Gingham Bride. Jillian Hart

mother had lit another lamp—and in the brightness she was once again the lyrical beauty he had seen on the prairie trying to tame the giant horse. He realized there was something within Fiona O’Rourke that could not be beaten or broken. Something that made awareness tug within him, like recognizing like.

      “McPherson, are you comin’?” The bite of impatience was hard to miss, echoing along the vacant board walls.

      Ian tore his gaze away, trying hard not to notice the shabby sitting room. A stove had gone cold in the corner and the older man didn’t move to light a fire, probably to save the expense of coal. He set the lamp on a shelf, bringing things into better focus. Ian noted a pair of rocking chairs by the curtained window with two sewing baskets within reach on the floor. A braided gingham rug tried to add cheer to the dismal room, where two larger wooden chairs and a small, round end table were the only other furniture. He took the available chair, settling uncertainly on the cheerful gingham cushion.

      “You’ve met Fiona, and you like what you see. Don’t try to tell me you don’t.” O’Rourke uncapped his whiskey bottle, his gaze penetrating and sly. “Do we have a deal?”

      “A deal?” Hard to say which instinct shouted more loudly at him, the one urging him to run or the one wanting to save her. Unhappiness filled the house like the cold creeping in through the badly sealed board wall. He fidgeted, not sure what to do. His grandmother would want him to say yes, but he had only agreed to come. His interest, if any, was in the land and that was hard to see buried beneath deep snowdrifts. Still, he could imagine it. The rolling fields, green come May, dotted with the small band of brood mares he had managed to hold on to. “Shouldn’t we start negotiating before we agree to a deal?”

      “No need.” A sly grin slunk across his face, layered in mean. “Your grandmother and me, we’ve already come to terms. Ain’t that why you’re here?”

      Warning flashed through him. “You and my grandmother have been in contact?”

      “Why else would you be here?”

      Oh, Nana. Betrayal hit him like a mallet dead center in his chest. Had his grandmother gone behind his back? “What agreement did the two of you reach?”

      “Six hundred dollars. My wife and I stay in our house for as long as we live. Now, I can see by the look on your face you think that’s a steep price. I won’t lie to ya. The girl is a burden, but like I said, she’s a hard worker. That’s worth something. Besides, I saw you looking her over. A man your age needs a wife. I ought to know. That’s why I settled down.”

      Horror filled him; he couldn’t say what bothered him more. He launched out of his chair, no longer able to sit still. He thought of his frail grandmother, a woman who had lost everything she once loved. Her words warbled through his mind. It won’t hurt a thing for you to go take a look. The land might be just what we need—what you need—to start over and keep your grandfather’s legacy living on.

      Legacy? That word stood out to him now. At the time, the plea on his grandmother’s button face had persuaded him to come, that and the doctor’s dim prognosis. Nana’s heart was failing. So, he’d reasoned, how could he disappoint her in this final request? Not the marriage agreement—he had been clear with her on that—but in taking a look and in agreeing to meet the people once so important to their family.

      Now, all he saw were broken dreams—his grandmother’s, his grandfather’s and his hopes to start again.

      “What are you up to, young man?” O’Rourke slammed his bottle onto the unsteady table—not so hard as to spill the liquor—and bounded to his feet. “Your family agreed to this. The girl and six hundred dollars and not a penny less.”

      “Six hundred for the girl?” Ian raked his good hand through his hair, struggling with what to say. The truth would probably make the man even more irate and if that happened, would he take it out on Fiona? He thought of his return ticket on tomorrow’s eastbound train and shivered. His palm burned with pain, a reminder of how hard O’Rourke had meant to thrash his daughter. His stomach soured.

      “I feared this would happen. She’s no prize, I grant you that. I’m sorry you had to see how she can be. She could have lost that horse, and that ain’t the first time she’s done something like that. Trouble follows that girl, but she can be taught to pay better attention. I’ll see to it.”

      He felt the back of his neck prickle. He glanced over his shoulder and noticed the shadow just inside the doorway to the kitchen. A glimpse of red gingham ruffle swirled out of view. She had come to listen in, had she? And what did she think of her father trying to sell her off like an unwanted horse?

      “It costs to feed her and shelter her. Her ma and I are tired of the expense. Since we lost our Johnny, we don’t have anyone to work the fields in the summer or in town for wages in winter.”

      And that’s what a child was to these people? A way to earn money without working for it? “I don’t have six hundred dollars, Mr. O’Rourke. My grandmother is ill and she isn’t aware of how precarious our finances are. My grandfather made some bad investments. We are nearly penniless as a result.”

      “You have no money?” Fury rolled through the man, furrowing his leathery face and fisting his hands.

      “Not a spare six hundred dollars. I didn’t come to renegotiate for the girl.” He had hoped he could bargain for the land with the little savings he had left. He had traveled here with a hope that O’Rourke would be willing to sell at a bargain to his friend’s son. That a wedding would not have to be part of the deal.

      “If you don’t have the money, then this is a waste.” O’Rourke cackled, the fury draining, but the bitterness growing. “Tell your grandmother the arrangement is off.”

      “That’s for the best.” Ian heard the smallest sigh of relief from behind the shadowed doorway. Again he caught sight of a flash of red gingham as she swirled away, perhaps returning to the kitchen work awaiting her. Disappointment settled deep within him. He told himself it was from losing out on land he had hoped to afford, but in truth, he could not be sure.

      Chapter Four

      Ma turned down the wick to save kerosene, and the small orange flicker turned the kitchen to dancing shadows. Darkness crept in from the corners of the room like the winter’s cold. “Don’t forget to wipe down, Fiona, after you throw out the dishwater.”

      “Yes, Ma.” She dried her hands on the dish towel and hung it on the wall behind the stove to dry. Tiny tremors rippled through her, as they had been doing for the last half hour or so, ever since she’d heard her da’s fateful words. Tell your grandmother the arrangement is off.

      Thank the heavens. Gratitude and relief pounded through her. A terrible fate avoided, and she was grateful to God for it. As she unhooked her coat from the wall peg by the door, she caught sight of her mother pouring a cup of tea in the diminished light at the stove, her one luxury. She worked with great care to stir in a frugal amount of honey. Fiona winced, turning away from the sight, fighting pity she didn’t want to feel. She herself had narrowly missed that kind of fate although her feet remained heavy as she slipped into her coat and hefted the basin of dirty wash water from the table. How could her parents do such a thing? And why? With the way Da was asking for six hundred dollars, she might as well be livestock up for sale.

      Angry tears burned behind her eyes as she buttoned her coat, blurring the image of her ma’s threadbare calico dress and apron, of her too-lean frame as she took a first soothing sip of tea. Fiona didn’t have to look to know exhaustion hollowed her mother’s face. That she would spend the rest of the evening sewing quietly with her head down while Da ranted and raved about their troubles.

      Tiredly, she trudged through the lean-to and, sure enough, her father’s voice followed her.

      “You get that look off your face, woman.” Da’s shout rang too loud and slurry. “You keep that up and you’ll be living in the back of a wagon. Is that what you want?”

      “I didn’t