Gingham Bride. Jillian Hart

      “I can take care of myself.” Her deepest instinct was to push him away, to shrug off his comforting touch and turn away from his offer of help. Except for her friends, whom she trusted, she was wary of help from others, for there was always a price that came with it.

      “Aye, I’m sure of it, but tonight you are heart weary. Let me help.” The smoky layers of his voice could charm away the winter. His fingers brushed her chin, tugging at the hood ties until they came free. Bits of snow rained off the edge, but before they could hit her in the face, he brushed them away, every one, as if he could see them quite clearly. “You, Miss Fiona, are in worse straits than I have ever seen.”

      “I know. My father said—” She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to speak aloud the horrible words. “Why are they doing this? Why now?”

      “Your teeth are chattering.” He eased down her hood and knocked the driven ice from around her collar. “There are blankets in the corner. Come with me.”

      “Are you still considering marrying me?” She stood her ground.

      “Not anymore.” The full truth, he couldn’t deny it. From the moment he had spotted her in the fields looking like snow-speckled poetry, he had been drawn. He didn’t want to admit it, but something had changed. Maybe it wasn’t anything more serious than pity for the girl—there was certainly a lot to feel sorry about in her circumstances—but he knew his awareness of her was not that simple. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he could see her wide, honest eyes, the cute slope of her nose and the new sadness on her face that tonight’s events had drawn. “I came here hoping you would feel the same as I did about our betrothal.”

      She turned away. Her hair tumbled like a curtain shielding her from his view, but he could sense her smile, small and thoughtful and pure relief. He was able to herd her down the main aisle. The runaway horse stretched his neck over his stall gate and nickered in greeting.

      “Hello, handsome.” She stopped with a spin of her skirts and a stubborn set to her jaw. Tension tightened the muscles of her shoulder beneath his gloved hand, and he let her go. She breezed away from him, ice crackling in her clothing, a lithe shadow that was like a spring breeze moving through him.

      Just ignore it. The feelings are bound to go away. He set his teeth on edge, tucked his cane against the post and lifted the match tin off the ledge. He needed a moment, that was all, and the feelings would pass. At least, he prayed they would pass.

      “You are such a good man.” Her quiet praise made the horse nicker and the other animals peer around their gates to call out for her attention. A meow rang from the rafters above. Sure enough, a black-faced cat crept into the shadows, eyes shining, to preen for the girl below.

      “Mally, where have you been? I haven’t seen you all day.” Her greeting made the feline purr and the cow moo plaintively, as if anxious for Fiona’s attention, too.

      The emotions stirred within him like embers coming to life in a hopeless place. He struck the match and lit the wick, unable to keep his gaze from following her as she reached up to touch the cat’s paw. The feline’s purr grew rusty as he batted at her playfully.

      His fingers itched to capture this image, the Cinderella girl with her patched clothes and her Midas heart. Everything she touched seemed to love her. The cow leaned into her touch with a sigh, and the other gelding—the one he had ridden earlier—leaned so far over his stall that he cut off his air supply and began to choke.

      “Riley, you poor guy. I won’t forget you.” She unwrapped her arms from the gelding’s neck and the lantern light found her, highlighting the curve of her face, gleaming on her ebony locks and revealing her gentle nature.

      He grabbed his cane and followed his shadow down the aisle. The melody of her voice trailed after him. He was not surprised when the cat bounded along the wooden beam overhead, hopped onto the grain barrel and plopped to the ground. Hurrying for more of Fiona’s affection, no doubt.

      Ice spiked into his skin and crept in fragments beneath his collar, but he ignored the cold and discomfort. He gathered a patched wool blanket from the end stall, where it sat on top of an equally old quilt, and stepped around the pillow and the small sewing basket tucked in the soft hay. He had spotted this private corner when he had been rubbing down the horses before supper.

      “Let’s get this around you before you freeze.” He shook the folds from the blanket.

      “Oh, I can take care of myself.” Her chin came up and her eyes squinted, as if she were trying to judge his motives.

      “I don’t doubt that, lass, but let me.” He swept close to her, near enough to breathe in the softness of her hair. She smelled like roses and dawn and fresh snow. He swallowed hard, ignoring a few more unexamined feelings that gathered within him. Emotions that felt far too tender to trust. He stepped around the cat rubbing against her ankles to drape the blanket around her shoulders. Tender it was, to tuck the wool against her collar so that she would be warmer. “I have an unexplainable need to take care of others.”

      “A terrible flaw.” Amusement crept into the corners of her mouth, adding layers of beauty.

      He felt sucker punched. Air caught in his chest, and his hand was already reaching before he realized what he was doing. His fingers brushed the curve of her cheek, soft as a spring blossom. Her black hair felt like fine silk against his knuckles. Shyness welled up, stealing all his words. It was too late to pretend he didn’t care and that he could simply walk away without a backward glance come morning.

      “How is your hand?” Her fingers caught his wrist, and it was like being held captive by a butterfly. Now he knew how runaway Flannigan had felt, forced to choose between Fiona and his freedom.

      “It’s been better.” His voice caught in his throat, sounding thick and raw. He ought to step away now, put a proper distance between them and keep it that way. Best to remember he had not come here to get sweet on Fiona O’Rourke.

      “Are you trying to go back on your promise?” Humor tucked into the corners of her pretty mouth.

      Captivated, he could only nod. Then, realizing he had meant to shake his head, gave a half shrug.

      “Too bad, McPherson. You will do as I say or pay the consequences.” She tugged him across the aisle with the wash basin in one hand and the blanket cloaking her like a royal robe. “You promised I could doctor your cut to my heart’s content, and I fully intend to. You need a stitch or two.”

      “It’ll be well enough with a cleaning and a bandage,” he croaked in protest. Perhaps she didn’t notice the croaking or, worse, the bashfulness heating his face.

      “So you’re a tough guy. I should have known.” She didn’t sound as if she approved of tough guys. “Sit down and stay while I fetch the iodine.”

      A more dashing man would have the right thing to say, meant to charm and make the lass toss him a beautiful smile. A smarter man wouldn’t tempt fate and would sit quiet and stoic, determined to do the right thing and not stir up feelings he had no right to. But sadly, he was neither dashing nor smart because he eased stiffly onto the pile of bagged oats stacked against the wall and savored the sight of her. His eyes drank her in, memorizing the slight bounce to her walk, the life that rose up within her here, in the safety of the barn. Gone was the withdrawn and pale girl who’d sat across the table from him. His fingers itched for his pen to try to capture the fairy-tale woman and the adoring cat weaving at her ankles.

      What harm can come of this, boy? Nana’s voice replayed in his memory. Time to face your duty. You marry the girl, and you have property. Think of it. Our champion horses would be grazing on McPherson land again. Our name will have the respect it once had.

      But at what cost? He still reeled from his grandmother’s betrayal. She was the only family he had left, and he loved her. But if she were here, she would have sold her wedding ring for the money to seal this deal, holding on too tightly to what was past.

      “Are you all right?” Fiona waltzed back into the lantern’s