The Bad Luck Wedding Dress (4 page)

She hooked her thumb over her shoulder toward the worktable where a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles lay beside the sketches. “And those eyeglasses! Perhaps they do help prevent eyestrain while doing stitch work, but you wear them in public. Like armor … unattractive armor at that.”

She shook her head in wonder. “I don’t understand you, daughter, I simply don’t. It’s difficult enough to accept that you don’t have a husband, but how can you not at least have a beau? Didn’t you learn anything growing up? Why, you were raised at the petticoats of the best flirt in Texas!”

That much was certainly true. It was also the reason Jenny had long ago chosen not to attract attention to herself by dress or manner. Something inside her rebelled against her mother’s flamboyant ways.

“Men and I seem to want different things,” she said defensively in a soft voice as she unfastened the buttons on the right sleeve. “I’ve yet to meet a potential husband willing to allow me to keep Fortune’s Design. I see no reason to waste my time being squired about by a man when we have no future together.”

Monique tisked. “See what I mean? If you were not still a virgin, you’d know better than that.”

“Mother!”

“I’m certain there must be at least one man in Fort Worth who would serve your purposes. Your business is at risk today. Unless you come up with a brilliant idea of your own, I think you must at least consider mine and identify the man you would target. Surely there’s someone in Fort Worth who interests you?”

Jenny had a sudden vision of her landlord sweeping his youngest daughter into his arms, both their faces alight with laughter.

Just because she found the man attractive didn’t mean she’d consider marrying him. And so what if she indulged in daydreams involving him from time to time? The man had never looked twice at her.

“No, Mother.” She shook her head decisively. “I appreciate your help, but I don’t think this is the answer. Besides, I’m not certain wearing the dress myself would do the trick. Fort Worth would simply hold its collective breath waiting for ‘bad luck’ to happen to me. They’d probably publish odds on how and when it would happen in the
Democrat
, just like they do for the horse races.”

While people all over the world had strange ideas about luck, Fort Worth, being a gambling town, seemed to have stranger ideas than most. Folks here made bets on everything from the weather to the length of the sermon at the Baptist church on Sunday. Jenny theorized that this practice contributed to a dedicated belief in the vagaries of luck, making it easy for many to lay the blame for the Baileys’ difficulties on the dress.

Monique shrugged. “Well, I think you’re wrong. Give it a try, dear. It’s a perfect solution. And you needn’t be overly concerned with your lack of a beau. Despite your father’s influence, you are still my daughter. The slightest of efforts will offer you plenty of men from whom to choose. Now, I think you should start with this.”

She pulled the pins from Jenny’s chignon, fluffed out her wavy blond tresses, then pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I’m so glad I was able to help, dear. Now I’d best get back to the station. Keep me informed about the developments, and if you choose to follow my advice, be sure to telegraph me with the date for the wedding. I’ll do my best to see that your father drags his nose from his studies long enough to attend.”

“Wait, Monique,” Jenny began. But the dressing room curtains flapped in her mother’s wake, and the front door’s welcome bell tinkled before she could get out the words, “I can’t undo these back buttons myself.”

Wonderful. Simply wonderful. She closed her eyes and sighed. It’d be just her luck if not a single woman entered the shop this afternoon. “The Bad Luck Wedding Dress strikes again,” she grumbled.

Of course, she didn’t believe it. Jenny didn’t believe in luck, not to the extent many others did, anyway. People could be lucky, but not things. A dress could not be unlucky any more than a rabbit’s foot could be lucky. “What’s the saying?” she murmured aloud, eyeing her reflection in the mirror. “The rabbit’s foot wasn’t too lucky for the rabbit?”

Jenny set to work twisting and contorting her body, and eventually she managed all but two of the buttons. Grimacing, she gave the taffeta a jerk and felt the dress fall free even as she heard the buttons plunk against the floor.

While she gave little credit to luck, she did believe rather strongly in fate. As she stepped out of the wedding gown and donned her own dress, she considered the role fate had played in leading her to this moment. It was fate that she’d chosen to make Fort Worth her home. Fate that the Baileys had chosen her to make the dress. Fate that the brides had suffered accidents.

The shop’s bell sounded. “Now someone comes,” she whispered grumpily. “Not while I’m stuck in a five- hundred-dollar dress and needing assistance.” She stooped to pick the buttons up off the floor and immediately felt contrite. She’d best be grateful for any customer, and besides, she welcomed the distraction from her troublesome thoughts.

Pasting a smile on her face, Jenny exited the dressing room and spied Mr. Trace McBride entering her shop.

He was dressed in work clothes—black frock jacket and black trousers, white shirt beneath a gold satin vest. He carried a black felt hat casually in his hand and raked a hand nervously through thick, dark hair.

Immediately, she ducked back behind the curtain.

Oh, my.
Her heart began to pound. Why would the one man in Fort Worth, Texas, who stirred her imagination walk into her world at this particular moment?

She swallowed hard as she thought of her mother’s advice. It was a crazy thought. Ridiculous.

But maybe, considering the stakes, it wouldn’t hurt to explore the idea. Jenny had the sudden image of herself clothed in the Bad Luck Wedding Dress, standing beside Trace McBride, his three darling daughters looking on as she repeated vows to a preacher.

Her mouth went dry. Hadn’t she sworn to fight for Fortune’s Design? Wasn’t she willing to do whatever it took to save her shop? If that meant marriage, well…

Wasn’t it better to give up the dream of true love than the security of her independence?

Jenny stared at her reflection in the mirror. What would it hurt to explore her mother’s idea? She wouldn’t be committing to anything.

Jenny retailed the lessons she’d learned at Monique’s knees. Flirtation. Seduction. That’s how it was done. She took a deep breath. Was she sure about this? Could she go through with it? She was Monique Day’s daughter. Surely that should count for something. She could do this.

Maybe.

Trace McBride. What did she really know about him? He was a businessman, saloonkeeper, landlord, father. His smile made her warm inside and the musky, masculine scent of him haunted her mind. Once when he’d taken her arm in escort, she couldn’t help but notice the steel of his muscles beneath the cover of his coat. His fingers would be rough against the softness of her skin. His kiss would be—

Jenny started. Oh, bother. Had she lost her sense entirely?

Perhaps she had. She was seriously considering her mother’s idea.

What was she thinking? He’d never noticed her before, what made her think he’d notice her now? What made her think he’d even consider such a fate as marriage?

Fate. There was that word again.

Was Trace McBride her fate? Could he save her from the rumor of The Bad Luck Wedding Dress? Could he help her save Fortune’s Design?

She wouldn’t know unless she did a little exploring. Was she brave enough, woman enough, to try?

She was Jenny Fortune. What more was there to say?

Taking a deep breath, Jenny pinched her cheeks, fluffed her honey-colored hair, and walked out into the shop.

If you break your washpot, you will have twenty years bad luck.

CHAPTER 3

TRACE STOOD AWKWARDLY BETWEEN a rack of ribbons and lace and a naked dressmaker’s form. He’d been in the shop before but always with his daughters. Something about all the froufrou and furbelows in this place made his neck itch. He didn’t want to think it might be the woman.

Jenny Fortune wasn’t his type at all. The question of plain or pretty aside, she was respectable and acquainted with his girls—reason enough for him to maintain his distance. Trace had a firm rule to remain on a nodding- acquaintance-only basis with any woman his daughters might consider a prospective mother. He wouldn’t have them hurt, and since he’d never—under any circumstances—marry again, he didn’t want them getting their hopes up.

Despite all his good intentions, when the woman in question emerged from the back of the shop, he found himself fighting a strong surge of lust. Must be the tears, he tried to tell himself. He’d always been a sucker for a lady’s tears.

Except Jenny Fortune wasn’t crying. Oh, her face showed signs of an earlier bout of blubbering, but she certainly wasn’t teary at the moment. The dressmaker had her hair down and she was smiling. It threw him off balance.

As did the memory of his peephole vision.

This Jenny Fortune was pretty. Bordering on beautiful, in fact. A tawny gold complexion, bright blue eyes. More curves than a barrel of snakes.

Damn him for a fool. Why had he allowed spectacles and a forthright manner to distract him? How could he have never noticed? If he’d taken one good look at the woman, he’d have rented this shop to the doctor who wanted the space. It didn’t matter that he’d liked her or that he’d appreciated her contract negotiating skills. Trace would never have done business with a beautiful, respectable woman.

He’d learned the hard way they couldn’t be trusted worth beans.

“Good afternoon, Mr. McBride,” she said, warmth glowing in her eyes. “What can I do for you?”

She had a Tennessee sipping-whiskey voice, mellow and rich. A surprising number of answers to her question flitted through his mind. He cleared his throat before saying, “I want a dress.”

“I see.” Humor added a spark to her eyes that Trace found captivating. And distracting. He hardly took note of what she asked. “Will this dress be for a particular occasion or for everyday?”

“Everyday.” It was more than just beauty. Something about Jenny Fortune’s manner was different this afternoon, too. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but whatever it was, she simmered with it. It made him simmer more than a little, himself.

“What sort of materials do you prefer?” With a graceful sweep of her arm, she gestured to a stack of cloth bolts lying atop a counter.

Bold, that was part of it. She had a boldness about her today, from the look in her eyes to where she positioned herself in the room—just a tad too close but not near close enough. “Materials?”

She lifted a tape measure from a basket. “Percale, cashmere, bouclé…”

His stare fastened on her lips. Full and pouty. He imagined them soft, sensuous. “Silk.”

Her gaze swept him head to foot and she took the tiniest of steps backward. Then, curiously, she inhaled a deep breath and stepped forward once again. “Silk it is,” she said, nodding. “And the color? Do you have a preference? I have a beautiful bolt of arctic blue, or a primrose might be nice.”

He shrugged, forcing himself to drag his thoughts back to the matter at hand. Forget about her looks. He’d promised his daughters he’d make sure their Miss Fortune wasn’t dying of some dread disease, and that was all he was here for. Now, if he could only figure how to go about it.

Hell, maybe he should just ask her. Sometimes folks appreciated these things being met head-on. “Miss Fortune …”

“Yes?”

He hesitated, then said, “Blue will be fine.”

Her lips twitched with a smile as she lifted a tape measure from a table and said, “You’ll look divine in blue, Mr. McBride.”

The fog cleared from his brain and he realized the direction in which she’d taken this conversation. Why, the little tease. Lord help him. Beautiful, smart, and a sense of humor. The most dangerous kind of woman.

Knowing that, yet still unable to stop himself from baiting her back, Trace lifted his arms wide, held his hands palms out, and drawled, “Y’know, insecurity would make a lot of men run from a woman with a tape measure in her hand. Personally, I’ve never had the worry.”

Twin spots of color stained her cheeks and she retreated a few steps.

Trace took his first good breath since she’d entered the room. At least the exchange had yielded information, he told himself, feeling the need for an excuse. Miss Fortune was the type to badger a man, but only up to a point.

He was glad. He wouldn’t want his daughters charmed by a tart.

Bad enough to find himself tantalized by a tease.

“Forgive me, Mr. McBride,” Jenny said, offering an apologetic smile. “I should never have indulged my tendency to jest. I fear it’s one of the penchants I’ve inherited from my mother.”

He opened his mouth—to protest or agree, he wasn’t sure—but she barged ahead.

“I forgot we are basically strangers. It’s just that your daughters speak of you so often that I feel as if I’ve known you for years.” Her tone became brisk and businesslike. “Now, I take it you are here to order a dress for one of the girls. Emma perhaps? Her birthday is close.”

He nodded and she continued. “May I suggest that the blue silk would not be an appropriate everyday dress for a girl her age? What about calico? I received a new bolt last week in colors that would be perfect for Emma.”

Trace blinked. He’d had no intention of buying a dress when he walked through the door. He’d already purchased a frilly new doll for Emma’s birthday gift, and he didn’t want to give her two presents. That would set a bad precedent with the other girls. “Fine. Whatever you think.”

Jenny’s smile was stunning. “Emma will be so pleased. She’s been talking to me about her birthday. I compliment you on being aware of her wishes, Mr. McBride. She seems to think you’ve not noticed how grown-up she’s become, and she’s afraid you’ll give her another doll.”

Trace barely managed to keep the scowl from showing on his face. “Yes, well, I know better than that. She’ll be twelve years old after all.” Guess he could save the doll for Kat’s birthday. Surely
she
was still young enough for baby dolls.

Lifting a book from the desk that sat against the wall, Jenny jotted down some notes, then asked, “Do you want to keep this secret from Maribeth and Katrina, too? I could use their help in getting Emma’s measurements.”

Measurements. Trace’s gaze slipped to the dressmaker’s bodice and the wayward thought occurred that it might have been worth the embarrassment of ordering a dress for himself just to get her hands on him.

He forced himself to look away, and he wasn’t too pleased that his stare landed on the naked dressmaker dummy. What was the matter with him? He’d never looked twice at this woman before, and today she had him pole-axed. “You can let Maribeth in on it if you need to, but Kat can’t keep her mouth shut. Now, if that’s all you need, I’d best get back to work.”

“This will do. For now, anyway.”

Her low-pitched voice and the soft look in her eyes sent a wave of heat washing through him. Then she startled him—shocked him—when she crossed the room and took his hand in hers. Her touch had a kick like hundred-proof moonshine.

“Thank you for your business, Mr. McBride.” She gently pumped his arm and the faint spice of her perfume filled his senses. “And thank you for sharing your daughters with me.”

Before Trace quite knew how it had happened, she had ushered him to the doorway. He stared down at the hand that clutched the doorknob, his skin still warm from her touch. How curious. He glanced over his shoulder. “Why did you do that?”

Her look was all innocence and fire. “Do what?”

“Shake hands with me. Just like a man.”

She looked him straight in the eye, telegraphing messages he thought he surely must be misreading. “Why did I shake your hand? It’s something my mother taught me to do.”

Trace was halfway back to Hell’s Half Acre before he realized he’d forgotten to find out why, earlier that afternoon, Jenny Fortune had been crying.

ON HER hands and knees in the front parlor, Emma McBride watched through a knothole as one floor beneath her, Miss Fortune collapsed into a nearby rocking chair following Papa’s exit. Her sister, Maribeth, sat against the parlor wall, a loose chimney brick at her feet, her ear fitted to the hollow space as she listened intently. Katrina paced the floor between her siblings.

“I can’t do this!” Jenny groaned, loud enough for all the girls to hear. “I don’t have it in me to act like Monique. It was a silly idea, anyway. It never would have worked. I’ll simply have to come up with a solution of my own.”

Emma saw Jenny’s chest lift in a heavy sigh; Maribeth heard the soulful sound. Minutes passed without further action. Finally, Emma lifted her head and looked toward her sister, thinking that the entertainment was over. She realized she’d missed something when Maribeth’s eyes rounded and her mouth dropped open in shock.

“What?” Emma demanded, putting her face to the knothole once more. Miss Fortune continued to rock in her chair, her pretty face a picture of sadness. Emma glanced at her sister and asked, “What did she say?”

Maribeth bent, scooped up the brick, and returned it to its spot. She stared at her sister, excitement sparkling in her eyes. “It’s working. Oh, Em, I think it’s working.”

“What?” Katrina asked. “Y’all are too mean to me. Next time I get a peephole, too.”

“Hush, Kat.” The eldest sister pushed to her feet and glared at the other two. “And Mari McBride, if you don’t tell me what Miss Fortune said I’ll put grass burrs in your sheets!”

Maribeth’s wicked smile was a copy of her father’s. “She said, ‘What foolishness made me think I could make a man like Trace McBride take notice of me.’”

“It’s working!” Emma flew across the room and swept her sisters into a quick, but fierce, hug. “Oh, Mari, you were right. I didn’t think Miss Fortune listened to any of our talk about Papa, but I must have been wrong.”

“What about me?” Katrina’s lips pursed into a pout. “I’m right, too.”

Emma and Maribeth shared a rolled-eye look, then the latter lifted a superior chin and said smugly, “I told you so. Twice this last week I saw that peculiar look on Miss Fortune’s face when we got to talking about Papa. She likes him. I just know she does.”

Emma began to pace the room, her expression gathered in a thoughtful scowl as she contemplated the latest developments. Shortly after the three of them decided they wanted Jenny Fortune to be their mother, they’d launched an all-out effort to convince the dressmaker that their father would be a perfect husband for her. “Something we said must have made a difference.”

“I bet it was the part about Papa sewing up the rip in my dolly’s arm,” Katrina observed solemnly. “She must really like people who sew.”

“Maybe, Kat. You never know,” Emma replied. She turned to Maribeth. “I’m ever so sorry about whatever happened to make Miss Fortune cry, but it turned out splendidly for us. You know how Papa gets about tears. Did you see his face when he was talking to her? I think he finally realized how pretty Miss Fortune is. This is wonderful.”

“Wonderful? I wouldn’t go that far.” Maribeth snorted in disgust and glared at Katrina. “We ended up in major trouble because of it. You got back way too soon, Kat. You could have hollered or something and warned us that Papa was here. You could have ruined everything.”

“That’s not my fault!” the youngest sister protested before popping her thumb in her mouth.

“You did fine,” Emma, the peacemaker, said.

“No, she didn’t; she got us in trouble! I didn’t think Papa would ever end that lecture.” Maribeth folded her arms in a huff. “It will take us two days to wash all the baseboards in the house. Oh, Kat, how come you didn’t slow him down? Emma and me didn’t beat y’all home by more than five minutes.” Glancing at her older sister, she added, “I told you we shouldn’t have waited for her to get inside the End of the Line before we left.”

Emma shook her head. “Absolutely not! We couldn’t leave Kat alone in the Acre.”

“We’re getting punished for doing just that.”

Katrina’s voice sounded mushy as she spoke around her thumb. “Mari McBride, you’re a mean sister.”

The squabbling continued for a number of minutes while Emma bent her mind to the task of how next to proceed. “We must work on Papa,” she announced during a lull in the action. “We’ve primed the pump with Miss Fortune. Now it’s time to prove to Papa how badly he needs a wife.”

Katrina stuck out her tongue at Maribeth one last time then asked, “How we gonna do that, Emmie?”

“That’s what I want to know,” Maribeth chimed in. “We can’t talk to him about it. Anytime one of us brings up the idea of getting a new mother, he gets that look on his face. I don’t like that look, Em. Don’t forget we need to be sneaky about this.”

The eleven-year-old’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “First, I think we’ll give Katrina that reward we promised her for crying to Papa about Miss Fortune.”

Clapping her hands together, Katrina beamed at her sister. “You’re still gonna buy me my dill pickle at the mercantile?”

Maribeth frowned and opened her mouth to voice an obvious protest, but Emma forestalled her by saying, “No, I’m not.”

Maribeth gave a cat-and-cream smile while her younger sister wailed, “Why? I did what you told me to!”

Emma nodded. “That’s right, you did. And I do plan to get you your pickle, only we’re not going to buy it. We are going to steal it.”

“What?” Maribeth and Katrina gasped in unison.

“It’s the next part of my plan. It’s how we’ll go to work on Papa. We’ll steal pickles from the mercantile, and we’ll make sure we get caught doing it.”

“Oh, Emma, you’re naughty.” Katrina’s eyes grew as round as a barn owl’s.

“Yeah,” Maribeth agreed, her eyes shining with delight. “And smart, too. Nothing needles Papa more than an appearance by the McBride Menaces.” Her grin faded as she added glumly, “He’ll have us scrubbing the ceilings for sure.”