by Jillian Hart
“I want you to stop worrying. You’re not alone. Not anymore.” Tenderness hid in the layers of voice, a tenderness she must be imagining. “Now that you and I are engaged, at least as far as your father is concerned, he will not be trying to hand you over to the next man who comes along.”
“I do not intend to marry you.”
“You can go to school, spend time with your friends, sew to your heart’s content.” He tucked the ledger into her coat pocket. “Hide that. Add to it. When you’re ready, I will help you go. Wouldn’t it be better if you left with a job waiting and someone looking out for you?”
“I don’t need you, McPherson.”
“Aye, I see that. But I need you.” There he went, tricking her with his tenderness and kindness.
He could not be telling the truth. She backed away from him. “I sincerely doubt that. What about the land? That’s why you came and that’s why you are saying these things.”
“Wrong.” He drew himself upright, steeling his spine and setting his jaw. His tenderness vanished, leaving behind a formidable man, one who looked strong enough to defeat any foe. “Fiona, I didn’t come back for the land. That was not the true reason I am here. I will vow it on a stack of Bibles if you want me to. I vow it on my honor.”
“You don’t want to marry me?”
“Now, I never said that. But marriage between us always has and always will be your choice, pretty girl.” He cupped her face with the curve of his hand, tenderness real and tangible, not imagined. The sweetest longing spilled up from her soul. Everything within her wanted to believe him. She squeezed her eyes shut, and the image of the man remained etched in her mind. As did the caring chiseled into his stony features, and his concern reaching out as if to rope her in.
When she opened her eyes, he hadn’t moved. In his secondhand coat, rumpled shirt and trousers he did not at all look the horrible man he that she wanted him to be.
A friendly meow filled the silence between them. A furry paw reached down from the rafter above and batted at Ian’s hat. His buttery chuckle warmed the cold air, and his amusement beat at her falling defenses.
“Hello to you, too,” he crooned to the cat. “Come to see if there’s any milk, have you?”
Mally’s answering meow left no doubt, and while the feline tossed a glance Fiona’s way, it was a mere glance, nothing more.
“You have gone and stolen my cat,” she accused. “I don’t think I shall ever forgive you, Ian.”
“At least you are using my first name, lass. It is an improvement.” He batted playfully at Mally’s paw. The cat, apparently thrilled, grabbed hold of his rafter and reached down to wrestle with Ian properly.
“It’s not an improvement. Simply resignation.” It was easier to let him think she still loathed him than admit the truth. She grabbed a small pail from the nearby shelf. “As you insist on playing, I’ll get started on your work.”
“I left Duchess standing in the doorway.” He chuckled again, dodging the cat’s attempts to knock his hat off. “I’ll take care of her, don’t you worry.”
“You are hardly trustworthy.” She let the mare scent her hand. Once the beautiful mare nodded in greeting, she dared to run her fingers over the rich velvety nose. Softer than it looked, she marveled. “You are like the finest satin.”
Duchess nickered low in her throat with great dignity and dipped her nose in the bucket. Her lustrous red coat seemed to gleam, as if holding light of its own. Breathtaking to be so close to her. She was perfection. Not the kind of horse you leave standing. No, judging by the perturbed look, Duchess was used to immediate attention. She stomped her foot, not at all pleased to find the bucket empty.
“It’s hot water I’ll be fetching for you. I suppose you are used to your oats warm,” she told the mare, fully aware of Ian coming closer. The nerves on her nape tingled in warning at his approach.
“That would be kind of you, lass.” His warm breath fanned across the back of her neck. His hand landed next to hers on Duchess’s silken nose. “I have left her too long already. She’s used to receiving all of my regard.”
“Poor Duchess.” Fiona sympathized. “It must be hard to endure so much of Ian.”
The mare tossed her head up and down as if in perfect agreement.
“I guess that puts me in my place.”
His chuckle followed her out into the bitter cold; she couldn’t rightly say she was running from it. Just as it was not his warm, cozy company she would be missing. It was not the promise of hearing his laughter again that had her hurrying down the path toward the shanty’s glowing window.
At least, that’s what she told herself.
A strange power had overtaken him, there was no denying it. Ian ran his hands down Duchess’s legs, checking knee and fetlock and hoof. No warm spots, no swelling, nothing out of the ordinary. Everything his grandfather had taught him about horse care was ingrained, and as he lowered the mare’s hoof onto his knee to check her shoe, the old man could have been with him, standing as he always did with a bit of advice to offer. Fine when Ian was a six-year-old, but how it had annoyed him as a teenage boy.
Warm memories curled around him like his grandfather’s loving presence used to. He almost glanced over his shoulder to see if the older gentleman stood there. Impossible, of course, his grandfather had been gone a full year, but perhaps he was looking down from heaven. And if he was, would he be glad of what he saw? Relieved he was falling for the granddaughter of his best childhood friend? Or would he be ashamed of her circumstances?
Duchess blew out a breath through her lips, a sort of horsey huff. How long had he been kneeling here, with her hoof in his hand? Ian blinked. He had no notion how much time had passed.
“Sorry, girl.” He eased her hoof to the ground and straightened. Duchess forgave him with a low, affectionate nicker.
The barn door creaked open, and Fiona waltzed in. He would have liked to say that his every sense wasn’t attuned to the woman. But no matter how hard he tried, his ears picked up the light, padding rhythm of her boots on the ground and the rustle of her skirts.
The animals turned toward her. Flannigan whinnied in welcome and the cow lowed mournfully. Even Duchess watched with eagerness, and he was able to rise and brush the straw from his trousers as if he were too busy to notice the change in the air or in his heart. Fiona murmured low to the animals. Her sweet voice could melt the frost on the walls.
Aye, it was a strange influence she had over him, but not an unwelcome one. He laid his hand on his mare’s neck to lead her gently, wordlessly to her stall. Duchess trusted him, walking confidently beside him, but her attention, too, remained on the dark-haired dream of a woman in her green gingham dress as she stooped to pet the cat eagerly curving about her heels.
Lord, I am trusting where You lead me, that this will all be well in the end. He had to turn to prayer, because he could not see. It was like standing at a crossroads in the dark. Trails led off in many directions, and there was no way to know what lay ahead or which was the one that would bring him home. There were no dreams here to be had; he had more money to earn if he were to buy the deed from O’Rourke, and that would be no easy path. Fiona despised him, and that would not change. He did not miss the difference in her, now that she understood his cause. She sparkled, her step was light, happiness warmed her voice as she stopped to rub Flannigan’s nose and explain the hot mash was not for him. The horse leaned into her touch, closing his eyes. When she skipped away, he leaned after her, yearning for more than he could have.
Aye, he knew how Flannigan felt. The light pad of her step and the scrape of the bucket as it landed on the barrel top—every movement she made glanced through him. He could not say why she was dear to him, only that he was alone in that regard. His feelings would never be returned. Aye, he did not need to be a genius to know this. When he ambled close to her, her brightness dimmed as if she were drawing herself in. Clearly whatever friendship they’d had was damaged. Perhaps beyond repair.
“Thank you for bringing the water.” He prayed no wounded feelings crept into his voice. He pried the lid up and stirred oats into the few inches of water. Fiona had thought to leave a spoon in the bottom of the pail, so he stirred, the scraping filling the silence between them when she did not answer.
Aye, there would be no easy laughter between them again. He was sorry for it, too. More than he ever wanted to admit. He gave the plumping oats a final stir. “I’ll finish up the chores if you want to go in where it’s warm.”
“You have invaded my haven.” She scooped up the cat in her arms, cradling him like a baby. “Now I must choose between spending time in the shanty with my parents or out here with you.”
“Sounds like a difficult choice, lass.” He wagered she might think so. He lifted the pail, crossing the aisle with a limping gait. “I’m sorry if I’m the least of two bad choices.”
“You are not the worst choice.”
Was that a grin threatening to tug upward at the corners of her mouth? He could not be sure. Maybe it was his hope making him see what wasn’t there. He lowered the bucket over the stall gate and held it as Duchess dunked her nose in and lapped at the good food daintily. The other horses pricked their ears and scented the air, straining against their doors, hoping for the same. Flannigan nickered. Riley kicked the wall. The cow mooed sadly.
“Where did you get that coat?” She watched him through narrowed eyes. There was no telling what the lass was thinking, but she made a pretty sight, caressed by the lantern light, her curls tumbling out of her braids and with the cat in her arms.
His fingers itched for his pen and paper. She made a pretty picture, but it was more than drawing her image he yearned for. He wanted to memorize the perfect angle of her cheek, to etch into his soul the sight of her gentle spirit. He was a sorry cause, pining after her so. He focused on the horse in front of him. The mare, done with her oats, licked the bottom of the pail harder and gazed at him with her liquid brown eyes in protest.
“There will be more tomorrow, don’t you worry.” He rubbed her poll, laughing when she bumped her forehead against his palm, wanting more adoration. He felt Fiona’s gaze and the question behind it. “Are you still pitying the horse, lass?”
“Something like it. You two have a deep bond.”
“Aye. I helped see Duchess into the world. Her dam was my first horse. I was a boy, hardly school age when my ma and I came to stay with my grandparents. She was my first great responsibility, the gentling and training up of her.”
“You did not do too badly.”
“Perhaps it was the quality of the horse more than the one who raised her.” He could not disguise the pride as he gave his mare one final rub. “She’s the best of the best.”
“I’ll not argue that.” She set the cat on the stall railing, and he sauntered away, still purring. Perhaps she watched her feline because it was easier, pretending there was distance between them. “You didn’t mention your father. He must have been there, too.”
“Pa found being a husband and father difficult. He tried, but he could never settle down.” He did not mention the long stretches where they had not known where his father was. How Ma would fret and cry with worry, with no money left to buy bread and staples. How she could cry with heartbreak late in the night when she thought him asleep. He’d been a little guy, but he had been old enough to know his father was a man who loved only himself. “My mother was happier living on the estate, but she died a time later in childbirth.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you lost your ma.” She hesitated outside the bright pond of light, as if unsure to stay away or come close.
“It was a long time ago. The Lord made sure I was not alone. My grandparents raised me, and I could not have asked for better.”
“What about your grandmother? You must miss her.”
“Aye. I sent her a telegram but there has been no news in return. I worry about her.” He set the bucket on the floor next to others needing to be washed. “She has been frail enough since Grandfather’s passing, but she is happy and well cared for.”
“Can she travel?”
“The doctor says only by rail. Which poses a problem, as I do not have that kind of cash, unless I sell the rest of what I have.”
“Do you mean Duchess?” She eased into the fall of light, knowing she risked him seeing what she feared was on her face—sympathy, no matter how hard she tried not to care at all. “You don’t want to sell her because she was a gift from your grandfather.”
“I am surprised you can see that much of me.”
“It is not that difficult. You are not such a mystery.”
“I suppose not.” When his smile played across the contours of his mouth, dimples cut into his cheeks. “She is my prize mare, but there are others. I managed to keep a dozen brood mares from the clutches of the creditors.”
“They were what you spoke of, the hopes to rebuild what was lost.” She didn’t know what drew her toward him, only that he fascinated her. He, with his lost hopes and family; she knew what it was like to be left with broken dreams and no one to comfort you. “Is it true what you told me, about selling your things?”
“I have told you nothing but the truth.”
“And you are staying to help me when your grandmother needs you, too?”
“When you put it that way, I sound like a terrible grandson.” He swiped at a lock of hair falling rebelliously into his eyes. It would be easy to imagine him a prince in a fairy tale, with his handsome charm and steel integrity.
No, she did not think him such a horrible man. Not anymore. Not at all.
“I didn’t have it in me to leave you, Fee. Good friends are with Nana, so she is cared for. But you. You have no one to care for you.” He stopped, his face growing stony and impossible to read.
“Those things you sold, that could have been money to help your grandmother. Yet you spent it for me.” She wasn’t aware of crossing the aisle; suddenly she was close enough to feel the weight of his regret.
“I do not feel the money was wasted.”
“That coat is terrible. It is worn and patched.” She cleared her throat but the emotion remained, revealing.
“It was what I could afford.” He did not sound sorry.
“When you come in for supper, leave it in the kitchen.” Her chin came up; she stepped back, putting distance between them once more. “I will mend that tear when I’m through with the dishes. You cannot leave it like that. The rip will only get worse.”
“That’s thoughtful of you.”
“No, it is not.” Emotions deepened her blue irises, ones that looked both soft and ready to fight him. “If you are going to come to church with me on Sunday, then I cannot have you embarrassing me.”
“I understand.” He saw that she no longer hated him. It was something. A quiet gift in the silence between them on this cold winter’s night. She spun on her heel and took the light with her. When she paused in the doorway, she stole the last pieces of his heart.
“Don’t think this changes anything between you and me,” she warned.
“No worries, lass.”
When she left him alone in the barn, it was without hope. Some loves in life were never to be.
Chapter Thirteen
Ian was shivering. Even through the steady snowfall, she could see him trembling on the other side of the sled seat. Ma sat between them, well bundled and staring straight ahead, not overly concerned about the man driving them to church. She wouldn’t be. Ma did not like Ian. Whatever agreement he had reached with Da had not made her parents happy.
But she could not forget how thin the fabric when she had mended the tear in his coat or all that he had told her. I came back to help you
find a better life. I do not think I can go back to my own unless I know you are safe and well. Only the good Lord above knows why.
The Bible cradled in her hands felt reassuring and troubling at once. Snow lashed at her face, burning her exposed cheeks and nose with its needlelike iciness. But she was comfortable enough in her coat, layers of flannel and wool, and with the old blanket draped over her and Ma for extra warmth. At least her teeth were not chattering as Ian’s were. What would the book she held have to say about his sacrifice? Or her hard-set determination against him?
The church sped into sight, its spire reaching up into the hazy snow. Families tumbled out of sleighs or walked along the street toward the church. Little kids, warmly bundled, skipped ahead of their parents, or trailed behind, being gently reprimanded either way. She tried not to notice the patient manner in which Ian directed Flannigan, who was distracted by all the excitement, and the way he guided him to a stop at an available hitching post.
“Ladies.” Ian stood to help Ma from the sled. Ma refused his hand with a huff. The way she did it, chin up and a frown darkening her face, was a shocking reminder.
Hadn’t she treated him the same way days earlier? Shame filled her. Had she been that coldhearted to him? The man was suffering in the temperatures without complaint. What did it say about him that he offered her his hand, knowing how she felt? Did he expect her to act like her mother again? There was no sign of it on his face as he waited with quiet dignity, palm up.
Surely he deserved better from her. It went against the grain to lay her hand in his, to willingly accept what he offered. It was more than a gentleman’s manners, much more, and as his fingers closed around hers, she felt the catch of it deep within her soul, like recognizing like.
I do not want to care for him, she thought, but it did no good. Her shoes sank in the snow and her hand remained tucked in his. Snow sifted around them like grace, like peace everlasting, forcing her to see with the eyes of her heart. How tall and straight he stood, as if no hardship was big enough to break him. His grip on her hand was both binding and reverent, protective but not overbearing as he guided her out of the ice. When he released her, she felt sorely alone although he was a mere foot away, tethering Flannigan’s rope.