan gelding Maribeth had named Ranger shortly after arriving in Fort Worth, and he’d spent more than he could afford at the time. Living in town, he didn’t actually need a horse, but owning one was a habit too hard to break. Riding a horse like Ranger was the lone pleasure in this chase after Miss Jenny Fortune.

  He muttered a curse as the words pleasure, riding, and Jenny brought to mind an image that suddenly made his seat in the saddle downright uncomfortable.

  He rode for another ten minutes, trying hard to change the direction of his thoughts. He contemplated the liquor order he needed to place for the End of the Line. He ruminated on the curiosity demonstrated by the townspeople concerning the identity of the owner of the “fancy new palace goin’ up on the west side.” But despite his best efforts, mental images of the dressmaker continued to hound him.

  Trace scowled and leather creaked as he shifted his position. He couldn’t blame it all on fatigue; he might as well admit it. He’d made a valiant effort to bury his attraction to Jenny Fortune, but he’d failed miserably. Even worse than being physically tempted by the woman, he’d actually come to like her. Really like her. How could a man not like a beautiful woman who races off to rescue his daughters on the very eve of her wedding?

  “She’s trouble,” he grumbled to Ranger. “I should have seen it sooner.”

  TOPPING A rise, Jenny tugged on the reins, calling, “Whoa, boy.” The buggy creaked to a halt.

  Relief washed through her, warm and sweet. Below her, a ribbon of black rose from the smokestack of a train bearing bright gold markings: Texas & Pacific.

  Puzzlement followed right on the heels of relief. Why was the train stopped in the middle of nowhere? She’d never thought to catch up with them, instead hoping to get to Dallas as soon as possible following their arrival.

  Jenny scrutinized the scene for any sign of trouble. The only movement she observed was the vapor rising from the smokestack. What had happened? Could the engine have suffered a mechanical failure?

  She winced at the thought of all those people stranded so far from town. How far were they from Arlington? Five miles? Eight? A long walk most certainly. Surely though, once the train was overdue someone from the railroad would be sent out to check on the problem.

  In the meantime, she’d take advantage of the Texas & Pacific’s misfortune and retrieve the McBride Menaces, minus their youngest member, from the boxcar.

  With a flick of the reins she signaled the horse, and the buggy began to roll forward. Because the track ran south of and parallel to the road, Jenny was forced to leave the trail to approach the train. The carriage bounced and rattled across the uneven terrain, but after a few moments, she neared the rails. For the first time the angle of her approach allowed her to see the opposite side of the train.

  Oh, no. Fear raced through her. Up near the engine, a man on horseback held the reins of five other mounts. He wore a kerchief pulled over his face and his hand rested on the butt of a gun.

  Desperadoes. Train robbery.

  Oh, dear Lord, Emma and Maribeth!

  Quickly, Jenny wheeled the buggy around, putting the train between her and the rider in order to hide from his view. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she considered what to do.

  Would the girls be in more or less danger if she tried to effect their escape while the bandits were aboard? Uncertain, Jenny’s gaze fixed on the train.

  Katrina had said Emma and Maribeth had climbed into the last boxcar. The man holding the horses was twelve, maybe fourteen cars away. Chances were good the robbers would work their way toward the back. She could smuggle the girls out of the boxcar while the bandits were stealing from the paying passengers a distance away.

  It could work, she thought, knowing she had no time to waste. Decision made, she started the buggy forward, intending to pull alongside the train.

  Then a man stepped out of the caboose. He stood in the shadows, his hat pulled low on his brow, and he pointed a shotgun toward her heart.

  “Well, well, well,” the vaguely familiar voice declared. “Look what we have here. If it isn’t the creator of the Bad Luck Wedding Dress.” He gave a menacing chuckle, then stepped out into the sun. “This must be my lucky day.”

  Big Jack Bailey. Butterflies of dread fluttered in her stomach. Meeting up with a train robber was bad enough; meeting up with a train robber who held a personal grudge against her made the situation even worse. Her mouth went as dry as a Texas July.

  “Aren’t you going to say hello, little lady?”

  She lifted her chin and spoke with surprising calm. “Good afternoon, Mr. Bailey.”

  Lifting a finger, he pushed his hat back on his head. His dark eyes gleamed with amusement. “What brings you out this way? Hoping to see a train wreck?”

  Tension made her body almost rigid as her hands tightened on the reins. Bailey’s look of amusement was downright scary.

  He motioned with his gun. “Get on out of the buggy.”

  Jenny’s pulse raced as she climbed slowly from her seat. The composure she displayed was pure false bravado, because her knees had turned to water. Another man step
ped out onto the platform, distracting Big Jack and giving her the opportunity to seek shelter of a sort behind the buggy.

  “There you are, Pa,” the newcomer said. “I’ve been looking for you. Sorry I got caught up talking with the senator. I know folks must be anxious to leave.”

  Big Jack’s expression tilted in a sly smile. “No, I wanted you to visit with Senator Charles. He’s someone you should know. Besides, once I saw who was driving this buggy, I knew we were in luck. This is somebody else I want you to meet, son.”

  Jenny nervously licked her lips. Pa. Son. This must be the Bailey girls’ brother. The gunslinger brother who couldn’t attend the weddings because he’d been in jail.

  The Bailey son pushed back the brim of his hat. He was tall and lanky with a cookie-duster mustache and a scar that marked his cheek. As his dark-eyed gaze drilled her, a shudder of fear ran down Jenny’s spine.

  Big Jack chuckled. “This here is Miss Jenny Fortune, Frank. She’s the one who made the dress.”

  “My sisters’ dress?”

  “Yep. The Bad Luck Wedding Dress.”

  Frank Bailey put his hands on his hips, just inches away from the guns riding low in their holsters. His measuring gaze swept over her. “Comely little thing. You didn’t tell me that about her, Pa.”

  He shrugged. “She’s prettied herself up lately. Who knows, maybe she’s after a man.”

  An evil smile stretched across the younger man’s face. “Well, now. Ain’t that handy.”

  The unstated threat hung on the air like a foul odor and Jenny gasped. A weapon. She needed a weapon. She needed the Colt she had stashed inside her satchel along with her nightgown and the change of clothes she’d packed anticipating an overnight stay. She always carried a gun when she traveled from town, but she’d never before had need of it.

  Next time, leave it somewhere easier to reach than wrapped up in your petticoats.

  She prayed there would be a next time. Cautiously, she reached for her bag as Big Jack Bailey and his son climbed down from the train.

  Jenny wrapped a hand around the satchel’s leather handle while the men covered half the distance between the buggy and the caboose. Then the drum of approaching horses interrupted them.

  A rider called, “Boss, the train is ready to move out.”

  Wonderful. She’d be left here alone with Bailey and his men. Could this situation get any worse?

  She told herself to look on the bright side. Obviously this was not a train robbery. If the father and son were criminals, they wouldn’t have been so quick to reveal their identity. That man with the kerchief over his nose could have been protecting his face, not hiding behind the bandanna. And what was it Frank Bailey had said about speaking with a senator?

  The whine of a whistle and groan of an engine warned that the train was pulling away. Her thoughts momentarily distracted, she gazed helplessly toward the boxcar that carried Emma and Maribeth even farther from home. She’d come so close to helping them. But better they be on that train than here to witness whatever wickedness the Baileys intended.

  With the departure of the train the men on horseback surrounded her. She began to believe she’d made a grave error of judgment by not taking Big Jack’s threats more seriously. Frank Bailey stepped within arm’s length, circling around her, looking her over good. “That’s a little package to cause so much trouble, Pa. Maybe we should unwrap her, see what’s inside.”

  Big Jack shrugged. “I warned her to stay out of my way.”

  When pushed too far, a streak of recklessness inherited from her mother surfaced in Jenny. Today was no exception. With a toss of her head, she glared from Big Jack to Frank and snapped, “I may be small, but I can slap you a new hat size if I must. It might do you well to remember that.”

  Slipping her hand inside her satchel, she felt through the layers of muslin for the cold hard metal of her pistol. She gripped the butt—not crazy enough to draw—but ready to protect herself as she waited for Frank Bailey’s reaction.

  “You hiding a weapon with your corsets, Dressmaker?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Big Jack’s brows rose. “Shit. That’s bound to bring bad luck.”

  “You ever shot a man before?” Frank inquired.

  “No. But I could in self-defense.”

  The gunfighter’s dark eyes glittered as he winked at his father and drawled, “I do so like spunk in a woman. I reckon I’m right happy I decided to come on home, Pa. Glad you let me in on what’s happening around here.”

  Her grip on the gun tightened. She welcomed the anger churning in her stomach, because it helped to mask the fear. “I attempted to explain this before. You people are fools if you think I’m in any way responsible for those accidents. What is it I’m supposed to have done to that dress? Sewn it with enchanted thread? Put a curse on the beads? Really, Mr. Bailey, I’d have thought a man of your experience would be a bit smarter than that.”

  Beneath the dark brim of his hat, Frank Bailey’s brows arched in surprise.

  “There’s a rider coming, boss,” one of the men on horseback called. “Fast.”

  Big Jack leveled an ugly stare upon Jenny and said, “Let’s go, Frank. We’ll have another opportunity to… converse with this dressmaker. Let’s head home.”

  Frank gave Jenny a wink, then sauntered toward one of two riderless horses and swung into the saddle. The men gigged their mounts and started off, all but Frank, who tipped his hat and said, “It’s been a pleasure, darlin’. I’ll look forward to furthering our acquaintance.”

  Jenny’s energy melted like chocolate on an August afternoon as she watched Frank Bailey canter off on a bay mare. Still too afraid to feel relieved, she didn’t move an inch until the pound of horse’s hooves behind her made her start.

  Whirling, she yanked the gun from the bag. She pointed it toward the rider and shouted, “Stay away from me you—”

  Trace saw his identity register on her face. Her lips silently shaped his name. Then, still in the saddle, he watched helplessly as Jenny Fortune collapsed in a faint, the gun falling harmlessly beside her.

  It is bad luck to put a hen to set on Sunday.

  CHAPTER 10

  TRACE SPIED THE ROUGH-EDGED rock partially veiled by the spread of golden tresses. His stomach sank. Had Jenny hit her head when she fell? She lay still and silent, her skin as pale as a late-morning moon, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. “Damn,” he muttered, easing his hands beneath her. The scrape of the stone against his knuckle was an ugly contrast to the silky caress of her hair across his fingers. Gently, he lifted her head and searched for a wound. Finding no obvious cut or lump, he worried all the more. A bruise inside the skull could be perilous.

  What had happened here in the minutes before his arrival? He’d seen the crowd of riders surrounding the buggy, but he’d not noticed Jenny until the men rode away. She turned on him like a wildcat, then faded to a kicked kitten in the blink of an eye.

  It left a bad feeling in his gut. A real bad feeling.

  Trace hurriedly secured both horses, then retrieved his canteen from his saddle. Dragging a handkerchief from his pocket, he sluiced it with water and wrung it out. He sat cross-legged beside the unconscious woman and gently eased her head onto his lap. “C’mon, Jenny,” he said, dabbing her pale cheeks with the wet cloth. “Wake up. You’ve caused me enough trouble as it is. Don’t make it worse by doing something stupid like being hurt bad, all right?”

  He stroked her gently. “You need to wake up. I need to tell you something. What you did for my children …” His voice trailed off as emotion choked his throat.

  How long he sat with her head in his lap he wasn’t certain. It felt like forever, but it was likely less than five minutes. He felt the change in her before he could see it— a transformation in the dead air surrounding them and a subtle tightening of her limbs. Slowly, her eyes fluttered open, and Trace lost himself in the unfocused depths of her mystical, blue-eyed gaze.

  “Wha
t… ?” Jenny murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “You fainted.” He drew a gentle finger across her cheek. “Are you hurt? Does your head hurt?”

  “No. Well, maybe a little.” She paused, and after a beat her eyes widened. Her pupils, large and unfocused when she woke, shrank to a pinpoint and she jerked upright. “Emma and Maribeth! They’re on the train.”

  He shushed her, easing her back down onto his lap. His hand continued its soothing caress as he explained, “They’re safe, Jenny. Em and Mari jumped off the train before it worked up to speed.”

  Questions and concern bloomed in her expression.

  “They weren’t hurt,” he reassured her. “But it scares me half to death to think about it. You should have seen the way my knees wobbled when Emma said in that haughty little voice of hers, ‘We jumped before the track makes the bend to cross Sycamore Creek.’ Then Maribeth made it even worse by shrugging and saying, ‘It was barely rolling, Papa.’“

  Horror sharpened her tone. “They could have fallen beneath the wheels!”

  Trace grimaced. “Helluva thing, isn’t it? God must have been watching over them when they leaped. They cleared the wheels and came away with nothing more than a few scratches.” He brushed her hair back from her brow and asked, “But what about you? Did you hit your head when you fainted? Where do you hurt?”

  She licked her lips. “I’m all right. I think.”

  “Maybe you should lie here for a little bit.”

  “Yes,” she said breathlessly, snuggling against him.

  Knowing he’d best turn his thoughts from the intimacy of their position, Trace asked, “Are you feeling up to telling me what happened? Who were those riders?”

  At that, she stiffened. When she attempted to rise and move away from him, Trace held her in place with the slightest pressure of his hands. “Relax. I don’t want you getting up too fast and passing out on me again, all right?”