Gingham Bride - By Jillian Hart Page 0,35
Fiona tied the top of her money sock into a knot. It wasn’t a fortune, but the twenty-three dollars in coins would have to be enough. Her stomach knotted tighter as she tucked the thick bundle into the little wooden box her grandmother had gotten her. It was meant to be a jewelry box, but she’d had no jewelry to store in it until now.
She brushed the locket with her forefinger. The memory of her grandmother was dim, but she’d been a smiling, gentle woman who smelled of cinnamon rolls. Maybe it was because she had been baking them that day Fiona’s family had come to visit. There had been an argument, and she had never seen the woman or heard from her again.
Let me tell you about the man you will marry one day, her grandmother had said in her quiet way. Like music the words came, although she did not sing them. Fiona remembered being a little girl, snuggling close to her grandmother’s side, wanting to hear more of the story. Her grandmother had obliged. Ian is a mere boy, barely a year older than you, but I hear he already has his grandfather’s gift with horses. He’s a born horseman. They say McPherson thoroughbreds are the prettiest sight in all of Landover County. You will live there one day, my dear, and gaze upon the green fields where the magnificent horses race in the sunshine. What do you think of that?
Remembering the love that had shone in her grandmother’s words drove the cold from the air. She realized she was smiling as she closed the box’s fitted lid. She had forgotten the musical sweetness of the story; over the years the family’s agreement to marry the McPherson heir had lost all wonder. Da spoke of his exploits of drinking and gambling and pranks done together as boys until she began to see Ian’s father and Ian himself as the worst nightmare she could dream up.
She’d been wrong. Her smile lingered, remembering the kind, strong man. It was tempting to want to turn to him. She almost altered her plans to run westward and go to Landover County instead.
Foolish, though, wouldn’t it be? She slid the small box beneath the loose floorboard and laid the wooden planks flat to hide her treasures. She knew Ian’s offer of help had been a genuine one, but he had troubles of his own. He did not need her to add to them.
The barn door flew open, startling her, and cracked against the wall. The animals cried out in alarm, trampling nervously in their stalls below. Mally flew from his soft bed in the hay beside her with his claws out and tail bristling to dive for cover. Likewise, she covered the floorboards with an old burlap sack and a hunk of hay.
“Fiona!” Da’s shout didn’t sound as angry as it usually did, echoing in the shadowed rafters. “Get down here. We’re having guests to supper.”
“Guests?” Her knees weakened as she pushed to her feet. What guests? A man like the one today? Fear gripped her. She still had time to grab a few things and meet the four o’clock train. If she hurried and ran most of the way, she could make it.
“My turn to host the poker game.” Da came to the base of the ladder, his gaze pinning her in the half-light. There was warning in his eyes and in the hard set of his jaw. That always spelled trouble for her. “I’ll expect you to help your ma.”
“It’s Thursday,” she realized. One of Da’s regular poker nights. Her knees turned watery with relief.
“Get your lazy self down here. I brought you up to work, and it is work you’ll be doing or else. I don’t want any nonsense tonight. You hear me, girl?”
“Yes, Da.” She cast one last look toward her hidden box. The wind gusted against the north wall of the barn, howling as if in protest. She gripped the top rung of the ladder, wishing she could ignore the clench of nerves deep inside.
It’s going to be all right, she told herself, but in truth, she could not be sure.
Chapter Eight
The distant toot, too-oot of the westbound train called across the prairie, muffled by the lessening snowfall and by the thick, panicked pulse thudding in her ears. Was it four o’clock already? Fiona stopped stock-still in the middle of the yard, forgetting the empty buckets in both hands, forgetting that Ma had a sharp eye on