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

by Geralyn Dawson

  “What a crock,” he muttered, turning the corner of Jenny’s street.

  The white pickets of her fence shone with a pearly glow beneath the moonlight. Eyeing her darkened cottage, he noted that all appeared in order. Indulging the need to make certain, he quietly slipped the latch on the gate and stepped into the yard. He made his way along a path between the cottonwood and the front porch until the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked stopped him in his tracks.

  “Take another step and I’ll blow a hole through your heart.” Hidden by the shadows of the porch, Jenny’s voice sounded deceptively soft. “If you don’t tell me who you are and give me a good reason for being here, I just might do it anyway.”

  Bloodthirsty little thing. And what was she doing awake and outside in the cold at this time of night?

  Trace asked the question uppermost in his mind. “Are you alone, Jenny?”

  “McBride!” The chain on a porch swing rattled. “You frightened me half to death. I thought you were a Bailey. What are you doing?”

  “Are you alone?” he repeated.

  She gave a frustrated groan. “And what business is it of yours, may I ask?”

  It wasn’t his business. He knew that. Frustration ate at his soul. “That Wharton character is a skunk, lady, and I’m not certain you realize it.”

  “A shark.”

  “What?”

  “He’s a shark, not a skunk, and no, he’s not here. I kicked him out of my parlor hours ago. By the way, he said to tell you to find someone else to chase after your Menaces once he and I are married.”

  At least she hadn’t said her bedroom. “If he has something to say to me, he can say it to my face. Are you still holding a gun on me, Jenny?”

  “No, I set it down,” she replied, sounding disgusted. “I probably shouldn’t have. You haven’t yet told me why you’re skulking around my house in the middle of the night.”

  Trace ambled up the front steps. “I’m on my way home from work.”

  “Then you’re obviously lost.”

  “Walking helps me get to sleep. Some nights I need more help than others.”

  “Hmm,” she replied, noncommittally.

  Trace stared into the gloom and finally made out her form huddled at one end of the porch swing. “I thought I saw something in the shadows,” he lied. “I figured it best to make certain the Baileys weren’t causing any trouble.”

  He crossed the porch and propped his hip on the railing opposite the swing. “Why are you sitting outside in the dark in the middle of the night? It’s freezing.”

  But not too cold to mask the clean scent of roses that washed his way with every sway of the swing.

  “I’m more chilly inside than out, I’m afraid,” she murmured softly. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  She’d been damned hot this afternoon. Trace grimaced and gave the swing a push with the toe of his boot. The near complete absence of light lent an isolation to the scene, an intimacy that stripped away the layers of pretense between them. Trace was too tired, too soul weary, to fight it. “Jenny, you can’t marry Wharton.”

  Cloth rustled as she shifted her position. “It’s not your concern, McBride.”

  “Yes, it is.” He sighed heavily. “It’s like I said before, the man’s a skunk. Hell, Jenny, he may spend his days with you, but he spends his nights in the Acre.”

  “Well now, Mr. Saloonkeeper,” she sarcastically drawled, “there’s a reason to think badly of a man.”

  Damn but the woman had a mouth on her. “You’re a cold woman, Jenny Fortune.” Propelled by a need he didn’t stop to analyze, he pushed off the porch rail. His boots landed against the wooden floor planks with a thud. “It makes me realize I’m iced up myself. Scoot over and share some of that blanket with me, would you?” He moved as he spoke, so before she had the opportunity to refuse, he’d appropriated a spot on the swing. Then he tugged on the quilt.

  “McBride!” she protested, yanking back.

  He abandoned his efforts with the cover, instead reaching for her hand and pulling her against him. She struggled half-heartedly.

  Trace said, “Come here, Miss Fortune, and tell me why you’re really awake in the middle of the night.”

  “I’m not telling you anything. I’m angry with you. I don’t owe you anything.”

  “I know.” She resisted for another moment, then the starch seeped out of her spine and she surrendered. Trace wrapped his arm around her. She rested her head against his chest and a peaceful sensation of contentment stole over him. It felt right, holding her close like this, and that scared the hell out of him.

  He cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking about your situation, and I’ve come up with an alternative solution for you.” Jenny’s limbs began to stiffen and he hurriedly explained, “There’s a man I know. Name of Wright. He’s an upstanding young man, and he cleans up nice—if you look past the size of his nose. He’d make you a much better husband than that skunk Wharton. Why don’t you have him stand up with you instead? He’d agree in a heartbeat. I’m certain of it.”

  She held herself so very still that had he not known better, he’d have thought she’d drifted off to sleep. Finally, she said, “You have more audacity than any person I’ve ever met.”

  “I appreciate the compliment.”

  Her sniff radiated disdain.

  They swung for a few minutes in silence. Then Jenny asked, “Samuel Wright, the boy who works at M and M Produce?”

  “You know him?”

  “I’ve met him. I recognized the description.”

  Sam Wright’s nose was rather famous in town, Trace thought. “He’s a good fellow, Jenny.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “He’s kind and he’s gentle.” Jenny sighed. “He’s just like my father.”

  “Well, that’s good, isn’t it? You love your father. I’ve always heard a woman looks for a man like her father when she marries.”

  “Poor Emma, Maribeth, and Katrina.”

  “Witch.” Trace leaned his head back against the swing and shut his eyes, soaking in the impression of the night, the place, and the woman in his arms. Despite the cold, he felt warmer than he had in years.

  She was silent for a long time. “My father is a very good man. His research may one day offer humanity a great advancement. However, I’ve never dreamed of having a husband like Richard Fortune.”

  Trace waited, but she said nothing more. “Wharton’s a user, Jenny. He’s after something. I can tell it by looking at him. He’d hurt you.”

  She shook her head. “No, Trace. I know what to expect from Edmund. I have no illusions where he is concerned, and he does have his appeal.”

  “So he’s pretty,” Trace said with a snort.

  She smiled against his chest. “Edmund is willing to give me what I want. Marrying Edmund will allow me to keep Fortune’s Design.”

  And I’ll have to watch her parade around town as Mrs. Thomas Edmund Wharton III. The thought made him sick to his stomach. “Is business all that matters to you?”

  Jenny didn’t respond to the question. Instead she asked one of her own. “Doesn’t anything matter to you, Trace?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I’m getting married this afternoon, and you stop by in the middle of the night to tell me you’ve found a more appropriate groom than the one I already have.”

  “Hey now,” Trace protested. “Your mother found Wharton, which by the way, is something I’ll never understand. He’s totally wrong for you. Why shouldn’t I try to help?”

  Frustration filled her voice. “You try to help? Be serious, McBride. We both know you’re no help at all.”

  “Why the hell do you say that?” He’d been a lot of help to her. He’d protected her from the Baileys for one thing.

  “I say it because you’re being pigheaded, McBride.”

  “Pigheaded!”

  “Yes, pigheaded.”

  His spine stiffened, but instead of drawing away from him, Jenny burrow
ed closer. “I don’t know what your reasoning is, but the fact that you’re doing this to your daughters purely drives me crazy.”

  “Doing what to my daughters?” he demanded roughly.

  “Don’t you ever listen to them? Do you have any idea how upset they are? They visit me every day, begging me not to marry Edmund. That’s what was behind this train business today, you mark my words. They have some scheme up their sleeves. They don’t want me to marry Edmund or any other man. They want me to marry you!”

  His muscles tensed. For a breathless second, he didn’t respond. When he finally spoke, ice coated his words. “A woman who uses children is lower than silt.”

  “Oh!” While she pulled out of his arms he was shoving her away. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing.” She struck out blindly, the thwack of her hand against his face sounding like a gunshot in the dark.

  “Goddammit, you hit my nose.”

  “I hope I broke it.”

  “Bloodthirsty wench.”

  “Don’t call me that!”

  “It’s kinder than what I’d like to call you,” Trace shot back, his voice dripping with disgust. “Trying to use my daughters. You should be ashamed.”

  “I’m ashamed of nothing!” she said, scrambling off the swing. “You know I haven’t tried to manipulate your daughters. You’re the one who is using them—using them to hide behind. You don’t want me? Fine. Just go, then. Go home.” She drew a deep, shuddering breath. “Go home. Now. Just go and leave me alone. Why did you have to come here anyway!” With that, she marched inside, slamming the door behind her.

  Trace stood on the porch, his chest heaving with his anger. But it was more than anger. It was pain and heartache and jealousy and lust all rolled into one.

  She was marrying Edmund Wharton.

  The idea made him furious. He crossed to her front door and shoved it open. Then he followed the light to the back of the house and her bedroom. She’d slipped off her robe and was climbing into bed. Tears spilled down her cheeks.

  The sight made him livid. Guilt and defensiveness put the words on his tongue. “You think I hide behind my children?” he asked, his manner making the question a threat. “Maybe you’re right. But I stayed away from you for their sake, even when that was the last thing I wanted to do. So, maybe I have been using my girls.”

  She stiffened. “Get out of my bedroom, McBride,” she said, swiping the tears from her cheeks. “Go away. You shouldn’t be here.”

  He gave a bitter laugh. “You think you’re telling me something I don’t already know?”

  “Trace, please—”

  “You asked me why I came here tonight. Do you really want to know? You think I don’t want you?” He gave a gravelly laugh. “Well, Miss Fortune, think again. I came here because I do want you.”

  He stepped forward. She looked as if she wanted to flee, but she didn’t move her feet. The air between them crackled, and as he advanced another step, he saw the shudder sweep over her. He recognized it for what it was. “And you want me, too.”

  She met his gaze, and he saw a thousand agonies shimmering in her eyes. Her mouth opened, then closed, as she stared at him. The seconds dragged by until finally, she softly cried, “But you don’t want to marry me.”

  “It’s better this way, Jenny.”

  She gave him a contemptuous look.

  “It’s true. There are things you don’t know about me. Things I haven’t told you. As much as I hate the idea of you marrying that skunk, the fact remains you’re better off with him than me.”

  The words lay between them like a corpse.

  Trace drew a deep breath. He was faintly aware of his fists clenching at his sides. Do it, tell her the rest of it. Not just for her sake, but for yours too.

  Trace summoned his courage to speak. He tried—God, how he tried—but he couldn’t make his mouth form the words. Now he was a coward on top of everything else.

  “Lock the door behind me, Jenny. And for God’s sake, get that gun off the porch and put it safely away.” He turned to leave.

  A floorboard creaked as she followed him from the bedroom. When he reached for the handle on the front door, she stopped him with one softly spoken word. “Why?”

  His throat closed and sweat formed on his upper lip.

  “Tell me why, damn you. Tell me why so I can forget you!”

  For a long moment, the only sound to be heard was the rhythmic tick of the clock. The anguish in her voice gave him the strength he needed, because he found he could no longer bear the thought of her pain.

  Trace’s mind flashed back to another time, another place, before betrayal had stolen his world. He swallowed hard. “You want to know why won’t I marry you? Because I can’t, Jenny, I can’t.”

  “Is your wife still alive? Have you lied about being a widower?”

  Trace unleashed a bitter laugh. Turning around, he faced her and said, “Oh, no, Miss Fortune. Constance is very dead. I’m certain of it, and that is why I won’t marry you.”

  He burned her image into his mind. Gowned in white, her golden hair mussed. Achingly beautiful. Wanting him. Caring about him. He’d remember her like this, before she knew. Before she hated him.

  “You see, my dear, I’m the one who killed her. I murdered my wife.”

  If you put on a garment wrong side out,

  you will have bad luck unless you let a left-handed person change it for you.

  CHAPTER 11

  HE KILLED HIS WIFE.

  Jenny sucked in a breath as the horror of it washed over her.

  But on the heels of horror immediately came doubt. This was a man who to her knowledge never carried a gun. This was a man who made his daughter eat her peas. This was Mr. Throw-Fish.

  This was no murderer.

  While Jenny worked her way to this conclusion, Trace left the cottage. The front door banged shut, and she was staring at the empty room. A tide of frustration rose within her. The man was always running from something.

  He’d marched halfway down the front walk before she caught up with him. Cold stung her bare skin as she tugged at his jacket. “Don’t you dare leave like that! You can’t make such a claim, then walk away.”

  He shrugged off her touch and kept on going.

  Jenny blew an exasperated sigh, picked up the hem of her nightgown, and ran after him. “Trace McBride, you wait right there.”

  He kept on walking, his long strides eating up the ground. Her foot came down hard on a rough-edged pebble and she winced in pain as she stopped to brush the offending stone away. “Darn you, McBride,” she called after him, “I’m in my nightgown and it’s cold out here!”

  “Go home, then.”

  He had reached the street corner before she caught up with him again. “Trace, please! I’ll follow you home if I have to, and I’m barefooted. If I catch pneumonia it’ll be on your conscience.”

  He stopped abruptly. “Goddammit, Jenny. I tell you I murdered my wife and you still think I have a conscience?”

  Somber now, she placed her hand against his arm. “I know you do.”

  He stood stiffly for a moment, then swore a snarling oath and whisked her up into his arms. Toting her back toward her house, he muttered, “Barefoot and in your nightgown. Stupid. I never would have guessed it of you, but time and again today you’ve proved me wrong. Didn’t you get the hint, lady? I’m dangerous. I killed my wife! You should not be chasing after me!”

  She rested her head against his chest, soaking up his warmth. He was right about one thing. She shouldn’t have chased after him without grabbing her robe first. “I want to know how it happened. I want to know why.”

  He didn’t speak again until he’d carried her back inside her house, to her bedroom, where he deposited her on the bed. “Get some sleep, Jenny. You want to look good for the wedding.”

  “It was an accident, wasn’t it? You loved her so much and you accidently killed her, and the guilt you feel is crushing.”

  At the doorway to her
bedroom he paused. His hands reached out and clutched the doorjamb. “One more time, Miss Fortune. I hated my wife. I shot her.”

  Jenny studied him closely and repeated his words in her mind. What he hadn’t said provided her an answer. Smiling sadly, she told him, “I knew it was an accident. You may have killed, but you are no killer, Trace McBride. What you are is a coward. You’re afraid of something—yourself, me, the phases of the moon, for all I know. And you’ve allowed that fear to dictate your life.”

  His eyes closed, and for the briefest of seconds she saw a world full of pain in his expression. When he looked at her again, his deep green eyes were shuttered.

  “Good-bye, Miss Fortune.”

  As he took a step away from her, Jenny was compelled to add, “I believe in you, Trace, and I wish you could have believed in me, too. I’d have been a good wife to you. I could have loved you.”

  Trace stiffened, but didn’t respond. This time, the door closed with a whisper.

  MONIQUE DAY glanced at the wall clock inside the small room off the vestibule of Fort Worth’s First Methodist Church and frowned. Where was that girl? Jenny had agreed to meet her here at noon to supervise the decorating. Now almost three o’clock, Monique was more than a little worried.

  Had she made a mistake by not staying at her daughter’s home for the duration of the wedding festivities? Monique liked her privacy, and she had wanted Jenny to have hers—just in case Mr. McBride decided to do something to stop this wedding. She paused, tapping her finger against her cheek. Maybe that was it. Maybe Trace McBride had finally made his move.

  In that case, this would be a beautiful wedding after all.

  A faint grin hovered on Monique’s lips as she surveyed the interior of the church. White roses and English ivy twined around the arch that stood at one end of the long center aisle, white and blue ribbons cascading down the sides. A white cloth runner stretched toward the second, identical arch at the altar. There, more roses and ivy, dozens of potted plants and ferns, filled every available space and barely left enough room for the minister, bride, and groom.