The Bad Luck Wedding Dress (The Bad Luck Wedding series) Page 4
Except Jenny Fortune wasn’t crying. Oh, her face showed signs of an earlier bout of blubbering, but she certainly wasn’t teary at the moment. The dressmaker had her hair down and she was smiling. It threw him off balance.
As did the memory of his peephole vision.
This Jenny Fortune was pretty. Bordering on beautiful, in fact. A tawny gold complexion, bright blue eyes. More curves than a barrel of snakes.
Damn him for a fool. Why had he allowed spectacles and a forthright manner to distract him? How could he have never noticed? If he’d taken one good look at the woman, he’d have rented this shop to the doctor who wanted the space. It didn’t matter that he’d liked her or that he’d appreciated her contract negotiating skills. Trace would never have done business with a beautiful, respectable woman.
He’d learned the hard way they couldn’t be trusted worth beans.
“Good afternoon, Mr. McBride,” she said, warmth glowing in her eyes. “What can I do for you?”
She had a Tennessee sipping-whiskey voice, mellow and rich. A surprising number of answers to her question flitted through his mind. He cleared his throat before saying, “I want a dress.”
“I see.” Humor added a spark to her eyes that Trace found captivating. And distracting. He hardly took note of what she asked. “Will this dress be for a particular occasion or for everyday?”
“Everyday.” It was more than just beauty. Something about Jenny Fortune’s manner was different this afternoon, too. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but whatever it was, she simmered with it. It made him simmer more than a little, himself.
“What sort of materials do you prefer?” With a graceful sweep of her arm, she gestured to a stack of cloth bolts lying atop a counter.
Bold, that was part of it. She had a boldness about her today, from the look in her eyes to where she positioned herself in the room—just a tad too close but not near close enough. “Materials?”
She lifted a tape measure from a basket. “Percale, cashmere, bouclé…”
His stare fastened on her lips. Full and pouty. He imagined them soft, sensuous. “Silk.”
Her gaze swept him head to foot and she took the tiniest of steps backward. Then, curiously, she inhaled a deep breath and stepped forward once again. “Silk it is,” she said, nodding. “And the color? Do you have a preference? I have a beautiful bolt of arctic blue, or a primrose might be nice.”
He shrugged, forcing himself to drag his thoughts back to the matter at hand. Forget about her looks. He’d promised his daughters he’d make sure their Miss Fortune wasn’t dying of some dread disease, and that was all he was here for. Now, if he could only figure how to go about it.
Hell, maybe he should just ask her. Sometimes folks appreciated these things being met head-on. “Miss Fortune …”
“Yes?”
He hesitated, then said, “Blue will be fine.”
Her lips twitched with a smile as she lifted a tape measure from a table and said, “You’ll look divine in blue, Mr. McBride.”
The fog cleared from his brain and he realized the direction in which she’d taken this conversation. Why, the little tease. Lord help him. Beautiful, smart, and a sense of humor. The most dangerous kind of woman.
Knowing that, yet still unable to stop himself from baiting her back, Trace lifted his arms wide, held his hands palms out, and drawled, “Y’know, insecurity would make a lot of men run from a woman with a tape measure in her hand. Personally, I’ve never had the worry.”
Twin spots of color stained her cheeks and she retreated a few steps.
Trace took his first good breath since she’d entered the room. At least the exchange had yielded information, he told himself, feeling the need for an excuse. Miss Fortune was the type to badger a man, but only up to a point.
He was glad. He wouldn’t want his daughters charmed by a tart.
Bad enough to find himself tantalized by a tease.
“Forgive me, Mr. McBride,” Jenny said, offering an apologetic smile. “I should never have indulged my tendency to jest. I fear it’s one of the penchants I’ve inherited from my mother.”
He opened his mouth—to protest or agree, he wasn’t sure—but she barged ahead.
“I forgot we are basically strangers. It’s just that your daughters speak of you so often that I feel as if I’ve known you for years.” Her tone became brisk and businesslike. “Now, I take it you are here to order a dress for one of the girls. Emma perhaps? Her birthday is close.”
He nodded and she continued. “May I suggest that the blue silk would not be an appropriate everyday dress for a girl her age? What about calico? I received a new bolt last week in colors that would be perfect for Emma.”
Trace blinked. He’d had no intention of buying a dress when he walked through the door. He’d already purchased a frilly new doll for Emma’s birthday gift, and he didn’t want to give her two presents. That would set a bad precedent with the other girls. “Fine. Whatever you think.”
Jenny’s smile was stunning. “Emma will be so pleased. She’s been talking to me about her birthday. I compliment you on being aware of her wishes, Mr. McBride. She seems to think you’ve not noticed how grown-up she’s become, and she’s afraid you’ll give her another doll.”
Trace barely managed to keep the scowl from showing on his face. “Yes, well, I know better than that. She’ll be twelve years old after all.” Guess he could save the doll for Kat’s birthday. Surely she was still young enough for baby dolls.
Lifting a book from the desk that sat against the wall, Jenny jotted down some notes, then asked, “Do you want to keep this secret from Maribeth and Katrina, too? I could use their help in getting Emma’s measurements.”
Measurements. Trace’s gaze slipped to the dressmaker’s bodice and the wayward thought occurred that it might have been worth the embarrassment of ordering a dress for himself just to get her hands on him.
He forced himself to look away, and he wasn’t too pleased that his stare landed on the naked dressmaker dummy. What was the matter with him? He’d never looked twice at this woman before, and today she had him pole-axed. “You can let Maribeth in on it if you need to, but Kat can’t keep her mouth shut. Now, if that’s all you need, I’d best get back to work.”
“This will do. For now, anyway.”
Her low-pitched voice and the soft look in her eyes sent a wave of heat washing through him. Then she startled him—shocked him—when she crossed the room and took his hand in hers. Her touch had a kick like hundred-proof moonshine.
“Thank you for your business, Mr. McBride.” She gently pumped his arm and the faint spice of her perfume filled his senses. “And thank you for sharing your daughters with me.”
Before Trace quite knew how it had happened, she had ushered him to the doorway. He stared down at the hand that clutched the doorknob, his skin still warm from her touch. How curious. He glanced over his shoulder. “Why did you do that?”
Her look was all innocence and fire. “Do what?”
“Shake hands with me. Just like a man.”
She looked him straight in the eye, telegraphing messages he thought he surely must be misreading. “Why did I shake your hand? It’s something my mother taught me to do.”
Trace was halfway back to Hell’s Half Acre before he realized he’d forgotten to find out why, earlier that afternoon, Jenny Fortune had been crying.
ON HER hands and knees in the front parlor, Emma McBride watched through a knothole as one floor beneath her, Miss Fortune collapsed into a nearby rocking chair following Papa’s exit. Her sister, Maribeth, sat against the parlor wall, a loose chimney brick at her feet, her ear fitted to the hollow space as she listened intently. Katrina paced the floor between her siblings.
“I can’t do this!” Jenny groaned, loud enough for all the girls to hear. “I don’t have it in me to act like Monique. It was a silly idea, anyway. It never would have worked. I’ll simply have to come up with a solution of my own.”
“What?” Emma demanded, putting her face to the knothole once more. Miss Fortune continued to rock in her chair, her pretty face a picture of sadness. Emma glanced at her sister and asked, “What did she say?”
Maribeth bent, scooped up the brick, and returned it to its spot. She stared at her sister, excitement sparkling in her eyes. “It’s working. Oh, Em, I think it’s working.”
“What?” Katrina asked. “Y’all are too mean to me. Next time I get a peephole, too.”
“Hush, Kat.” The eldest sister pushed to her feet and glared at the other two. “And Mari McBride, if you don’t tell me what Miss Fortune said I’ll put grass burrs in your sheets!”
Maribeth’s wicked smile was a copy of her father’s. “She said, ‘What foolishness made me think I could make a man like Trace McBride take notice of me.’”
“It’s working!” Emma flew across the room and swept her sisters into a quick, but fierce, hug. “Oh, Mari, you were right. I didn’t think Miss Fortune listened to any of our talk about Papa, but I must have been wrong.”
“What about me?” Katrina’s lips pursed into a pout. “I’m right, too.”
Emma and Maribeth shared a rolled-eye look, then the latter lifted a superior chin and said smugly, “I told you so. Twice this last week I saw that peculiar look on Miss Fortune’s face when we got to talking about Papa. She likes him. I just know she does.”
Emma began to pace the room, her expression gathered in a thoughtful scowl as she contemplated the latest developments. Shortly after the three of them decided they wanted Jenny Fortune to be their mother, they’d launched an all-out effort to convince the dressmaker that their father would be a perfect husband for her. “Something we said must have made a difference.”
“I bet it was the part about Papa sewing up the rip in my dolly’s arm,” Katrina observed solemnly. “She must really like people who sew.”
“Maybe, Kat. You never know,” Emma replied. She turned to Maribeth. “I’m ever so sorry about whatever happened to make Miss Fortune cry, but it turned out splendidly for us. You know how Papa gets about tears. Did you see his face when he was talking to her? I think he finally realized how pretty Miss Fortune is. This is wonderful.”
“Wonderful? I wouldn’t go that far.” Maribeth snorted in disgust and glared at Katrina. “We ended up in major trouble because of it. You got back way too soon, Kat. You could have hollered or something and warned us that Papa was here. You could have ruined everything.”
“That’s not my fault!” the youngest sister protested before popping her thumb in her mouth.
“You did fine,” Emma, the peacemaker, said.
“No, she didn’t; she got us in trouble! I didn’t think Papa would ever end that lecture.” Maribeth folded her arms in a huff. “It will take us two days to wash all the baseboards in the house. Oh, Kat, how come you didn’t slow him down? Emma and me didn’t beat y’all home by more than five minutes.” Glancing at her older sister, she added, “I told you we shouldn’t have waited for her to get inside the End of the Line before we left.”
Emma shook her head. “Absolutely not! We couldn’t leave Kat alone in the Acre.”
“We’re getting punished for doing just that.”
Katrina’s voice sounded mushy as she spoke around her thumb. “Mari McBride, you’re a mean sister.”
The squabbling continued for a number of minutes while Emma bent her mind to the task of how next to proceed. “We must work on Papa,” she announced during a lull in the action. “We’ve primed the pump with Miss Fortune. Now it’s time to prove to Papa how badly he needs a wife.”
Katrina stuck out her tongue at Maribeth one last time then asked, “How we gonna do that, Emmie?”
“That’s what I want to know,” Maribeth chimed in. “We can’t talk to him about it. Anytime one of us brings up the idea of getting a new mother, he gets that look on his face. I don’t like that look, Em. Don’t forget we need to be sneaky about this.”
The eleven-year-old’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “First, I think we’ll give Katrina that reward we promised her for crying to Papa about Miss Fortune.”
Clapping her hands together, Katrina beamed at her sister. “You’re still gonna buy me my dill pickle at the mercantile?”
Maribeth frowned and opened her mouth to voice an obvious protest, but Emma forestalled her by saying, “No, I’m not.”
Maribeth gave a cat-and-cream smile while her younger sister wailed, “Why? I did what you told me to!”
Emma nodded. “That’s right, you did. And I do plan to get you your pickle, only we’re not going to buy it. We are going to steal it.”
“What?” Maribeth and Katrina gasped in unison.
“It’s the next part of my plan. It’s how we’ll go to work on Papa. We’ll steal pickles from the mercantile, and we’ll make sure we get caught doing it.”
“Oh, Emma, you’re naughty.” Katrina’s eyes grew as round as a barn owl’s.
“Yeah,” Maribeth agreed, her eyes shining with delight. “And smart, too. Nothing needles Papa more than an appearance by the McBride Menaces.” Her grin faded as she added glumly, “He’ll have us scrubbing the ceilings for sure.”
Emma pointed toward the floor and the woman who worked in the street-level shop. “But won’t it be worth it?” They all nodded.
ONE WEEK later when Marshal T.I. Courtright arrived for what was becoming a daily visit to the End of the Line Saloon, Trace had a shot of rye whiskey poured and waiting for him. He preferred bourbon himself.
Courtright drained his glass before he spoke. “You’re going to have to do something, McBride.”
He had done something. In seven days he’d been through three more housekeepers. This morning he’d hauled his girls across the street so the nuns could deal with them. He should have known holy women had no chance of controlling holy terrors. All this nonsense was playing hell with his plans to go respectable. Making a place for his daughters in Fort Worth society would be difficult enough considering his soon-to-be-former occupation. No way would the good women of Fort Worth accept his daughters as one of their own if they continued with these pranks. Trace closed his eyes and asked, “What did they do today?”
“They’ve crossed the line this time. This ain’t no pickle swiping or even turning mice loose at the Baptist Ladies’ Benevolent Society meeting. This is out-and-out criminal activity. Punishable, I might add, by—” he pulled a paper from his pocket, donned his spectacles, and read “‘branding, lashing, a one-thousand-dollar fine, one-year imprisonment, and restoration.’“
Trace, having a passing acquaintance with the laws of crime and punishment in Texas, took a long swig of bourbon, then croaked, “Are you telling me my girls stole a horse?”
“Two of ‘em.” Courtright took off his spectacles and returned them and the paper to his pocket. “From the nuns at Saint Stanislaus Kostka Church.”
“Good God.”
“I reckon you’d better hope so. We did recover the horses, at least. Little Katrina told us where to find ‘em.” A reluctant grin tugged at his lips. “They tied them up over behind First Baptist.”
Trace dropped his chin and shook his head in defeat as Courtright continued, “You’re gonna have to do something and fast. Folks around here won’t put up with that sort of behavior out of young’uns. Especially girls. You’ve been living on borrowed time as it is, all the mischief they’ve caused in the past year or so.”
Trace clamped his mouth shut as anger—at the marshal, his daughters, the entire world—threatened to burst into words. But how could he be mad at Courtright? The man was right. The girls were out of hand. Horse thieves, by God!
He finished off his drink and asked, “Where are they?”
“Jail.”
“What?” Trace shouted, shoving to his feet, heedless of the chair that clattered to the floor.
“I had to do something with them, McBride. Only have one prisoner today, and he’s sleeping off his drunk. Figured a dose of cell time might get through to ‘em. You sure as hell haven’t.”
Trace was out of the front door in a flash. His long strides ate up the ground as he hurried toward the jail-house, conveniently located at the far end of the Acre. That sonofabitch had put his little girls in jail!
That sonofabitch had put his little hoodlums in jail.
“What am I doing wrong with those girls?” he muttered. If they were boys, he’d know what to do. Same thing his father used to do to him—the three Ws. Words, work, and woodshed. In the past week or so, Trace had served up the first two on a regular basis. He’d worn out his tongue lecturing and worked his girls until the house sparkled. But he simply couldn’t bring himself to haul them to the woodshed. He didn’t believe a man should ever hit a woman, no matter how young that woman might be.
So what did a father do with daughters who stole horses from nuns?
The summer heat bore down relentlessly as he made his way toward the calaboose. The odor of whiskey slapped at his senses and made him think of the locked-up drunk. He silently cursed the marshal. What had the man been thinking of, putting three little girls in jail? They’d be frightened. Kat would have nightmares for weeks. What if one of the deputies brought in a criminal before he got there? Trace sprinted the last hundred yards to the Fort Worth City Jail.
Deputy Rufus Scott sat at one desk, cleaning his fingernails with a knife. He looked up as Trace burst through the door, saying, “I want my girls now.”
The deputy laid down his blade. “They ain’t here.”
“What?” Trace’s gut clenched.
“That dressmaker came and got ‘em. Said she was taking them to your place. Talked me up one side and down the other, she did. Hell, wasn’t my doin’s putting them here. Marshal Courtright decided that all on his lonesome.”