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

  Trace’s mouth flattened into a frown as his arms tightened around his daughter. The familiar shame slithered down his spine at the mention of his daughters’ mother, but he determinedly ignored it. He wouldn’t think about Constance. He couldn’t. “I’m sure she’s fine, Katie-cat.”

  “Can you come see, Papa? Please?”

  “Reckon I can.” Standing, he looked toward the doorway and asked, “Are your sisters outside?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Katrina shook her head. “I’m here by myself.”

  Trace closed his eyes and bit back the caustic, fear-inspired curse hovering on his tongue. “All right, Katrina,” he said with a sigh. “While we’re heading that way, you and I can have a little chat about breaking rules. You know you’re not allowed in this part of town alone. Especially not now.” He shot her a scolding look and asked, “What time is it?”

  Katrina’s lower lip poked out and trembled. “I dunno.”

  “Take a guess.”

  “Umm … noon?”

  “It’s nigh on to three o’clock and I’m certain you’re aware of it. So, tell me when you’re allowed to come into the Acre.”

  “Eleven to one.”

  Trace folded his arms and nodded. The End of the Line was located smack dab in the middle of the Fort Worth district known as Hell’s Half Acre. The area was relatively tame during those hours—after the night folks had cleared out and before the early crowd arrived—and he knew the girls were safe enough visiting his saloon that time of day. Some of the good folk in town wouldn’t agree, but he figured his children were better off with him than with the housekeeper—or alone, now that Mrs. Higgenbothem had thrown in her dust rag.

  Katrina swiped her hand across her face, drying her tears. “I’m sorry, Papa. I’m just so worried.”

  Relenting, he gave her a wink and a smile. “I know, baby. Remember, though, that I have reasons for my rules. As much as you like Miss Fortune, this wasn’t an emergency, and that’s the only excuse I’ll allow.”

  “I don’t just like Miss Fortune, Papa. I love her.”

  “You love licorice.”

  “Miss Fortune’s even better than licorice. Except for you, I love her the mostest.”

  In Katrina’s vernacular, the mostest was saying a lot. Well, hell, Trace thought. That could be trouble. He knew his girls spent some time down in the dressmaker’s shop, but he hadn’t realized they were forming an affection for Miss Fortune. He’d have to put a stop to that. He would not have another woman in their lives to break their hearts when she … disappeared.

  Damn. He shouldn’t have rented that space to a woman. Not to any woman, and especially not that particular woman. Within moments of their first meeting, he’d realized he liked Jenny Fortune. Maybe it was her determination to succeed or perhaps the aura of independence she wore like a crown. Likely it had something to do with her straightforward way of speaking. Whatever it was, it had sneaked past his defenses, and he’d acted against his better judgment and rented her the shop space.

  Now it seemed his children would suffer for his indiscretion.

  Acting true to character, McBride. True to character.

  Well, hell. Trace shook off the familiar guilt. He could chew on all this another time. The first order of business must be to get Katrina out of the Acre and back where she belonged. Lifting his daughter into his arms, he called instructions to the bartender and walked out of the saloon.

  The streets of the Acre were filled with the flotsam of society that so often collected in railroad terminal towns. As Trace carried his daughter across the district, he noticed how the sights and sounds served to distract her from her worry, and he was mostly pleased at the prospect. Katrina’s eyes brightened at the sight of nattily dressed adventurers and tinhorn gamblers. She timidly returned the grins of trail-dusty cowboys and wrinkled her nose at buffalo hunters who reeked of the rancid fragrance of their trade. She sang along with tinkling piano notes floating on the breeze and even called back to the barkers who stood in saloon doorways announcing the entertainments that gave Fort Worth its reputation as the “Paris of the Plains.”

  “Hello there, handsome.”

  Trace winked in reply to the well-dressed sporting house madam, then blocked his daughter’s view of one of the woman’s scantily clad employees. Knowing Katrina, she’d want a scarlet and canary yellow dress, too.

  “Papa, I can see your sign from all the way down here,” Katrina said with wonder.

  “Yep, I do have a good spot, don’t I?”

  The End of the Line’s location was one of the best in the Acre, Trace’s furnishings were first-rate, and his liquor was the finest available. The saloon enjoyed a good reputation, and every night of the week customers flocked through its doors to participate in the entertainments.

  After arriving in Fort Worth four years ago with little more than lint in his pockets, Trace had taken a lucky turn of a card and begun his efforts to rebuild his children’s lives. Recognizing the potential of the saloon he won in a card game, he’d set about making it one of the premier establishments in the Acre. And he’d succeeded, in spite of the absence of an upstairs business. Miss Rachel’s Social Emporium directly across the street serviced that particular need.

  He’d survived both the good times in Fort Worth and the bad, acquiring the nest egg that would finance his ambitions. Now, four years after settling in town, six years since the nightmare began, he stood poised at the edge of the culmination of his goal.

  The McBrides were going respectable.

  “I do hope MissFortune is all right,” Katrina said with a worried sigh.

  He glanced down at the concern etched upon his little girl’s face and realized the timing couldn’t be more perfect. Part of his secret plan involved moving his family from the Rankin Building apartment into the nearly completed house of spectacular design he was having built on the west side of town. The change of residence would remove his daughters from daily contact with Miss Jenny Fortune, and considering the situation, it wouldn’t happen a moment too soon.

  Katrina bounced back and forth from her worry about the dressmaker to fascination for the adult delights of the Acre. By the time they reached the respectable part of town, Trace almost wished Katrina had continued with her sobbing the entire time. He worried his baby had enjoyed herself entirely too much.

  I’ll need to make sure she finds the price of an untimely visit to the Acre too expensive to risk another visit.

  Trace did his best to protect his girls from the seamier side of life, therefore his strict rules on visits to Hell’s Half Acre. Of course, in Fort Worth it was difficult to get away from violence and vice entirely. This frontier town was the end of the line for the railroad and the collection point for a number of stage lines. The Chisholm Trail ran one street west of Main. Here men outnumbered women at least ten to one, and as they passed through town, their needs were basic.

  In the Acre, those needs were well met. A bath, a haircut, food, drink, and female companionship were readily available for the price of a coin. Hell’s Half Acre was heaven to the men who rode into town with coins scorching the bottoms of their pockets.

  Money—fast and plentiful—was the reason Trace had chosen to remain in Fort Worth to raise his girls. Money and the fact that the railroad didn’t go any farther.

  It was difficult for a man to continue running when he tagged three little girls along with him.

  Wanting to get Katrina home as quickly as possible, Trace hailed the mule-drawn streetcar that hauled passengers up and down Main. As he settled into a seat, he asked his daughter, “Do your sisters know where you went?”

  The girl shook her head.

  “Where do they think you are?”

  Katrina mulishly set her mouth and shrugged in reply.

  Trace wasn’t surprised by her lack of cooperation. Although the girls constantly bickered among themselves, they consistently presented a united front when facing any foe. A father bent upon discipline
definitely counted as the enemy.

  As the streetcar headed south away from the Acre, Trace’s thoughts turned to Miss Jenny Fortune. Bawling like a baby, was she? Good Lord, he hoped she wasn’t ill. The girls certainly didn’t need that.

  He reached over and tucked a stray auburn curl behind his daughter’s ear. Chances were the dressmaker wasn’t sick. She’d probably heard of the nonsense Big Jack Bailey was spreading around town. He had wandered through the End of the Line just last night spouting some nasty sentiments about Miss Fortune, going on and on about how his daughters had been brought low by The Bad Luck Wedding Dress. Then he’d shared his ideas on how to deal with the woman who’d created the gown.

  At that point Trace had heard enough and suggested the wealthy rancher might be happier at the Red Light Saloon.

  All in all, Trace wasn’t overly concerned about what Big Jack had said. While the man was unpredictable, full of talk and superstitious nonsense, he’d never taken any of his threats farther than his tongue. Which looked to be a good thing for Jenny Fortune.

  At the corner of Main and Eleventh, Trace and Katrina left the streetcar to walk the remaining two blocks to their home. He’d acquired the three-story brick structure from a liquored-up banker within months of arriving in town. It wasn’t the best place for the girls to live, but it wasn’t all that bad.

  Heaven knew they’d lived in worse places before settling in Fort Worth. Much worse. He’d had just over two hundred dollars in his pocket the night they snuck out of Charleston and that hadn’t lasted long.

  The Rankin Building stood directly across from the Catholic church, and he waved a hello to one of the priests as he opened the door that bypassed the shops and led directly upstairs. Despite Katrina’s protests, he’d see to his children before he dealt with Miss Fortune.

  Once inside he sent Katrina to wait for him in the parlor, then he headed for the stairway. He expected to find the girls in their bedroom on the third floor. But before he reached the steps, he was stopped by the murmur of voices floating down the hallway. From his own bedroom.

  “What are those hellions up to this time?” he muttered, following the sound.

  At the doorway, he abruptly stopped. Both girls were on their hands and knees. Maribeth, his nine-year-old, had her face pressed against the floor. Her eleven-year-old sister, Emma, was nudging her shoulder and saying, “Well, what is it? What do you see now?”

  Trace folded his arms. Summoning his most fatherly glare, he cleared his throat.

  A pair of heads snapped up; two guilt-ridden faces lifted toward him.

  “I’ll hear your explanation in the parlor in two minutes.”

  “Oh, Papa,” Emma said, her voice riddled with dismay.

  “What are you doing home this soon!” Maribeth exclaimed.

  Trace’s brow rose. “You don’t know?”

  The girls shared a worried look, then Emma closed her eyes and said, “Katrina.”

  They hadn’t even missed their sister. She’d been gone nigh on to an hour, and the girls had not noticed. Trace set his jaw. In a tight voice, he said, “The parlor. You’re down to one minute, ladies.” They scrambled to their feet and were gone in a flash.

  A wave of frustration nearly drowned him. He knew that leaving the girls alone in the daytime wasn’t the best of situations and he felt guilty because of it. But it wouldn’t last much longer. And besides, was it too much to ask that the children watch over one another for a few days until he found a new housekeeper? Was it too much to ask that they refrain from scaring off every woman he managed to hire? What was their problem?

  Trace raked his fingers through his hair, and his gaze caught on the place where his daughters had congregated. Up to more mischief, obviously.

  His boots thudding against the pine floor, he crossed to the spot. A knothole. They’d been spying on someone in Miss Fortune’s shop.

  Telling himself he did this only for education’s sake to discipline his daughters more appropriately, Trace hunkered down and peered into the opening.

  He couldn’t see a thing. He glanced toward the doorway, checking to see that the girls hadn’t sneaked back to watch him. Then he knelt on his hands and knees and put his eye to the hole.

  What he saw nearly blinded him. Miss Jenny Fortune stood directly beneath him, the Bad Luck Wedding Dress in her hands. She was stripped down to her corset.

  Good God. How the hell had he ever thought her plain?

  If you put one sock on inside out,

  you must set it right before taking a single step to avoid bad luck.

  CHAPTER 2

  SOME DAYS WERE SWEET as ginger cookies, Jenny thought, gazing into the dressing room mirror.

  Today was buttermilk gone bad.

  Her eyes felt gritty from all of her weeping, and her nose glowed as red as a porch light in Hell’s Half Acre. She hated to cry. She considered it a surrender to weakness. Or, to a trait even less admirable.

  Jenny had grown up watching her mother use tears to manipulate those around her. She had promised herself long ago never to stoop to such feminine wiles.

  Weeping in private wasn’t quite the same thing, she tried to reassure herself. And after the scene with Mrs. Peters, then finding the dress on her doorstep and reading the threatening note, crying had seemed the natural thing to do. She’d carried the gown inside, locked the door, and proceeded to all but ruin the fabric with her tears.

  To top off her day, at that point her mother had shown up.

  “I’ve a train to catch,” Monique Day had said, breezing into the shop on a trail of spicy French perfume. “I’m off to visit your father. I’ve only a few minutes to spare, but I wanted news about these rumors I’ve been hearing.”

  “Rumors?” Jenny had repeated, curious as to what nonsense had reached her mother’s ears. Monique lived thirty miles east of Fort Worth in Dallas. Richard Fortune lived another hundred miles east from there. The trip to Fort Worth had not been a casual visit, no matter how abbreviated the stop.

  “The seamstress in Dallas has been telling the local ladies something about bad luck.”

  Ethel Baumgardner. Jenny had silently cursed the woman’s name. Central Texas was big enough for two dressmakers. Ethel didn’t have to go out of her way to hurt Fortune’s Design.

  “Well?” Monique had demanded.

  Jenny appreciated her mother’s concern, but even more welcome was the news that the stay would be brief. Monique could be as taxing as hundred degree heat.

  After filling her mother in on the details, Jenny had acquiesced to the demand to see the infamous dress modeled. “Blast Ethel Baumgardner, and blast Wilhemina Peters, too,” she now muttered, stepping into the skirt of the exquisite white silk taffeta gown. “At least Ethel has a reason for spreading rumors. Wilhemina simply has a gossiping tongue. I hope she bites it. I hope her husband replaces that column of hers in the newspaper with a cattle report.”

  “Now, dear. No need to moo on about it,” Monique called from outside the dressing room curtain. Laughter at her own joke filled the small shop.

  Jenny sighed. Her problems weren’t Mrs. Peters’s fault, or Ethel Baumgardner’s either. They hadn’t coined the term now being used for this dress. That was all Big Jack Bailey’s doing.

  Monique was right, and her daughter found the fact profoundly annoying.

  “I need help with the buttons, Monique,” she called as she pushed her arms through the sleeves of the two- piece dress. Tugging the material over her shoulders, she smoothed the bodice, then stared into the mirror. The gown had survived both the Baileys’ mishandling and her own waterworks with little obvious damage. It was a lovely dress. Her masterpiece.

  Jenny’s laugh echoed hollowly in the tiny room. Her nightmare, more to the truth.

  “What is it, child?” her mother asked, pushing back the curtain and stepping inside.

  “It’s the Bad Luck Wedding Dress.” Jenny lifted her hand and her fingers trailed over the chiffon trim and seed- pearl-bea
ded fringe, then across the swag of pearls down the skirt front panel. “I billed Big Jack Bailey five hundred dollars for this gown—enough for a small farm—and although he fussed about it, he paid the price.”

  Monique withheld comment as she fastened the row of pearl buttons up the back. She stepped away and both women studied the results.

  Elegant simplicity was the look Jenny had intended, and she’d achieved it with this design. This dress should have secured her reputation and her future. She stood on tiptoe, lifting the hem from the floor, and a wry smile touched her lips. The dress was giving her a reputation, all right.

  Her gaze caught on the pearl-trimmed rosette at the neck. The wedding gown was perfect, as beautiful as any Worth, himself, might have designed. A sense of purpose filled her and chased any lingering sadness from her eyes. “I’ll tell you this, Mother. I refuse to allow these silly rumors to ruin my future. I’ll save Fortune’s Design if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Arms folded and a tender smile on her lips, Monique nodded. “The gown is everything I heard it was. My congratulations. You obviously get your flair for design from me. So, what do you plan to do?”

  It went without saying that Monique would support her daughter as best she could. It also went unspoken that Jenny preferred to deal with her problems herself, experiences of her youth having taught her the advantage of such a course. One should not depend on others. They would fail a person when she needed them the most. Independence must be the ultimate goal.

  That way, the only person able to fail you is yourself.

  “I don’t know,” she told her mother. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Well, you must decide. You must have a plan.”

  Minutes passed as Jenny stared at her reflection in the mirror, considering and discarding different methods of dealing with these ruinous rumors. “I’d like your advice,” she said finally. “Converting difficulties into advantages is one of your specialties, after all.”