After a moment’s hesitation, she settled back against him. But instead of addressing his question, Jenny asked one of her own. “Did Emma and Maribeth come home? We must have crossed paths.”
Trace nodded. “By the time they brushed themselves off and ran back to the depot, Katrina had disappeared. They were afraid something awful might have happened to her. I’m forever warning them about going around town alone because little girls aren’t always safe.” He gave Jenny a shrewd look and added, “But then, neither are big girls, are they?”
She closed her eyes and didn’t answer. After waiting a moment, Trace continued his story. “Anyway, Em and Mari came straight to End of the Line from the depot. I shut the place down and went looking for Kat.”
“That’s where you were when I came looking for you. You must have been so worried.”
“Terrified.” Trace smiled grimly at the memory. “I found someone at the station who remembered seeing her, and by talking with him and Mrs. Wilson, I’ve been able to piece together what happened.”
He threaded his fingers through her hair as he spoke, allowing the honeyed strands to slip through his hands like the finest of silk. “Apparently, after causing a scene that allowed Em and Mari time to sneak onto the train, Katrina waited inside the depot where she watched for her sisters’ signal. She was supposed to well up with another distraction once the girls found your fabric. Anyway, when the train pulled out, she started crying for real.”
“Poor Katrina.”
Trace rolled his eyes. “There’s nothing poor about that little actress. I’m hoping this will teach her, and her sisters, a lesson.” He paused for a moment as a fresh wave of frustration washed over him. “Anyway, she waited a little while after the train pulled out, hoping her sisters had slipped off when she wasn’t looking. Finally, though, she ran home looking for me.”
“But found me instead.”
Jenny made a token effort to sit up, but once again he prevented it. She appeared stronger now with more color in her cheeks and more life in her eyes. But frankly, Trace was enjoying the opportunity of holding her, and she didn’t put much effort into objecting.
“Yep, Katrina found you, and it must have been about the time Em and Mari arrived at the saloon. We lit out for the depot, which is why you and I missed each other, both at the End of the Line and at home. By the time I managed to get all my daughters in the same room and wade through the waterworks trying to figure out just what was going on, you had already set out to rescue my Menaces.” He put his hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “I thank you for that, Jenny. From the bottom of my heart.”
“I was glad to do it, Mr. McBride.”
“Trace.”
“Trace.” Her eyes drifted shut and in a breathless voice, she said, “But they didn’t need rescuing after all, did they? So you set out to rescue me.”
A comfortable silence fell between them, broken only by the calls of a mockingbird hidden in a nearby tree. The scent of cedar sweetened the breeze that cooled the afternoon. Trace stroked her hair, savoring the peace of the moment amid a tumultuous day and relishing the sensation of cradling Jenny Fortune in his lap.
Even when he knew he shouldn’t.
The thought brought him back to reality. “And did you need rescuing, Jenny? I want to know what happened here, and I believe you’ve put me off long enough.”
She made another effort at evasion by looking up at him and asking, “Where are the girls now?”
Her eyes sparkled like jewels in the sunlight. Wishing he hadn’t noticed, Trace tore his gaze away. “I made arrangements with Mrs. Wilson to stay overnight. I wasn’t certain I’d catch up with you in time to ride back to town tonight. The girls are confined to their room until I return.”
“You trust them to stay there?”
He laughed without amusement. “This time I do. They’re too scared to get into any more mischief. They know they crossed the line today.” He slanted her a glance. “Tell me what happened. Why did you faint?”
Jenny took a deep breath. She didn’t want to think about it. Neither did she really want to move. His hand never stilled, stroking her hair ever so gently. Soothing and sweet. It was the kind of touch she imagined he offered his daughters; the type of tender caress she’d always wished from her father.
Jenny appreciated the comforting touch after the fright she’d received, so she left her head in his lap, ignoring the seed of conscience that told her it wasn’t proper. “It was Big Jack Bailey.”
Trace’s muscles tensed. His hand stilled. “Did he hurt you?”
“No.”
He pierced her with his gaze.
“He never touched me.”
“Tell me what happened.” Trace’s hand resumed its soothing strokes. “Start at the beginning.”
In a low, soft voice, she granted his request. At times during her story she sensed his anger, but always the fingers in her hair continued to soothe. Peace crept over her like a gentle dawn. Trace McBride had unwittingly reached out to the little girl deep within her who had longed to be held, but whose parents had never noticed.
“I thought the train was being robbed. But Frank said something to his father about speaking with the senator, so now I wonder if it wasn’t a prearranged meeting. The train stopped not far from the Lady Luck Ranch’s main house.”
“Frank?” Trace’s hand stilled. “Are you telling me Frank Bailey is back in town?”
“I don’t know about town, but he was on the train.”
He released a whispered oath, and beneath her head his thigh muscle went taut. Rock hard. Distractingly hard.
And in that moment, Jenny forgot all about comforting, fatherly touches.
The mood had changed. Where before she found his touch soothing, now she found it stimulating. He smelled of horse and sweat and leather and tobacco. Manly. She found she wanted to touch him, to glide her fingers along the firm length of muscle. She wanted to grasp his chambray shirt and pull him down to her for a kiss.
She shocked herself. This was ridiculous. She’d never before felt this way about a man. She should be ashamed, she knew. She had no business lying here like a wanton with her head in Trace McBride’s lap.
But she wanted to lie here forever.
She stared up at his mouth. She watched his lips move, but she didn’t hear his words. Silently, she willed those lips to lower. In that moment, she wanted Trace McBride’s kiss like she’d wanted few things in her life.
He glanced down. His eyes widened slightly. His breathing seemed to still as he paused an interminable moment, his gaze shifting to her lips.
Jenny wetted them with her tongue, waiting anxiously.
Then, with a blink, his eyes shuttered. He looked away, and worst of all, put his hands beneath her shoulders and lifted her out of his lap. Once she was sitting up, he stood and walked over to his horse.
Jenny schooled her features to hide her dismay. “Tell me the rest of it. I want to know about Frank.” Trace snagged the gelding’s reins and tied them to the buggy, a needless gesture considering the obviously well-trained animal hadn’t moved since he dismounted.
Feeling rather huffy, Jenny lifted her hand to probe at the knot on her head. Then in a clear, calm voice she condensed the events by explaining how she’d whirled around ready to shoot, only to see him riding to her rescue. “I don’t make a habit of fainting, I assure you. I apologize if I caused you undue concern.”
“Undue concern? Undue concern!” He narrowed his eyes. “Frank Bailey is a gunslinger. A cold-blooded killer. The only reason he’s not in jail is that Big Jack has bribed enough lawmen to get him out. Did either one of those men threaten you, Jenny?”
She shifted her gaze away and Trace muttered an oath. He demanded in a flat voice, “Tell me exactly what was said.”
Some of it was too embarrassing to tell. Jenny wouldn’t repeat on a bet what Big Jack had said about her “prettying herself up to catch a man.” Fixing her gaze on a tuft of weeds at
her feet, she said, “It wasn’t what was said so much as the look in their eyes. Big Jack seems halfway crazy.” After a pause, she added, “Frank Bailey has cold eyes. Dead eyes.”
“And? What else happened?”
“Nothing else. Not really.”
He shot her a disbelieving look. “Tell me.”
She offered him exasperation in return. “He called me darlin’ and said something about furthering our acquaintance.”
A muscle worked in his jaw. “Frank Bailey is more than a killer, Jenny. He’s been known to assault women. Thank God I got here when I did.”
Her temper flared and she pushed to her feet. “You didn’t ride to the rescue, Mr. McBride. I rescued myself, thank you very much.”
He snorted and muttered something beneath his breath.
“What was that?” She folded her arms. “Did I hear you mention my gun?”
He scowled. “It was a stupid thing to do, lady. In fact, this entire afternoon has been filled with a series of stupid actions on your part. First you hightail it out of town without a thought to your own safety. Next, you insert yourself into the middle of what might well have been a train robbery. Then you—” He broke off his tirade abruptly.
“Then I what?”
“Never mind.”
Never mind? Not hardly. He’d all but called her stupid. Jenny would admit to being many things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. Fuming, she advanced on him. “Please, Mr. McBride, do go on. Tell me what else I did that was”— she put her hand against his chest and tried to push him as she said— “stupid.”
His hand whipped up and grabbed her wrist. Their gazes connected and for a long moment, they stared at each other. Then Trace’s eyes caught fire. “You lay with your head in my lap and you begged me to kiss you.”
Jenny sucked in a breath, her knees turning to water as her mouth went dry. In those emerald eyes she saw a man’s hunger, naked and intense. In his body, she saw a battle for control, a raging tempest of will against need.
In that moment, for the first time ever, Jenny gloried in the power of being a woman.
Weakness turned to strength. She lifted her free hand and touched his cheek. “Trace, I …”
Abruptly, he released her and stepped away. “Don’t,” he whispered harshly.
Jenny hesitated. She licked her dry lips. Need washed through her like hot, melted honey and she took a trembling breath. The wise thing, she knew, would be to allow the moment to pass. To act as if it had not happened. To pretend her world hadn’t tilted on its axis.
But she couldn’t do it. Not here and now. She didn’t want to do it. Not when Trace McBride had looked at her with such naked desire. Not when her own body echoed his need.
The air seemed thick and heavy, as if the forces of nature were gathering for a storm. In that moment, Jenny wanted nothing more than to be caught up in it, to lose herself in the fundamental energy pulsing around her, within her.
What was stopping her?
The question trailed like a velvet ribbon through the sensual haze in her mind. What was stopping her? Wasn’t she her mother’s daughter? Hadn’t she poured her talents and treasure into Fortune’s Design just so she could make her own decisions? What good did independence do her if she never used it?
Independence is the freedom to do what I want.
And here, on the wildflower-dotted prairie beneath the unending Texas sky, Jenny Fortune knew how she wanted to exercise her freedom.
She wanted Trace McBride.
TRACE WAS riding a wild mustang and doing his level best to hang on.
He smelled her scent, a whisper of roses, on the air. He shut his eyes, but still he saw her, imagined her, naked and wanting beneath him. His hands, though fisted at his sides, reached for her. Every fiber of his being hungered for her.
He flinched when she touched his arm.
“Trace?”
Her fingers burned a path from his wrist toward his elbow and he had to think to breathe. He spoke through his teeth. “Leave it alone, Jenny. Leave me alone.”
“I can’t.” Her voice rippled across his senses. “You make me…ache.”
The mustang bucked and Trace lost his grip.
He yanked her against his body and kissed her. He took her mouth roughly, savagely. He kissed her like a man too long without a woman, like a man who hated himself for succumbing to temptation.
It was his most honest action in years.
His legs spread, widening his stance, as his hand slipped down her body to cup her rump, lift her and pull her closer. The groan rumbled from deep inside him and was answered with a breathless sigh against his lips—a breathless, responsive, desire-laden ah. He’d never heard a more erotic sound.
He trailed wet kisses up along her jawline, nipping gently at her ear. So long. It’d been so damned long since he’d felt anything like this for a woman. Not since the early days with Constance. “Damn you, Jenny Fortune. Why this? Why now?”
She leaned away from him then, her blue eyes soft with passion and another emotion he refused to recognize.
“I’ve waited so long,” she said, her voice beckoning.
The words melted past his driving hunger to steal into his soul. She’d waited. Ice cold water couldn’t have cooled his ardor any faster.
I’m five buttons and a couple of petticoats away from taking a bride the day before her damned wedding.
He put his hands on her shoulders and firmly pushed her aside. “Haven’t you forgotten something? Like your fiancé?”
She froze, her eyes rounded, her lips forming a silent “oh.” By the looks of it, the dressmaker had forgotten all about her fiancé.
Which was just like a woman. Jenny Fortune was no different from all the others. “Get in the buggy, Miss Fortune. We’re going back to town. If we ride hard we should make it back by dark.”
She didn’t reply, just climbed silently into the rig, her cheeks stained pink like a Parker County peach.
Trace rode his horse rather than join her. They rode west, into the afternoon sun, and he tried to force his thoughts in any direction but toward her.
He managed, for the most part. Except for the niggling truth that returned time and time again. The thought that he’d accused her wrongly. Jenny Fortune wasn’t like all the others.
And that, he feared, was the biggest problem of all.
IT WAS Friday night in Hell’s Half Acre, and dives, dance halls, and dens of iniquity seethed with violence and vice. Cowboys in herds of twelve to fifteen rode from area ranches to drink and gamble and whore away their wages. Railroad workers in from the westward camps shared card games with no-goods who had hitched rides on inbound freight wagons. By eight o’clock all four policemen on Marshal Courtright’s force had been summoned into service, and the jail was filled near to bursting.
In the midst of it all at the ever-popular End of the Line Saloon, Trace McBride sat sipping from a bottle of the house’s best whiskey. It was Friday night in Hell’s Half Acre. Tomorrow afternoon in First Methodist Church, Jenny Fortune would stand before God and Fort Worth, Texas, and marry Thomas Edmund Wharton III.
He couldn’t get the damned wedding off his mind. All the way back to town he’d struggled against thinking about it. He’d endured verbal bombardment on the subject from the moment he hit his front door. The girls had yammered on about MissFortune’s wedding even while being disciplined. After banishing them to bed, he’d come to work only to be assaulted by the headline in the damned newspaper: “Dressmaker Vows to Put Bad Luck Wedding Dress to the Test.”
He lifted the glass to his mouth and gulped back the rest of his drink, but the whiskey failed to burn the taste of her from his mouth. Grasping the bottle to pour himself another hit, he eyed the newspaper lying beside it. The words printed on the page seemed to leap out at his eyes. “Wedding of the decade set for tomorrow afternoon.”
For the past couple of weeks the Democrat had been chock full of reports on the wedding preparations. Tonight’s ed
ition even included an interview with both the bride and groom. The tone of the articles had provided a big step toward changing public opinion of the dress. Trace had even heard the gown referred to as the Not-So-Bad Luck Wedding Dress. “Looks like you’ll get your wish, Dressmaker,” he murmured softly.
One of her wishes, anyway.
You make me ache.
Well, hell. Clamping down on his wayward thoughts, Trace pushed to his feet. He strode around the barroom scrutinizing his customers on the sly, hoping to find a cheat at one of the card tables or a fellow trying to stiff the house on his tab. He felt mean as hell with the hide off, and he was looking for a fight.
Not finding the relief he sought at the End of the Line, he left. Instinctively, his feet turned west, away from the Rankin Building.
Toward Jenny Fortune’s cottage.
EARLIER THAT evening while Trace was at work, an early season norther had swept into town with blustering winds and a spattering of rain. Temperatures dropped thirty degrees in an hour, sending people scurrying for blankets and winter coats.
Trace turned up the collar of his jacket, then stuck his hands in his pockets as he walked along the shadowed lanes beyond the boundaries of Hell’s Half Acre. Muted pools of light from gas lamps at street corners stabbed at the gloom but did nothing to banish the bitter chill.
Trace welcomed the cold. It helped clear his head and damper his nasty mood. That, of course, allowed an opportunity for fatigue to set in. He was bone tired—worn down, run over, and wrung out. It was damned foolish of him to be out this time of night in this kind of weather.
So why the hell did he feel compelled to walk by Jenny Fortune’s cottage at three o’clock in the morning on her wedding day?
Trace kicked a loose stone illuminated by a streetlight. He wanted to check on her, that’s all. He wanted to make sure no Baileys lurked in the shadows.
And that no Wharton prowls in her bedroom.
He wanted to kick himself at that thought. Let it go, McBride. Let her go. She’s not yours. You don’t want her.
The Bad Luck Wedding Dress (The Bad Luck Wedding series) Page 16