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

by Geralyn Dawson

  Damn. I won’t think that way. I won’t.

  “What am I going to do to you?” he repeated, beginning to pace the room. “Well, I reckon that’s a good question.” He didn’t have a clue, actually. The girls had already cleaned the place from top to bottom. He’d have to get creative with his punishment. He rubbed the back of his neck, saying, “If your Miss Fortune hadn’t stepped in, I’d have left y’all in jail.”

  Maribeth looked at Emma and rolled her eyes.

  Trace set his teeth. He didn’t scare them one little bit. Maybe it was time to see if someone else could put the fear of God into them. “As it is, I reckon I’ll turn you over to the folks most inconvenienced by your actions.”

  It took a moment for Emma and Maribeth to catch on. When they did, Emma murmured, “Oh,” and hung her head. Maribeth cried, “Aw, Papa, you can’t!”

  He smiled. “C’mon, girls. It’s time to pay a visit to Sister Gonzaga.”

  THE PACKAGE on the shelf was wrapped in plain brown paper but tied with hair ribbons in nine different colors. Next to it sat a dress box containing a young woman’s gown made of calico, designed with a careful eye and sewn with loving stitches. Today was Emma McBride’s birthday.

  Jenny hadn’t seen the girls except in passing for the past ten days, ever since the clash with their father upstairs. “Talk about Town” reported that their time was divided between the Catholic and Baptist churches, doing odd jobs and for the most part staying out of trouble. She hoped for Mr. McBride’s sake that was true. He’d certainly appeared at the end of his patience when he stormed into the parlor that memorable afternoon.

  She could empathize with the feeling. She was reaching the end of her own patience with the superstitious citizens of Fort Worth.

  With every day that passed, the outlook for Fortune’s Design grew bleaker. Nothing she tried made a difference. She’d cut her prices and placed an advertisement in the Democratto alert customers to the change. She’d had broadsides printed and passed out to people on the streets. She’d attended every pie supper, quilting bee, and church social in town, but no one appeared willing to take the risk of wearing a Jenny Fortune design.

  Her gaze drifted to the ribbon-wrapped box. Except for Trace McBride, that is. He had not canceled his order for Emma’s dress. Neither had the Widow Sperry, bless her soul.

  Jenny had work to do today because of that kind lady. The last order on her book was a cool-weather dress in black bombazine. Rilda Bea Sperry, an elderly woman whose wealth was the direct result of having married and buried four husbands, had scoffed at the idea of being felled by bad luck if she patronized Fortune’s Design. As she happily proclaimed while ordering the gown, what some perceived as bad luck, others knew to be a windfall. Jenny wished Fort Worth had more people like her.

  Before the latest Bailey bride’s mishap and the subsequent mention of the Bad Luck Wedding Dress in the Democrat Jenny had been forced to turn away work. Nowadays if her shop’s welcome bell rang at all it was more likely a gust of wind than a customer. Even the McBride girls hadn’t shown their faces inside the store since the trouble with the nuns’ horses.

  The McBride girls. Jenny wondered how the drama upstairs had ended. Their father had been so upset, so angry. She’d have changed her opinion of the man entirely had she not seen his concern for his daughters and sensed his grief for his wife. It must be exceedingly difficult for a man to raise three daughters alone. Look at all the trouble her own father had encountered, and there had been only one of her.

  She fluffed out the bombazine, eyed the length of hem yet to be sewn, then resumed her stitching. She really shouldn’t try to compare Trace McBride and her father. The saloonkeeper wasn’t anything like Richard Fortune.

  Lucky for the McBride girls.

  Jenny dropped her needle at the mean-spirited thought. Guilt rolled over her in waves. Richard Fortune wasn’t a bad father, not at all. He simply expended so much energy on his science and her mother—the two great loves of his life—that there wasn’t a lot left over for his daughter. She understood; she truly did.

  There wasn’t a doubt in Jenny’s mind that her father cared deeply for her. He always wanted what was best for her. Why, the argument that had led to her parents’ second divorce had begun as a disagreement over her education. And he wouldn’t be insisting she return to Thicket Glen if he didn’t care.

  And yet he did it all from a distance. For all of the love they shared, she and her father had never quite bridged the space between them. She’d wanted hugs and he’d patted her head, when he remembered she was around.

  Trace McBride hugged his girls all the time.

  Jenny sighed in self-disgust as she put the final stitch in the dress hem, then reached for her scissors and snipped the thread. She shouldn’t indulge in uncharitable thoughts. It was selfish of her to wish she had a father who was more … demonstrative. Someone like Mr. McBride.

  An image shimmered in her mind, she and Trace McBride, his actions demonstrative and not at all fatherly.

  “Jenny Fortune!” she exclaimed, slamming her scissors against the worktable. She began yanking pins from the bombazine’s hem and stabbing them into the pin cushion. These fantasies involving her and that man popped into her mind with disturbing frequency. What had gotten into her lately? Her thoughts had become downright, well, lusty.

  It must be the wedding dress. All her other problems could be laid at its skirt—the wedding dress’s skirt and her mother’s mouth, that is. She couldn’t quite forget the idea of wearing that gown at her own nuptials or the embarrassing talk about the delights of lost virginity.

  But even if she seriously entertained her mother’s idea, Trace McBride wouldn’t do for a groom. She’d tried to flirt and failed. The man simply didn’t like her.

  She might be her mother’s daughter, but she feared she took after her father when it came to matters of the heart. Clumsy was the word that came to mind.

  Swiping at a pin in frustration, Jenny managed to drive the point into her palm. “Ow!” She lifted her hand to her mouth, silently cursing her carelessness. Clumsy. It should be her middle name.

  Just then, the bell sounded and she looked up. Trace McBride’s emerald eyes gleamed. His mouth quirked in a roguish smile as he looked at her and said, “You want me to do that for you? I’m awfully good at kissin’ away ouches.”

  Oh, goodness. The temperature in the room went up a good ten degrees.

  Jenny gawked speechlessly as Trace’s daughters filed in behind him. She was struggling to find a reply when the odor hit her, bringing tears to her eyes. “What in the world?” she said, trying not to breathe.

  Emma’s look was sheepish; Katrina’s unconcerned. Maribeth offered a feminine replica of her father’s mischievous grin. “We’ve been working in the sisters’ stable. Papa said we were expert at mucking things up, we ought to try mucking something out.”

  Katrina added, “But we’re all done now, Miss Fortune. It’s Emma’s birthday, and we gets to go swimmin’. We want you to come with us.”

  “Papa allowed me to choose.” Emma’s eyes shone. “He’s taking the whole afternoon and night off from work, and I got to pick to do whatever I wanted. It’s swimming and a picnic, Miss Fortune, and you have to come or else it won’t be perfect.”

  Maribeth nodded. “It has to be perfect. Today’s her birthday.”

  Jenny’s eyes were beginning to water at the smell. “Swimming?” she asked doubtfully.

  “And a picnic.” The girls all said at once.

  Trace’s voice was an intriguing combination of challenge and amusement. “We’ve found us a nice, safe swimming hole just a short ride from town. We’d like you to join us, Miss Fortune. I figure that if you have trouble accepting my apology for my less-than-gentlemanly behavior last time we spoke, you can always push me into the creek.”

  THE SUN bore down mercilessly upon the occupants of the buggy heading northwest out of town. The heat during August was miserable as a rule and t
his summer was no exception. Not a breath of air stirred the leaves of die oak trees that stretched across the lazy waters of Quail Creek.

  The girls led the way along the familiar path to where a curve in the creek created a pool perfect for swimming. Trace toted a picnic basket and a tapestry satchel containing changes of clothing.

  Jenny Fortune carried a pair of blankets.

  Despite his best intentions, Trace’s gaze dropped to the gentle sway of her skirts as she followed his chattering daughters toward the swimming hole. She hadn’t wanted to come along. Some of her excuses had been silly, some of them inspired. None of them had worked. The girls had chewed on her like pups on a steak bone, and eventually the dressmaker had given in.

  For the first time in weeks Trace was glad of his daughters’ cussed stubbornness. He needed to deal with the dressmaker on his own terms, and Emma’s birthday outing was his first effort in that regard. At the reminder, he tore his gaze from the dressmaker’s skirts.

  After the confrontation in his parlor, he’d devoted some thought to the situation that, like it or not, had landed in his lap. His girls had developed an affection for Jenny Fortune, one she apparently returned. He’d been too late in catching on to the developing relationship to do anything to prevent it, and experience had taught him that short of locking the Menaces in their room—which probably wouldn’t work worth a damn anyway—he’d be wasting his time trying to put a stop to it at this late date. Moving into the house wouldn’t likely solve the problem now. Trace knew without a doubt they’d find a way to visit the woman.

  At that point he realized he’d have to make this connection between his daughters and Miss Fortune work for him. Working for him meant putting the boot to this mother talk and to the unsettling effect Miss Fortune was having on his senses.

  The dressmaker got prettier every time he saw her. That business over the girls had made it even worse. Throwing all that sass in his direction had caused her eyes to shine, her cheeks to glow, and that bountiful bosom to lift in an admirable way. Ever since the skirmish he’d had a devil of a time forcing the image from his mind.

  So he’d bent his mind to the task of developing a strategy on how to deal with Miss Jenny Fortune. Once he realized that she’d not become a problem for him until he allowed her to cross that mental line between business and personal, Trace had known what tack to take. He’d made the first move by allowing the girls to invite the woman along on the birthday celebration. Before they left Quail Creek this evening, he intended to have the job done and the problem of Jenny Fortune solved.

  “Miss Fortune,” Emma called, glancing over her shoulder. She gestured toward a patch of grass nestled among a collection of flat rocks lining the creek bank. “This is where we usually spread the blankets. Papa can sit here and watch us all while we’re swimming. Katrina plays where it’s shallow off to the left, while Mari and I swim where it’s deeper over on the right.”

  Katrina turned round, solemn eyes toward Jenny. “I like the shallow best, but I know how to swim where it’s deep,” she said. “Little Louise Who Is An Angel couldn’t swim and so Papa made sure to teach us all first thing.”

  “Oh, I see,” Jenny replied, her questioning look toward Trace showing that she didn’t see at all.

  He explained. “The girls had a cousin who drowned. I want them to know how to handle themselves in any situation. In fact, I’m hoping we’ll have the chance to talk about that for a bit this afternoon.”

  “Talk about swimming?”

  “No, I was thinking more along the lines of quilting bees.”

  “You’ve lost me, Mr. McBride.”

  He gave her a slow, easy smile. “No, Miss Fortune, I think I’ve found you.”

  Jenny’s heart fluttered at the look. Of course, it had been in near constant quiver since Trace McBride sauntered into Fortune’s Design a little over an hour ago. The man confused her. She’d rented shop space from him for months, and in all of that time, he’d never acted the least bit interested in her as a woman.

  Firmly, Jenny dismissed the speculations. She probably just imagined the heat in his eyes. She obviously read meanings he didn’t intend into the words he spoke. One more silly idea, that’s all it was. Funny how a single little intimation by her mother had managed to put all of these suggestions in her mind.

  Intimations. Intimate. Oh, goodness.

  Jenny focused her attention on the girls as she spread the blankets where Emma had indicated. Giggling and frolicking about, they stripped to their shifts and made a bee- line for the water. The resulting splash sent droplets of water raining down on Jenny and Trace.

  “That feels good,” she said, smiling as she wiped the wetness from her cheeks.

  “Yeah. It’s hot enough to wither a fence post, all right. I imagine you’ll get to wishing you’d brought that swimming costume of yours after all.”

  Jenny shrugged and reached for her parasol. She wasn’t about to try and explain why the idea of an innocent swim with the McBride family sounded so wicked. “I’m content to be away from town, Mr. McBride. The herd fording the Trinity today is extra large, and I can’t say that’s my favorite time to be in Fort Worth. The noise, the dust.”

  “The smell.”

  “Yes, there is that.” She grinned ruefully and added, “Although the ride out here wasn’t exactly a perfumer’s delight.”

  Trace nodded as he settled himself on one of the blankets, his long legs stretched out in front of him. “They did stink something fierce. I still can’t figure how Mari managed to get that mess behind her ears. You were a good sport about it, Miss Fortune, and I appreciate it. I’m afraid I couldn’t see making them go through the effort of bathing when we were headed toward the swimming hole.”

  Jenny smiled, and because she needed something to do, artfully arranged her skirts. She put up a valiant struggle to ignore the way his clothing outlined the rugged length of his body as he reached down to tug off his boots, but in the end, she failed.

  That annoyed her. It was all her mother’s fault. She’d never noticed Trace McBride until her mother had mentioned lust. Liar, her conscience declared.

  All right, so she’d noticed him. Quite a lot, in fact. But not near as much as now. Now she couldn’t seem to stop noticing him.

  He called out cautious instructions to his daughters, then looked at her and said, “Don’t be shy about getting your feet wet, Miss Fortune. I wouldn’t want you to get overheated.” He yanked off his socks and wiggled his toes, then proceeded to roll up the bottoms of his trousers to midcalf.

  Jenny thought the temperature must have gone up ten degrees again. She dug in her bag for her fan, flipped it open, and waved it in front of her face. “I knew I shouldn’t have come,” she grumbled beneath her breath.

  He must have the hearing of an owl, because he looked at her and remarked, “You didn’t stand a chance against them, you know. Once those girls decided they wanted you at Emmie’s birthday do, they were willing to do anything and everything to make certain you’d accept.”

  Exasperation filled Jenny at his words. “They shouldn’t have that power. I shouldn’t have allowed them to manipulate me that way. For that matter, neither should you. At risk of treading on a sensitive subject yet again, I fear I must advise you to teach your daughters a modicum of control.”

  “Modicum of control,” he repeated, nodding thoughtfully. “I do like the sound of that. Tell me, Miss Fortune. How do you propose I go about it?”

  Just then, Katrina’s feet slipped out from under her, and she fell hard against the creek bottom. Jenny started forward immediately, but Trace laid a hand against her arm. “You all right, Katie-cat?”

  She sat in no more than a foot of water. “I can’t decide if I should cry or not.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then why would you want to cry?”

  ‘“Cause I want you to come play with me, and I know you will if I cry.”

  “You know
I’ll come play with you anyway. I always do, don’t I?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So what’s the fuss?”

  “I want Miss Fortune to come play, too. I don’t know about her. Would it be better if I cry?”

  Trace turned to Jenny. “Modicum of control, right? No more manipulation. I’d love a demonstration, Miss Fortune.”

  It was a challenge that struck at the core of her beliefs. Pulling away from his touch, Jenny gave him a significant look and nodded. Then she glanced at Katrina. “Come here, sweetheart. I’d like to talk with you.”

  “Are we going to play?”

  “That’s what we are going to talk about.”

  The older girls paddled toward the bank and Katrina stood and sloshed her way over to Jenny, who gestured for the child to sit in her lap.

  “She’ll get you all wet,” warned Maribeth.

  “I won’t melt. I’m not sugar.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Trace observed in a wry tone.

  Katrina plopped into Jenny’s lap and spoke around the thumb she stuck in her mouth. “I’m here, MissFortune.”

  “Good. I want to ask you a question. Do your sisters ever try to trick you?”

  She nodded. “Lots of times.”

  “Are they sneaky when they do it?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Do you like it when they trick you?”

  Beneath her dark brown bangs her little brow furrowed. “No. It makes my lip go bloop.”

  Jenny leaned away from the child, a confused smile on her face. “Makes your lip go bloop?”

  Katrina demonstrated by sticking out her lower lip. “Bloop is what my daddy calls it.”

  Biting the inside of her cheek to prevent the laugh that threatened, Jenny risked a sidelong glance at Trace. He winked and she felt it clear to her toes.

  “I see. Well. Bloop it is then.” Jenny shifted Katrina’s weight and soon felt a wet chill seep through the layers of cloth dividing them. “So, here’s another question. Don’t you think that pretending to cry to get me to come play with you would be the same as tricking me? You tricking me is not a lot different than your sisters tricking you.”