The Bad Luck Wedding Dress (The Bad Luck Wedding series) Page 8

  TRACE HAD built a fire more from habit than need. They’d brought a cold picnic supper in a pair of wicker baskets; fried chicken, potato salad, a jar of green tomato pickles, peaches, and Emma’s favorite cake. He eyed the contents, then looked down the hill toward the creek, wishing the females would hurry. He was hungry.

  The spot he’d chosen for their picnic was away from the creek and the hum of gnats that swarmed over water in the late afternoon. The grass here was thick, the breeze pleasant. He fed cedar sticks to the fire, the spit and crackle of the wood pleasing to the ears, the aroma of the smoke olfactory ambrosia.

  He loved getting away from town, its crowds and noise and foul-smelling streets. Gazing below toward the gap in the cottonwoods hugging the creek bank, he watched a cardinal dip then rise, a splash of red paint against the bleached sky. Someday he’d own land like this. Maybe even this land itself. He’d give his girls space to grow up in. He’d give them a place to lie on their backs and name pictures in the clouds; a place with room to think and dream and plan for the future.

  A place like Oak Grove where he had been given those same opportunities.

  Damn. Trace kicked at a tuft of grass. He had to quit thinking of home. He didn’t need it. He wouldn’t need it. The house in town would provide all the room the girls needed. And Jenny Fortune would give the girls the mothering they required. He planned to secure her agreement to do so right after supper.

  To that end, after the five of them feasted on Emma’s favorite dessert of lemon jelly cake and the girls scattered to play ball, he turned to Jenny and casually brought up the topic of the Bad Luck Wedding Dress. “I guess business has fallen off for you quite a bit since the trouble with the Bailey girls’ dress.”

  Undoubtedly, the sour look that came to her face had little to do with the tartness of the cake filling. “Fallen off isn’t quite the right term. Disappeared would be more accurate.”

  She looked cute when she got snippy, Trace observed, then wished he hadn’t. “It’s a bunch of foolishness, in my opinion. The notion that the wearing of a dress had anything to do with the Bailey girls’ troubles. It’s amazing, really, what nonsense people will believe.”

  “Mr. Bailey is quite superstitious.”

  “Big Jack Bailey is a fool.”

  Jenny didn’t contradict him. Instead, she nodded toward the box that held the birthday gift Trace had commissioned for his daughter. “Thank goodness not everyone listens to rumors. I hope Emma likes the dress, although I must admit I am certain she will. Over the years I’ve sewn more young ladies’ frocks than I can count, and I believe this is one of my better designs.” Sincerity shone in her eyes as she added, “I want you to know, I do appreciate your support, Mr. McBride.”

  He felt the urge to hear his given name on her lips. But before he could open his mouth and ask her to call him Trace, better sense prevailed. Good God, what was he thinking? Domestic help simply didn’t call their employer by his first name. This is business, McBride. Business.

  A ball bounced in front of his face and he reached out and caught it. “You’re side-arming again, Maribeth,” he called, throwing the sphere back to his daughter. “Remember, come over the top.”

  As the girl practiced her throwing motion, Katrina asked, “Is it time to open presents, Papa? Emma can’t hardly wait.”

  It was obvious his youngest daughter was just as excited as the birthday girl herself, and Trace shared an amused glance with Jenny as he answered, “Almost Katie- cat. Let us finish up our cake, here, and then we’ll get to the important stuff. Is that all right with you, Emmie?”

  “Yes, Papa.” Emma rolled her eyes at the childish nickname she’d repeatedly asked him not to use.

  Trace chuckled as he looked at Jenny. Lowering his voice to where the girls couldn’t hear him, he said, “She’s growing up way too fast. They all are. But I’m sure she’ll love the dress.” He fingered the ribbon on the gaily wrapped package. “I regret I didn’t get down to see it before you had it all boxed up. I meant to, but seeing to my work while keeping those girls of mine in line has kept me moving so fast you’d swear I was twins.”

  Jenny laughed. “They have been a handful lately.”

  He scoffed. “Handful? I reckon you calling the McBride Menaces a handful is like me saying your business has fallen off. Speaking of which, I’d expected an invoice for the dress by now. You must have finished it some time ago.”

  Her gaze slid away from him. “I thought to ask you to apply it toward my rent. I guess I might as well go ahead and tell you, I’m going to be a little late with the rest of it.”

  Trace couldn’t ask for a better opening. He searched for a delicate way to put it, but ended up asking, “Having financial difficulties?”

  She nodded. “It’s only temporary, I’m sure. The Harvest Ball will be here before we know it. I feel certain that the ladies of Fort Worth will rethink their groundless fears when faced with attending the city’s premier fall event in last year’s ball gown.”

  “There’s a dressmaker in Dallas, isn’t there?”

  Jenny’s lips stretched into a grim line. She didn’t reply.

  Trace folded his arms and observed her. “Miss Fortune, this may be none of my business, but as your landlord, I believe I have a stake in the answer. That dance is what, two months away? That’s a pair of rent payments due, not to mention other details like food. Do you have enough to tide you over until then?”

  He saw the color creep up her cheeks. Squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, she said, “Thank you for your concern, Mr. McBride, but I think that’s a bit too personal of a question.”

  “No, actually it’s business. I have a proposition for you, and it would help for me to know just how bad a bind you’re in.”

  She grew deathly still. “A proposition?”

  “Yes. I have a problem, ma’am, and I think you are just the lady to solve it.” He captured her gaze, his own solemn and serious. Jenny’s eyes widened, then as he opened his mouth to speak, she jumped to her feet and began gathering the plates that lay scattered over the blanket.

  The girls snapped to attention like pups at feeding time. “You’re done!” Katrina cried, diving for the smallest package. “Emma, open mine first. Please, oh, please!”

  “She can’t, Kat. She promised me,” Maribeth stated as she lifted another box from the blanket.

  Frustration at the interruption swelled inside Trace. But then he saw the excitement shining in his daughters’ expressions and he knew his discussion with Jenny Fortune must wait. He put a stop to the bickering by stating in a firm voice, “Rest your mouths, women. I’m the father, I get to settle this.” He lifted his package and handed it to Emma. “Me first, Emmie. Please?”

  Jenny burst out laughing as Emma shook her head and said, “Papa you are so silly.” And then she was gasping, “Oh, Papa. It’s beautiful.”

  Emma was the picture of a young woman’s delight. She jumped to her feet, held the dress out for a good look, then brought it up to her shoulders to measure the size. “It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect. And so grown-up. Oh, Papa, how did you know to get me a dress?”

  Grown-up? He should have made time to go see the damned dress. Eyeing the calico with a skeptical eye, Trace shrugged and said, “I knew what you wanted for your birthday. I’m your father; these things come natural.”

  He ignored the smothered snort coming from the dressmaker.

  The festive atmosphere continued as Emma opened her sisters’ gifts. Family tradition dictated the presents between sisters be offerings of time and effort rather than objects purchased with coin. The practice had begun that first year when the McBrides fled home and family with little more than the clothes on their backs, and although Trace now made it a practice to buy his daughters’ birthday gifts, they continued the exchange of favors among the girls. From Maribeth, Emma received two weeks of dishwashing and a promise of a three-week respite from being begged to play ball. Katrina’s gift was bed making for o
ne week and the vow not to cry and embarrass her sister on the first day of school.

  Then it was Jenny’s turn to offer a gift. She lifted the package tied with hair ribbons and handed it to Emma with a smile and good wishes. Trace leaned forward, curious as to what the dressmaker had chosen. He’d been surprised earlier when he saw the package for his daughter ready and waiting on the shelf in her shop. Her thoughtfulness about Emma’s big day both touched him and reinforced his decision to hire Jenny Fortune to be a stand-in mother for the girls.

  “Be careful, now,” Jenny warned as Emma lifted the lid from the box. “It’s made for show rather than play.”

  “Oh, Miss Fortune!” Emma exclaimed, lifting the item from the box.

  Trace’s jaw gaped. “A doll? You gave her a doll?” He couldn’t believe it. That’s what he had wanted to give her, and Jenny Fortune had been the one to tell him not to do it. Of all the nerve. He folded his arms and scowled. “I can’t believe you gave her a doll.”

  The tolerant grin that appeared on her face ruffled his feathers even more. “It’s afashion doll, Mr. McBride. A dressmaker’s tool.”

  “See, Papa?” Emma said, fingering the tiny skirt of green foulard. “This is a model of a visiting dress.”

  “I made that one for Wilhemina Peters.” Gesturing toward the box, Jenny addressed Emma. “I included a few other samples if you’d like to study them and see how they’re put together.”

  “You gave her a dress-up doll with doll clothes,” Trace declared, the peevishness he was feeling seeping into his tone. Her doll was somehow all right for a twelve-year-old, but the baby doll he’d bought for Emma wasn’t?

  Jenny gave him a puzzled look, then said, “The doll and samples are just things to look at. My real gift to you, Emma, is similar in nature to your sisters’.” Leaning over, she removed a miniature pinafore from the box. “I’m offering to teach you how to make this, if you’d like.”

  “You’ll teach me how to sew?”

  Jenny nodded.

  “Just like a real mother,” Maribeth breathed.

  The words hung on the early evening air. “That’s it,” Trace said, standing abruptly. The time had come to get this matter settled. “Girls, I’d like to talk for a bit with Miss Fortune. Can y’all keep yourself occupied for a few minutes while we take a walk?”

  Emma and Maribeth exchanged a look Trace couldn’t quite interpret, and then the older girl said, “Certainly, Papa. You go on. I’d like to try the other costumes on the doll, and I’ll let Mari and Kat help me choose which ones.”

  Katrina stuck her thumb in her mouth and said, “No. I want to go with Papa.”

  Maribeth eyed her father, then said, “I’ll bet we could have seconds on cake if we stay behind.”

  Trace nodded, settling the question in everyone’s mind. Everyone’s but Miss Fortune’s, that is.

  She ignored his outstretched hand and bent her attention to brushing a nonexistent smear of dirt from her skirt. “It’s getting late, Mr. McBride. I think it would be best for us to head back to town.”

  He nodded. “We’ll go soon, I promise. But first, I’d enjoy a little walking and talking, and besides, the girls told me they left their shifts drying on a bush and we need to get them before we leave.” Reaching down, he grasped her hand and gently pulled her to her feet. She didn’t protest as he led her down the hill, back toward the creek and the swimming hole.

  Jenny had difficulty breathing. He was holding her hand, just like a suitor. She thought her heart must surely be lodged in her throat and her thoughts were in a whirl. She hadn’t been this nervous since Mother took up with that Italian following her third divorce from Richard.

  A proposition, he’d said. Not a proposal. But a proposition could be a proposal. Or, a proposition could be something less honorable. But Trace McBride appeared to be a man of honor. Didn’t he?

  Jenny couldn’t take the uncertainty anymore. Jerking her hand away, she planted her feet beside a large rock and blurted out, “What is this proposition, Mr. McBride? I want to know now, please.”

  He stopped, frowned, and rubbed the line of his jaw with his hand, and Jenny braced for the question she fully expected to come. What would she say if he declared his love? She didn’t love him, not yet. She thought she could grow to love him, but for now, what would she say?

  He hoisted himself onto the rock. “All right, Miss Fortune. I’ll come right out and speak what’s on my mind. Lately I’ve had problems controlling my girls.” He paused and his mouth twisted in a rueful smile. “But then you know that already, considering you near to beat me over the head with the fact.”

  Jenny nodded and plucked at the leaves of a sunflower that dipped across the path. Why didn’t he just get to the point?

  “Anyway, in the past few months we’ve gone through enough housekeepers to keep a palace up to snuff, and I’ve pretty well given up on the idea of a cook-and-clean type of woman to keep my daughters in line.” He propped one boot atop the rock and wrapped his arm around his bended knee. Flashing a grin, he added, “Guess they take after me more than I’d like.”

  “Mr. McBride,” she began, her voice pitched high with impatience.

  He ignored her interruption. “I realize I need more than a housekeeper. My girls need a mother.”

  That was it. Jenny closed her eyes and drew a breath. He’d marry to provide a mother for his children. He was saying it right out, no declaration of love or even affection, just the straight truth. She should feel relieved and appreciative of his honesty.

  Then why was she feeling insulted?

  Trace continued, “They need to have a woman they respect in their lives, a woman they’ll listen to and mind. And they need someone who can teach them how to be ladies. With Emmie getting older, it’s easier for me to understand that it’s something important and something that has been missing.”

  He paused for a moment and looked toward the creek, a pensiveness lingering in his eyes. Then he shrugged. “After our set-to the day my Menaces landed in jail, I got to thinking. You obviously care about my daughters, and they sure as hell care for you. They pay attention when you talk. You proved that earlier when you had that chat with Kat. And offering to teach Emma to sew is exactly the type of thing I’m looking for in a mother for my children.”

  Jenny’s nervousness faded with his speech, and before he finished, she was well on the way to vexed. She plucked the bloom from the stem, then tossed it away. Her pride had taken a direct hit. The receiving of a marriage proposal was an event a woman remembered for the rest of her life.

  It wouldn’t hurt the man to be a little more … romantic. He treated the moment like a business proposition.

  Trace McBride needed a reminder that she was a woman.

  Jenny thought of her mother. She recalled her own less-than-successful efforts at flirtation with this man just a few weeks ago. She’d always made it her practice to learn from her mistakes, and she believed herself better prepared this time.

  Subtly, she shifted her stance. Pulling her shoulders back, she leaned forward, toward him, her breasts brushing the boulder just beside his dangling leg. Then, she slowly, deliberately licked her lips.

  His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared slightly.

  A sense of power ripped through Jenny, and in a soft, seductive tone, she stated, “Then I guess you do need a woman, don’t you, Mr. McBride.”

  His gaze fastened on her mouth, he slowly said, “Uh- huh.”

  Jenny knew a triumphant grin would ruin it, so she firmly squelched the urge. Instead, she sent Monique a silent message of thanks for having imparted the intricacies of such a useful skill as flirting.

  In a barely audible voice, Trace repeated, “Oh, yes.”

  He closed his eyes, shook himself, and slid down from the rock. He stepped a few feet down the path before he stopped and turned.

  His gaze was direct and emotionless, his voice brisk and businesslike. “I want your help with my daughters. I’m willing to fo
rego your rent and pay you ten dollars a week.”

  Jenny swallowed abruptly. “Excuse me?”

  Sunlight highlighted streaks of red in Trace’s dark hair as he shrugged and said, “I think it’s a fair wage considering you won’t be doing any household chores. I might be willing to negotiate a bit, but you need to keep in mind that I’m not made of money.”

  Silence hung between them, broken only by the trill of a mockingbird perched in a nearby oak. Something wasn’t right here. Not even an unconventional man like Trace McBride would use the word “wage” in a marriage proposal. She searched his expression for a clue to his thoughts, but he might as well have been playing poker for all she could tell.

  Suddenly, she had enough of his posturing. The rate he was going, they’d be here until dark. “Are you, or are you not, trying to ask me something, Mr. McBride?”

  He nodded, reached for her hand once more, and pulled her down the path toward the creek. “I realize this idea might strike you as strange at first. Folks usually take other avenues to reach an agreement like this. But if you’ll just give it a chance, I’m sure you’ll see the arrangement has its merits. Don’t forget that a little earlier you confessed you’d have trouble making the rent.”

  He gave her a sidelong look, waiting. When she nodded, he continued. “Well, throwing in with us would solve that particular problem. And considering the state your business is in, you should be grateful to have the work.”

  The idea of charging his wife rent was bad enough, but the reference to Fortune’s Design poured salt into a wound. “Job?” She lifted her chin. “Well, I don’t doubt that marriage to you would be a job, but let me tell you right up front, Trace McBride, no one is going to make me close my business.”

  “Marriage!” The word exploded from his mouth and his boots kicked up a small cloud of dust as he backed away from the threat. “Who the hell said anything about marriage?”

  “You did,” she snapped.

  “I did not,” he scoffed. “I never will. I’ll never marry again. The very idea makes me want to lose my dinner.” He marched the last few feet to the creek. Swiping two of the white cotton shifts from the branches of a bush, he reached for the third, then stopped dead cold. “Good God, Miss Fortune. Surely you didn’t think I was asking you to marry me!”