by Caroline Lee
CHAPTER FIVE
Thank you for the lace?
He had poured his heart out to her, there in his back room, and that’s how she responded? “Thank you for the lace.” Ian groaned aloud, putting down his fork long enough to rake his hand though his hair, not caring that he mussed it. It’d been three days since that beautiful hour spent in her company, and he’d done his best to stay busy. But here, sitting at dinner alone, his thoughts naturally turned to her, and all of the things he’d done wrong.
She’d come into his store to buy lace. Lace. That was it. She’s shared her meal with him, probably out of pity and Christian charity. That was it. There was no need to read more into it.
Every time he thought of the way he’d touched her, held her hand, his stomach clenched in shame. He’d made a fool of himself, which is something that he’d always swore he wouldn’t do. He’d held her there, trying to tell her how much his company meant to him… after pushing her and pushing her for information about her family.
At the time, it’d seemed like a good idea; he wanted to know where to find her, and the more he thought about the calluses on her hands, the angrier he’d gotten. And when he asked her—did her family appreciate her?—and she’d said no, with her voice soft and her head hanging in shame… that’s when Ian felt the rage building. He very much wanted to know where she lived, just so he could go beat some sense into her stepfather. Didn’t the man know how special Ella was? Didn’t he appreciate all of her hard work for his family?
But the angrier Ian got, the more she withdrew from him, until he had to force himself to breathe normally or lose her altogether. So, when she was leaving, he stopped her and poured out his feelings.
And she’d thanked him for selling her the lace.
Ian groaned again. God, he really was an idiot. She’d probably been horrified when he told her how much her visit meant. She’d turned and run the moment he finished, and he couldn’t blame her. He’d spent almost twelve years missing part of himself; he couldn’t do half of the things men in Wyoming did on a daily basis… but for some reason, he’d thought that she might be different. She might see him for who he was, not for who he wasn’t.
He dropped his forehead into his palms, rubbing at his eyes. His pulse pounded in his ears, making his head ache and his teeth clench. This was miserable, and it was his own fault.
“What is wrong with you? Why you no eat Senora Spratt’s stew?”
Ian moved his hands just enough to see Abuela Zapato hobbling towards his table. She was a short, plump woman who wore her extremely-out-of-date bonnet everywhere, and carried her cane as much for swiping at errant boys as walking. She insisted on being called “Grandmother” not just because she ran the local orphanage, but because she treated everyone like her children. She was one of Ian’s few regular female customers, and over the last year he’d come to not mind her motherly habit of thinking that she knew the best for everyone. Today, though, she pulled back the second chair at Ian’s customary dinner table, and sat down without waiting for an invitation. “You are sick again, hijo? Mary, she tell me that you are sick before.”
Ian tried for a smile, and sat up straighter. Ignoring muscles in his back that groaned in protest, he dropped his elbows from the table. He glanced at the plate of Mrs. Spratt’s delicious beef stew and thick slice of bread, and swallowed his sigh. “It’s tasty as always, Mrs. Zapato. I’m just not hungry today.”
“Yo no te creo! I leave the children with Rojita and Hank, I come to chismear with Mary, no? But we no talk, because I see you here, sighing and pushing food around. I hear you moaning from across the room! I think ‘There is a boy who needs Grandmother’s advice!’ You are sick at heart, no?”
Ian stared across the table at the woman who was always so solicitous when she came to his store, always so sensitive and caring. Would his father had been so perceptive of his feelings? Had his mother ever pushed him to share, like Mrs. Zapato was doing? “You’re right. I’m not feeling well today.”
“It is because of a woman.” It wasn’t a question.
“How did you…?”
The old woman shrugged dismissively. “When a man looks the way you look, hijo, it is because of a woman. Always.”
Her expression invited him to spill everything, but Ian couldn’t bring himself to share. Ella was… Ella was special, and secret, and only his. So he pressed his lips together and looked away.
Abuela Zapato sighed. “You are a lonely man, Ian. Your dogs, they not give you everything you need. You need conversation and connection and comfort. You deserve these things, Ian.”
Do I?
“You need una esposa. A wife.”
He couldn’t help himself; he snorted. A wife. He used to court women and steal kisses and make plans for futures together. But he’d had to forget those plans twelve years ago, lying on a table in a field hospital with a leather strap in his mouth for the pain and a blurry doctor standing over him. Mrs. Zapato’s quiet words broke through the unpleasant memory. “You think you do not deserve these things? Deserve a wife? You are wrong.”
She drew Ian’s attention when she shifted forward in her seat, moving one veiny, callused hand to the tablecloth. “You are a good man, Ian Crowne. You have a business that is a success, you work hard. You have a home and a life to offer a woman. So you are missing a foot? Pah!” The old woman threw up her hands, but didn’t let Ian drop her gaze. “That is not so very important. What is a foot? Nothing, to a husband, to a father.” A father? It had been years since Ian had let himself dream of becoming a father. “You think you’re worth less without your foot? You are wrong.”
Ian swallowed. Everything Abuela Zapato was saying… was true. He could recognize that; he was an intelligent man. So why was it so hard to make his heart accept this as truth?
Maybe the older woman saw something in his expression—some indication of how lost he felt—because she reached across the table and patted his shoulder. “You are a good man, Ian Crowne. You need to stop hiding, no? Stop hiding yourself and your heart.”
“How?” God, his whisper sounded pitiful, but she only smiled, and squeezed his shoulder.
“Eat, first, or Mary will be mad. Then, join Everland. Make friends.” Ian wanted to protest that he had friends, but at that moment, he couldn’t name a single one. “Go to the saloon, go to your Sunday social—I know about this, I do. Meet people. Meet women. Meet your woman.”
Mrs. Zapato patted him once more, and then stood and shuffled off towards the door. Meet your woman. Surely it wouldn’t be that easy? Despite the fact that he rarely socialized, Ian knew most of the people in town, and hadn’t heard of a woman who was forced to slave for her family. But if she hadn’t left on the train, she must still be here somewhere.
Because no matter what old Abuela Zapato said, he didn’t want any other woman; he wanted Ella. He wanted the woman who had looked at him and saw him.
But he could take Mrs. Zapato’s advice. It would gain him… what? Acceptance. Because if nothing else, these two brief interactions with Ella—and the dreams he’d had in between—had taught him that he wanted more from life than what he had. Was ready for more from life. And gaining acceptance in Everland—showing them all that he was here and he wasn’t going away, no matter what they thought of him—was the way to go about that.
And so, he ate the rest of the beef stew. And then, thanking Mr. Spratt with a smile, he collected his crutch and made his way towards the saloon. To make a place for himself in this community.
Mabel’s dress was a monument to lacey gaudiness. All three pink flounces were lined in lace; there were thick lace borders at the wrists, neck, waist and shoulders; and thinner versions at absolutely every seam. It had required Ella to remove most of the stitches she’d already put in to add the lace, and the finished dress was… Well, she thought it was hideous, but Mabel was pleased.
“Ella, I have to admit that sometimes you aren’t completely useless.” Her oldest stepsister was standing
on an ottoman, admiring herself in the sewing room’s full-length mirror. Her twisting and turning was making it difficult for Ella to keep the hem she was pinning straight. If she could get this finished soon, maybe Mabel wouldn’t insist on adding lace to this part too.
“You’re too kind,” she muttered around a mouthful of pins, rolling her eyes in the direction of her sister’s shoes. “Now hold still.”
Mabel tsked. “What do you think, Sibyl? Is there enough lace?”
Ella peeked at the girl sitting at the vanity and flipping through a magazine Papa had sent away for. Her pretty little lips curled up in distaste, but she lifted the pages so that her sister wouldn’t see, and made a vague noise of agreement.
Hiding her own smile, Ella hurried through the pinning. In her opinion, this youngest Miller sister had the best taste in clothes, and wore them well. She was also the least-awful of Ella’s stepsisters. Ella liked to think that it was because she’d helped raise the girl, and Sibyl had looked to her as a child as often as she’d looked to Mabel and Eunice. Of course, as she grew, and realized how much her family expected from Ella, she began to demand attention too.
But at least she only went along with her sisters; didn’t think of the truly diabolical punishments as Mabel did. Why, on more than one occasion, Mabel waited until midnight to sneak downstairs and kick soot all over the parlor rug, in revenge for one of Ella’s irritated retorts. Of course, she never admitted it, but her smug attitude—and the mess all along the hem of her nightgown, which she expected Ella to clean along with the parlor—was proof enough.
And Mabel found fault with almost everything that Ella did, no matter how well Ella did it. Just like this dress for the picnic; no matter that Ella had followed Mabel’s pattern exactly, her older sister still found a way to make her re-do it. And Papa always, always sided with his daughters.
“The July Fourth celebration is only eight days away.” Mabel was still preening when Ella looked up from where she squatted at her sister’s feet. “I’m sure that this will be the year that I receive the proposal from the man of my dreams.”
She’d said that last year, too, as Ella recalled. And the year before. But this year, Ella was in whole-hearted agreement with her oldest stepsister; Mabel had to get married soon. “Who is that?”
“Why, Roy DeVille, Jr. of course.” The way she sighed his name caused one of Ella’s brows to inch up on its own, and she exchanged a surprised glance with Sibyl, who’d dropped the magazine to listen.
“I didn’t know that you…” How to put it delicately?” “Liked him.”
Mabel put both her hands on her hips, still studying herself. “What you don’t know could fill a rain barrel. His father owns the largest ranch in the area; it just makes sense that we’d marry and combine them. And he’s so, so handsome…” She trailed off with another sigh.
Sibyl’s mouth was pulled down in a little frown, but Ella wasn’t sure why. She’d never met Roy—of course she hadn’t—and so had no idea if he would be a good husband for Mabel. But then, what did it matter? Any husband would mean that Mabel was gone from her life.
“I don’t think he’s the kind to love you, though, Mabel.”
Their oldest stepsister dismissed Sibyl’s quiet claim with an eye-roll. “Love? Who cares about love? He’s rich, darling; that’s what matters. Only fools care about love.”
Sibyl’s chin came up, and Ella felt a little burst of pride at the girl’s gumption. “I must be a fool, then. I’m only going to marry for love.”
Remembering all of the novels and fairy tale books that Edmund Miller had purchased for his youngest daughter, Ella bent back over the hem. Sibyl had always been the romantic in the Miller family; she used to insist on Ella taking her outside after the sun set to search for the first star of the evening. She’d screw up her little face, and whisper her wishing-chant to the heavens: Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight… Ella hadn’t realized that the girl was still so ideological; she wondered if this youngest stepsister of hers still wished on stars.
“For love? In this town? Who would possibly love you?”
Even Ella winced at Mabel’s dismissive insult. The Miller sisters were always chatting about their social events and teas; surely there were young men here who Sibyl could love? But again, her youngest sister defended herself. “Any number of them, I’m sure. Roy’s brother Max is handsome, in his own way. Or his friend Ox, who seems sweet. Or Casey Jones, or the three Gruff brothers, or even that handsome shopkeeper—you know, the cripple.”
Absolutely all of the blood in Ella’s body rushed to her ears to pound there, blocking out Mabel’s scowled response. She could tell from her older stepsister’s gestures that she didn’t think much of the town’s offering of men. Ella’s ears began to clear just in time to hear her finish: “…and as for Mr. Crowne, he’s entirely too reclusive. Maybe if he got out and joined the community a bit more, spent some of that money he must be hoarding, he’d be more attractive as a husband.” She ticked off his faults on her fingers, blithely unaware of her angry stepsister, crouched at her feet. “Maybe, then, you could consider asking him to court you. If he could manage it—how do you think he dances, with that crutch of his?” She dismissed him with a wave. “No, he’s not real husband material.”
Maybe not for you, you self-centered—Ella clamped down on her thoughts, afraid that they might appear on her face. Better to not respond to her sisters’ discussion at all, than have them realize how badly she wanted to defend Ian. He was a good man, and didn’t deserve to be insulted by Mabel. She willed Sibyl to defend her choices, but their overbearing sister must’ve beaten the girl back behind her magazine again.
Unfortunately, that meant that Mabel turned her attention back to Ella, who wasn’t sure that she could speak yet, without betraying her outrage on Ian’s behalf. “I hope that you’ve got our picnic baskets planned, Ella. I absolutely do not want a repeat of last year’s fiasco.” Last year, Ella had had the audacity to pack two baskets with the same food. “Eunice and I are doing you the favor of decorating our own baskets this year, so that you’ll have time to cook.” Decorating? You’re tying a ribbon around the handle, I’ll bet. Mabel smoothed her hair back, and pinched her cheeks slightly, still intent on her reflection. Ella resisted the urge to poke her with a pin and claim it was an accident. “The very least you can do is make sure that we’re bringing different meals.”
Ella hmmmmed, not willing to agree, but knowing that it wouldn’t make a lick of difference. Mabel didn’t think that was the appropriate response. “What?”
“I said—” Ella moved the pins to one side of her mouth, her hands still working quickly. “That’s fine. What does Eunice want in her basket?” Their middle sister was resting in her room with one of her frequent headaches, and the question was easier than asking what Mabel wanted, because she was sure to have a long list of demands.
“It doesn’t matter what she wants, because you’ll be making fried chicken for my basket. It’s the least-terrible of the meals that you make, and would go well with potato salad, if you think that you can manage to make that without blundering completely.”
The hateful words were easy to brush off. Everyone always enjoyed her fried chicken; Lord knows Ian had.
At the thought of Ian, her hands stilled. As always. She couldn’t help but remember the intensity of his gaze when he’d held her hand there in his storeroom, and the way the heat had traveled up her arm and into her chest. He’d talked to her in a way that no man ever had. He treated her the way Maisie treated her; as a friend. And Ella loved every second of it. Loved seeing his smile, loved his teasing. She was still dreaming of him, but this time, her dreams were of more than just his kiss. Now that she did know what his touch did to her, she dreamed of grander things… a future together.
A sharp jab pulled her from her silly wool-gathering. Wincing, she carefully pulled the pin from her finger, careful not to get the drop of blood on the pink silk. A future with Ian?
She had to scoff at her silliness. The man was handsome, successful, and well-off. She was a nobody.
“What are you doing with this, Ella?” Sibyl’s question distracted Ella from her less-than-pleasant thoughts. Her younger stepsister was stroking a bolt of yellow-and-white cotton that Ella had been foolish enough to leave out. Her mouth went dry at the realization.
“Nothing,” she managed to squeak out. Luckily, her work was hidden away at the back of the bottom drawer of the sewing bureau, where her sisters probably wouldn’t think to look. Eunice had ordered the material last year, sight unseen, and when it arrived, Mabel had absolutely forbidden her to wear it. She said that with the Miller sisters’ pale hair and skin, it made them all look like sallow corpses. Sibyl had obviously been disappointed, so Mabel relented and allowed Ella to make them all third-best summer nightgowns out of it.
There was still plenty of material left on the bolt, though, and Ella had thought that they might’ve forgotten about it. With the little bit of leftover lace from Mabel’s gown, and a few feet of the leftover white ribbon from Eunice’s gown, she’d thought that she could make a serviceable—but pretty—church dress… not that she was ever allowed to go to church with the family anymore.
Perhaps, in the very back of her mind, was the thought that—assuming her sisters’ dresses were completed successfully, and that their food was packed—she might be able to go to the picnic too, if she had a dress fit for the occasion. Not nearly as fancy as her sisters’… but nice enough for Ian—
She bit her tongue, giving herself something to think about besides him.
Unfortunately, Mabel was able to sniff out secrets. “What do you mean, ‘nothing’?” Her sharp tone sent a spike of pain through Ella’s forehead, but she didn’t let it show. “It’s out, so it’s obviously for something. What are you doing with it?” She tried to turn, to look at the fabric, but Ella held her ankle with her free hand, keeping her still so that she could finish the hem.