Gingham Bride - By Jillian Hart Page 0,81
by the fellow’s concern, he leaned his cheek against the horse’s forehead, savoring the coarse scratchiness of the animal’s forelock.
Perhaps it was the long hard day of physical work or that he was infinitely tired of fighting for someone else’s dreams, but his defenses were down, his soul weary. He had failed Fiona, too. He wanted to blame his grandmother for interfering again, but what good could come of that? Every mistake he had made along the way smarted like deep, unhealed wounds. He had pushed himself to the limit, working to make things right and following where he thought the Lord was guiding him, but he was at a dead end. There would be no good solution, whatever he chose to do. He would lose his grandmother’s faith in him, or he would ruin Fiona’s chance for happiness.
How did he choose?
The past was good and truly gone. Maybe that was what God has been trying to tell him, closing all doors but this one and bringing him here to Fiona’s sad life, the girl he had been destined to marry in his grandparents’ dreams. Maybe, if the good Lord had led him here, then it was not the past he needed to build on, but a different future.
“I feel as if I am letting down those I have loved the most.” He released Flannigan, but the horse didn’t move away. With his liquid brown eyes and intent stare, he seemed to care a great deal about the outcome, too. “Maybe the best way to repay my grandparents’ legacy of love is to do what I think is right.”
Flannigan stomped his front hoof as if in agreement, as if to say it was truly time to let go, that no one should hold on to the past so tightly that he destroyed what is good in life and in his future. Sometimes a man had to follow the hardest path, no matter its cost.
“What a good friend you are, boy.” He stroked the animal’s feather-soft nose, warm with affection for the old boy. “You have not had an easy time. I know O’Rourke is a hard master to you, and you have not deserved it. A truer heart I have never met. You’ve the spirit of a champion, my friend.”
In appreciation, the draft horse lipped Ian’s hat brim, earning a chuckle. “Let’s get you rubbed down, so I can fetch the mash I promised. How does that sound?”
Flannigan nodded enthusiastically and took off for his stall. His tail flicked, waiting while Ian hurried to open the gate. The cat pranced along the rafters overhead, and Riley leaned out for attention and perhaps to ask for mash, too.
This would be a good life, he decided, glancing around at the small barn, the handful of livestock and the memories of Fiona lingering here. Aye, the lass had changed him. His love for her drove him now as he clenched his jaw against the ever-present pain in his leg and kept his voice gentle as he rubbed down Flannigan until he was dry and warm. She was the reason he had the strength to make the hardest decision, the one best for them both.
The evenings were the worst, Fiona decided as she guided her needle through the thick fabric with a click of her thimble. Her chores were done, and with the weather taking an unusually brutal turn, her fingers went numb every time she tried sewing in the barn. She missed her animal friends and the sanctuary she once had found there, but it was gone now and the place a reminder of the cost she was to pay. She had not run; she had paid Miss Sims what she owed her, although she was sure if she explained the situation, the fair lady would have gladly taken back the fabric. No, sewing this coat was the right thing. Ian had sacrificed Duchess’s foal for her, a foal Ian surely loved and wanted.
He should have his dreams. She pressed the seam flat with her fingers, careful of the pins holding the fabric, and memories of him filled her mind. How thrilling it had felt to gallop with him through the snow in the sled, and the joy that filled her when he had given her Flannigan’s reins. Every smile, every chuckle, and the afternoon he had given her at the church. Even his promises that for a moment she feared were false—that he had come back to help her, that he cared