Calico Ball

by Kelly, Carla

Mirabelle pushed out a breath. She was about to eat leftover lunch because she hadn’t the luxury of making herself a meal. This wasn’t quite what she’d imagined when she’d pictured a home and family of her own. She’d never been invited to eat with Quinn or his father during their morning or noontime meals. She ate her dinner in the dining room, mostly so she could sit for a few minutes, but neither of the men talked to her.

  She took a fresh fork from the utensil drawer and returned to the cold plate of bread and gravy on the counter. She stood there, alone, eating her hand-me-down meal.

  She’d known this wasn’t a marriage of love, that she was there to work and help around the house. She hadn’t expected immediate tenderness or affection, but she had anticipated being appreciated and shown a little kindness. She needed at least that.

  “Pull yourself together, Mirabelle. This melancholy mood is not like you.”

  She was nervous was all—nervous and a little overwhelmed.

  Heavy footsteps announced Quinn’s arrival without the necessity of looking back to see him.

  “Da didn’t know about the cakes,” he said.

  But once he did know, he didn’t care. Neither of these men did. Heavens, she was struggling to shake this gloom. She took another bite of the cold, now-unappetizing meal.

  “He is an old man,” Quinn continued. “He hasn’t a lot of pleasures in life. The cakes are a small thing, really.”

  Except it wasn’t about the cakes. Reaching out to these would-be friends was the only thing she had done for herself in the week she’d been in Wyoming. It was her first chance for connection and companionship, an opportunity to find people she could matter to. It was a bit of hope she’d offered herself, and it was slipping away.

  “I haven’t a lot of pleasures in my life either, Quinn. Having friends over for tea and cakes was meant to be one of them.”

  “What time are the ladies arriving?” Quinn didn’t sound overjoyed at the prospect. But he’d agreed to it, and she had lost enough battles that day.

  She took a breath and firmly grasped her optimism once more. All would go well. She was determined it would. “They’ll be here at one o’clock.”

  “It is one o’clock now.”

  For the first time since he arrived, she looked back in his direction, but her gaze slid past him, through the doorway, to the clock just visible on the mantel in the parlor. It was, indeed, one o’clock. She hadn’t even smoothed out her hair or brushed her dress.

  So much for lunch. Mirabelle moved quickly to the scrap bucket and scraped the remainder of her meal into it. She had her apron off and hanging on its peg in a trice. Quinn all but blocked the doorway. She was forced to pause in front of him.

  “Da really didn’t know about the cakes,” he said.

  Find a reason to feel encouraged. Search out a silver lining. “I appreciate that he didn’t do it intentionally. Next time, I’ll be certain to warn him so we’ll not have this difficulty again.”

  Quinn gave one of his quick nods. That, she’d discovered, could mean anything from “hello” to “I agree” to “I’m sure you just said something, but I wasn’t really listening.”

  In that moment, she needed more than that from him. She needed a kind word, a bit of appreciation, someone to lean on while she regained her own strength.

  She needed to not feel so alone.

  Mirabelle’s guests had arrived a half hour earlier or so. That had been Quinn’s cue to do some work away from the house. He didn’t begrudge her the company. He simply wasn’t keen on having visitors himself. She could have her bit of socializing; he would stick to his work.

  “’Tis a regular hen party in there, it is.”

  Da had obviously come into the barn, though Quinn hadn’t heard him enter. Quinn hadn’t his father’s knack for moving about quietly.

  Da pulled up a tall stool and sat nearby. “So much chatter in the house just now. You’d think a colony of magpies had nested in the chimney.”

  “Women do like to talk.” Quinn kept at his work. Da didn’t come out to the barn often, and Quinn was glad to see him there, but he’d learned over the past four years that if he made much of a fuss over Da’s doing anything other than his usual quiet contemplation, the man got himself into a huff and retreated ever further.

  “That woman of yours sure beats all, she does. Either talking a body’s ear off or silent as the grave. Never anything in between.”

  That was a fair description of Mirabelle. Quinn still wasn’t sure what to make of her.

  “I haven’t asked you since you kindly informed me of her existence the morning she was due to arrive,” Da said, “but I mean to ask m’ question now.”

  Quinn looked up from his saddle and directly into Da’s piercing and determined gaze.

  “Why’d you do it?” Da asked.

  “Do what?”

  Da came noticeably close to rolling his eyes. “Don’t act like I’ve no more brains than a rock. You know perfectly well what I’m asking you.”

  “I married for the same reason any man does,” Quinn said. “I needed a woman around the house. The place’s been falling to bits with just the two of us.”

  “That, son, is why a man hires a maid. It’s not reason enough to marry.”

  Quinn looked over at Da. “How quickly you’ve forgotten what’s happened every time we’ve hired a maid up to the house. Just as soon as we get one accustomed to our ways and preferences, some bloke swoops in and marries her. That’s how it is around here. So few women, so many men in need of one. This was a better solution.”

  “’Tis a fool’s solution, lad. You don’t marry a woman because you need someone to clean your house and cook your meals, but because you love her, because she’s everything in the world to you.”

  Quinn shook his head in exasperation. “And where was I to find this love of my life, Da? In town? You can count on your own fingers the number of unwed women within fifty miles of here, and there’s not a one of them I could live under the same roof with and not want to throttle her within a week.”

  Da folded his arms across his chest. “How do you know you won’t end up at daggers drawn with this woman just as you would with those others?”

  Quinn couldn’t know that, not for sure. “A marriage arranged by telegram is less complicated.” It was the explanation he’d given himself many times over. “Neither of us have any expectations of affection or attentiveness. Any woman I courted into a marriage would expect both of those things.”

  Da didn’t express any relief or agreement with Quinn’s logic. Did he really need to be even more specific?

  “All I expect from Mirabelle is a clean house, food on the table, and help with the work around here. All she expects from me is a roof over her head, shoes on her feet, and food to eat. We understand each other. This way is less complicated.”

  “I suspect neither of you will be satisfied with your ‘less-complicated’ arrangement for long. ’Tis a painful thing, realizing you’ll never have what you truly want.”

  Da could have been talking about himself as much as anyone. He’d courted and married a woman he loved to distraction, and now he was left without the person he truly wanted. He’d been rendered old beyond his years, alone and broken, spending his days lost in memories. No. Quinn’s way was best.

  The sound of approaching hooves and the turning of wagon wheels brought an end to their discussion. They moved to the barn doors in time to identify the arrival. Horace Franklin.

  “Here to collect his woman, no doubt,” Da said.

  Horace’s new wife had arrived on the same train as Mirabelle and was one of her guests. Quinn crossed to his wagon just as he climbed down. They shook hands and exchanged the usual brief greeting, followed by comments on the herds and conditions as they walked toward the house.

  Quinn opened the door, and Da and Horace stepped inside. The women were sitting around the parlor, sewing, but looked up as the men came in. The black-haired woman’s eyes settled immediately
on Horace, and her lips turned up in an almost besotted smile. Quinn glanced at his neighbor to find a nearly identical look on his face.

  They’d not known each other any longer than Quinn and Mirabelle had, and their marriage had been arranged in the same way. Why, then, did the two of them look so lovey-dovey?

  “Are you ready to come home, Jane?” Horace asked, his tone solicitous and gentle in a way Quinn was not accustomed to hearing. Horace wasn’t an ornery sort by any means, but he was usually as unsentimental as Quinn himself.

  “Oh, yes, of course.” Jane gathered her sewing. Horace moved to where she sat and helped her put the fabric scraps into her basket. The two of them repeatedly glanced at each other, smiling a little, lingering over the moments when their eyes met.

  Horace Franklin has gone and lost his wits.

  With her sewing basket arranged and packed, Jane rose from her chair. Horace seemed to remember himself and turned to address Mirabelle’s other guest.

  “Marcus asked me to fetch you home as well,” he said.

  Mirabelle helped gather that lady’s things. Horace and Jane were too busy whispering something to each other. Quinn leaned against the rock fireplace, oddly fascinated by the whole thing. He’d seen men act lovesick before—heaven knew his da had invented that state of being—but he’d never before seen a man lose his head in a matter of days over a mail-order wife.

  Mirabelle walked out with her new friends to the waiting wagon, though Jane hardly needed the company. Horace hadn’t moved so much as an inch from her side. The man was lost on her. Quinn inwardly shook his head. If Horace didn’t keep his wits about him, he’d end up a broken man, just like Da.

  Quinn watched the women bid farewell to one another. They hugged a great deal and waved as Horace’s wagon rolled around the bend and out of sight. Mirabelle returned to the house, though with a look of regret.

  Her disappointment pricked at him. “Did your visit not go well?”

  “It was very pleasant,” she said. “They said there’s to be a calico ball. They both seemed to know what that was, but I’ve never heard the term before.”

  He folded his arms across his chest, leaning against the fireplace. “It’s a tradition hereabouts—a town social where the menfolk wear their working clothes instead of their finest and the womenfolk make themselves ordinary dresses from plain fabrics instead of silks and satins and the fancier togs a lady might usually wear to a dance.”

  “A dance?” Her face lit at the word. The eagerness he’d seen in her expression that first day as she’d surveyed the town returned in full force. “There’ll be dancing?”

  “There’s always dancing. Will, who works here, and Sam, who you’ve met, play the fiddle and guitar. Another man plays the accordion. The three of them keep the calico ball lively.”

  “With dancing?” The answer seemed to matter to her.

  “A whole evening of it.”

  She sighed, the sound one of pure joy. “Dancing. I’ve always wanted to—” She stopped abruptly, her thoughts seemed to have gone elsewhere very quickly.

  Quinn had no trouble filling in the gap. She’d always wanted to go to a dance . . . to dance with someone. “Have you never danced before?”

  “Not ever,” she admitted.

  He’d danced now and then at the calico balls over the years and at other sociables. He couldn’t say he was particularly adept; his size alone made his attempts at anything graceful extremely awkward.

  “I’m something of a lumbering buffalo when I dance. I prefer leaving the doing of it to others.”

  Her smile slipped. “Do you not mean to attend the calico ball?”

  “I’ll take you, if you’re wanting to go.” He’d no objections to that.

  Her brow pulled ever lower. “But you won’t dance?”

  “Believe me, you’d rather I didn’t.”

  A hesitant little smile tugged at her mouth. “I don’t know how to dance at all. You can’t possibly be worse than I am.”

  “Is that a challenge?”

  Her amusement grew. “One I look forward to.”

  He felt an odd tug as he watched her move into the kitchen, an unexpected urge to follow her, no matter that he had chores aplenty waiting for him.

  She did her work and he did his; that was their arrangement. Yet he found, in that moment, he was tempted to remain with her and try to make her smile again.

  Mirabelle hadn’t broached the topic of dancing in the days since laughing with Quinn about it, but the hope of attending her first dance had grown in the silence. She “practiced” in her room at night, though she had only a vague idea what she was doing. While going about her work during the day, she let herself imagine dancing at the calico ball. Despite his protestations of gracelessness, despite theirs being an arrangement of convenience rather than affection, it was Quinn who quite specifically filled her imaginings.

  So preoccupied were her thoughts that she nearly plowed into the mountain of a man early one morning as she made her way to the chicken coop.

  “Your thoughts seem miles away,” he said.

  “Miles and miles.” That wasn’t exactly true. Her thoughts had been on him, and he was standing right next to her. “What’re you seeing to this morning?”

  “Snow’s early this year. I have to make sure the coop’ll hold up if the winter’s long.”

  He stood with a thumb hooked through his tool belt, hat sitting a little crooked on his head. The picture he made standing there set her heart fluttering. Quinn was a fine-looking man. She’d thought so from the very first. He also showed no interest in anything more personal between them than they currently had. She’d do well to remember that.

  “Halloo!”

  Mirabelle turned at the unfamiliar voice. A man, not much older than she was, with dark, wavy hair and a day’s worth of stubble, sauntered toward them. Even in the dim light of sunset, Mirabelle could see he was exactly the devastatingly handsome kind of man that women couldn’t help noticing.

  The newcomer’s eyes settled on her, and he slipped off his hat, holding it in his hands as he nodded in acknowledgment. “Ma’am,” he greeted respectfully.

  She smiled back at him but found her tongue a little tied. She’d never been shy before. Why was it a ridiculously handsome face could do that to an otherwise intelligent woman?

  “Mirabelle,” Quinn said, “this is Trevor Clark, one of the ranch hands. Trev, this is my wife, Mirabelle.”

  The tiniest hint of emphasis he placed on the word wife pulled her eyes to him. Had he issued a warning or a reminder? And was it meant for her or Trevor? She didn’t see any signs of jealousy or concern. She’d likely heard more in his tone than had been there.

  “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Quinn,” Trevor said.

  Mirabelle held out her hand to shake. “And you, Mr. Clark.”

  “Trevor,” he corrected. He glanced at Quinn. Something passed between them, and Trevor finally shook her outstretched hand.

  “What brings you around?” Quinn asked.

  “Sam’s got a leak in the roof of his place. Are you free to come help with the patching and some repairs in the barn?”

  Quinn gave a firm and immediate nod.

  Trevor turned his Adonis smile on Mirabelle. “This might put your supper off schedule.”

  Mirabelle was so unaccustomed to being taken into consideration that, for a moment, she could do nothing but stare at him. She managed to recover her voice and thanked him for his concern but assured him she didn’t begrudge the havoc to her schedule.

  “After all the repairs are finished, you and Will and Mr. Carpenter can come back here for dinner.” Mirabelle made the invitation casually, though she truly hoped it was accepted. The one thing she’d enjoyed about working at the railway station was the chance to talk to people. She’d had almost none of that since coming to live here.

  Trevor smiled warmly. “I shouldn’t speak for Will or Sam, but I will anyway. We’ll none of us turn down a
n offer of a well-cooked meal.”

  “How do you know it’ll be well cooked?” she asked with a laugh.

  “You could burn it to a crisp, and I’ll still enjoy it.”

  She pretended to be relieved. “I was planning to char it pretty thoroughly.”

  He laughed deep from the belly, the kind of laugh that shook a person’s shoulders.

  “Off with you, Trev,” Quinn said. “Tell Sam I’ll be by in a spell.”

  Trevor tipped his head to her, then to Quinn, and turned and walked away.

  “He seems like a nice, sociable sort of fellow,” Mirabelle said.

  “Yeah, Trev’s just dandy.” That was a dry tone if ever Mirabelle heard one. Quinn was making a thorough examination of the coop’s roof.

  “Don’t you like him?”

  “Do you?” he asked.

  A strange question. “Well, based on the thirty seconds I’ve known him, he seems friendly.”

  Quinn muttered, “Too friendly.”

  Well, if he meant to be a grump, she’d let him, but she wasn’t going to stand around listening to it. She had a meal to plan and company to prepare for. He joined her a few minutes later in the kitchen.

  “Was there something you needed?” she asked.

  “Why did you invite Trevor over for dinner?” He didn’t look angry, but he appeared to want an answer.

  “I invited them because Will and Trevor work for you and Sam’s your neighbor, and—” She stopped, not ready to admit more.

  “And what?” he pressed.

  “And we’ve not had any visitors since Jane and Caroline. I’ve been a little lonely. It will be nice having someone talk to me.”

  Beneath his confusion she saw the earliest hint of pity. That she couldn’t bear.

  She turned away and pulled a chair over to the cupboard. The pan she needed for dinner was on a high shelf. She climbed onto the chair, her heart thudding a little—even such a small height as this made her a bit nervous. Keeping her focus on the pan, she reached into the cupboard.

  Quinn crossed the room to her. Standing on a chair like she was made her a little taller than he was—a decidedly odd position.