The Bad Luck Wedding Dress (7 page)

“That’s not exactly what I said.” Jenny frowned, not liking the way he made her sound almost shrewish. She hadn’t carried on. Not really.

“Problem is, I don’t know what to do different.” In a graceful, fluid movement, he stood, the motion attracting Jenny’s gaze to the rugged flex of muscles beneath the white cotton shirt and dark trousers. He tossed away the straw he’d been chewing and added, “It’s a hard job for a man to parent all by himself.”

His words struck a sympathetic chord inside of Jenny. It hadn’t been easy for her father, either. How many times had Richard Fortune admitted to wishing Monique were around to help manage problems that arose between father and daughter?

Before she could frame a reply, Trace called out, “Hey, you little tadpoles, quit pestering those poor frogs.” After rolling the legs of his trousers even higher to just below the knees, he stepped into the water and rumbled in a threatening tone, “You have bigger game to worry about now.”

That, to Jenny’s surprise, elicited a trio of high-pitched squeals.

“It’s the Giant Throw-Fish!” Katrina gasped, bringing her hands dramatically to her chest. The very picture of fear, she ruined the effect by bursting into giggles as her father made a roaring lunge in her direction.

What followed was a game of such joyous abandon that Jenny got a lump in her throat just watching. He launched them one after the other, roaring out monstrous threats amidst their squeals of delight. Within minutes he was as soaked as his daughters, and Jenny wondered why he had even bothered to roll up his pants. She resisted the girls’ entreaties to join in the game, despite the fact that the wetter their father became, the hotter Jenny felt.

He called for a break in the action and stood, hands on hips, his chest rising and falling as he worked to catch his breath following the exertion of their play. Watching him, Jenny was reminded of one of her mother’s sculptures. The beauty of the human form. Man at his peak. Perfection.

Only Trace McBride was no artwork made of clay, but a living, breathing man.

She imagined her hands acting the sculptress, sliding over shoulders and down the corded planes of his back. Molding themselves against the ripple of muscle…

Heat flushed her cheeks and she gratefully shifted her gaze when Katrina called her name. “Yes?”

“Come play with us. Please, MissFortune?” Katrina begged.

“Yeah, Miss Fortune. We’d love for you to come play.” Noting the look that accompanied Trace’s words, Jenny wouldn’t have been surprised to see the creek go to steaming.

“Not now, Katrina,” she said, trying unsuccessfully to look away from Trace’s blatant gaze. Had he guessed what she was thinking? Did he sense the wanton turn her thoughts had taken? He watched her closely, seeming to read her very soul, and a tingle crept up her spine. Mortification, she told herself. “I don’t want to get my dress wet.”

“It’s already wet.” He chuckled softly and took a step toward her.

Jenny stood and backed away.

Maribeth called, “Come on, Miss Fortune!”

“What do you know, Mari-berri.” Trace’s mouth lifted in a slow grin. Another challenge. “I think Miss Fortune might just be … afraid of the Giant Throw-Fish.”

Tension charged the air between them. Jenny suddenly wanted to fight, to fight Trace McBride and these feelings he brought to life inside her. Lifting her chin, she smiled and threw his challenge right back at him. “Afraid? I hardly think so. I happen to know that Giant Throw-Fish are nothing to fear.”

Emma shook her head in warning. “Uh-oh. You shouldn’t have said that, Miss Fortune.”

Although Jenny’s concentration was fixed on Trace, she could see Maribeth and Emma off to one side, sharing a grin, their eyes gleaming. Think this is funny, do they? Ornery little girls, in some ways they were just like their father. He had now arched a brow and was smiling more like a shark than a make-believe fish.

“Nothing to fear? Oh, really?” He took another step.

“Really.”

“And why is that?”

Jenny decided the McBrides were all too smug for their own good. So, now that he’d moved to within her reach, she boldly lifted her hand and removed the limp weed clinging to his shirt. Tossing it back into the water, she said sweetly, “Because, it’s a well-known fact that throw- fish are always on their best behavior around ladies.”

Humor, and something warmer, flashed in his eyes. “What does that have to do with you, Miss Fortune?”

“Are you inferring that I am not a lady, Mr. Giant Throw-Fish?”

“Not in the least,” he replied, a husky note to his voice. “You are every inch the lady, Miss Fortune, but I’m afraid you are mistaken about throw-fish. Ladies tend to get beneath their gills, so to speak. Throw-fish need to prove just who rules the stream.”

Making the move she had anticipated, Trace McBride grabbed for her. Jenny gave an exultant laugh as she employed a move taught to her by one of her mother’s cousins. Shifting her weight, she turned her body and used Trace’s own momentum against him to throw him over her shoulder.

His yell changed to a gurgle as he landed with a splash in the clear, cool waters of Quail Creek.

If you forget something and have to go back in the house,

sit down and count to ten or you will have bad luck.

CHAPTER 5

TRACE CAME UP SPUTTERING.

Somehow he’d gotten a mouthful of silt. Treading water, he spat out the metallic-tasting mud, then rinsed his mouth. He barely heard his daughters’ gasps and giggles, as both his gaze and attention remained focused on Jenny Fortune.

Her sun-kissed hair was a tumble of lost pins and loosened braid, her complexion a triumphant rose. She calmly dusted her palms, her blue eyes shining, her mouth lifted in a smug grin. She was a self-satisfied imp, proud of her victory.

And desire roared through Trace like a summer storm.
Ah, Jenny Fortune, how did I ever think of you as plain?

But on the heels of desire came displeasure. What the hell had he been thinking, baiting her like that? He’d brought the woman along on this outing for the express purpose of establishing a business relationship. Instead, like a cake short on leavening, he’d fallen to the dressmaker’s heated looks.

They had been scorchers. Twin blue flames that inched across his skin, kindling a corresponding heat within him everywhere they touched. Who’d have thought it of prim and proper Miss Fortune? In fact, what the hell had happened to prim and proper Miss Fortune? He wished she’d come back. Quickly.

He cleared his throat and said the first thing that came to his tongue. “Didn’t have you pegged for feisty, Miss Fortune.”

“Feisty? I don’t know that I agree to the term.” She dipped to lift her parasol from the blanket. “I simply decided to take you up on your invitation.”

“My invitation?”

“To push you in the creek.”

“Oh, I see.” He recalled his quip that accompanied his invitation this afternoon—accept his apology or toss him in the creek. Ten bucks said she’d only remembered it herself after he went in the drink. “Does this mean you don’t accept my apology?”

“No. It means I seldom refuse a challenge. It’s one of the few traits shared by both my parents, so it runs quite strong in me, I’m afraid.”

“Really?” He swam to the shallow part of the creek and sloshed his way toward Jenny. “I reckon that’s good under the circumstances.”

Wariness shone in her eyes, but her reply was interrupted as the girls found their voices. “Papa,” Katrina said, giggling, “you looked so silly. Your eyes went as big as a bullfrog’s.”

In a voice filled with wonder, Maribeth asked, “How did you do that, Miss Fortune? You flipped him right over your shoulder.”

“You have a clump of leaves on your head, Papa,” Emma pointed out.

Trace brushed the mess from his hair, paying scant attention to Jenny’s explanation of how a cousin of her mother’s, a circus acrobat and clown visiting for a time in Texas, had taught her a few tumbling tricks and throws. It was time to get down to business. Past time, considering the provocative looks Jenny Fortune had been throwing along with everything else. When a woman like her got to watching a man like that, her mind invariably went to thinking weddings and bridal gifts. That would never do.

Be honest, McBride, you’re doing a bit of die same kind of looking, yourself
.

Trace watched her laughing with his daughters and did his best to ignore both the beauty of such a picture and his conscience. His success in getting her to talk to Kat about manipulation had set the scene well for his proposition. Now it was time to get the job done.

When he reached the satchel lying beside the blankets, he fumbled inside for the bar of soap. He had a sudden mental image of his hands all slicked up and slippery assisting Miss Fortune in her bath.

Damn. This had to stop. Otherwise he was making a serious mistake. Surely this problem would go away once he actually hired the woman for the job. After he had shoved Miss Fortune back across that mental dividing line between business and personal, certainly his mind would leave her there.

Keep talking, McBride. You might convince yourself by next spring.

Disgusted, he tossed the bar of soap to Emma, saying, “Enough laughing at your Pa, you three. I know it’s been fun, but my pride can’t take anymore. Besides, it’s time to get cleaned up and dried off. My stomach is telling me it’s nearly suppertime, and I have a notion Emma might be wanting her presents.”

He glanced at Jenny. “I’ll go after wood for a fire if you’ll keep an eye on them while they bathe.”

She nodded her consent, and he started up the path that led away from the swimming hole. Just before he disappeared behind a clump of honeysuckle vine, he turned back and said, “I like the way you talk to my poor, motherless Menaces, Miss Fortune. You know when to laugh and when to be serious. If they were in your care, I imagine you could teach them to be ladies. You would make them a terrific—” he paused as if searching for the proper word, then finished, “teacher.”

Jenny watched him disappear from sight, her heart pounding, her breathing shallow and fast. In a daze, she looked toward the children sharing a bar of soap as they lathered away any clinging remnants of the day’s labor in the stables.

Poor, motherless Menaces. You could teach them. Make them a terrific…teacher.

Her knees felt weak. Something about the way he had looked. The light she had seen in his eyes. The way he hesitated before completing his sentence. She thought he’d had another word in mind. Not
teacher
.

Mother
.

Could it be? Did he want her to be a mother to his children? Would Trace McBride ask her to be his wife?

Surely not. None of her problems were ever solved so easily.

Besides, was marrying Trace McBride even something she wanted? What about Fortune’s Design? Was he the type of man to tolerate a working wife?

Jenny simply didn’t know.

Having removed her shoes and stockings and knotted her skirts to just below her knees, Jenny waded into the shallow waters of Quail Creek to help Trace’s daughters wash their hair. Her mind half on the task, half on her musings, she worked lavender-scented lather through Maribeth’s auburn curls.

She was being silly, surely. How desperate she had become, reading marriage into his innocent remark. The jump in logic was indefensible. He wasn’t about to ask for her hand. Why, he’d never once come courting.

She paused, staring at the soap bubbles clinging to her fingers. Unless that’s what today was all about.

“Miss Fortune, aren’t you done yet?”

Jenny nodded absently and stooped to rinse her hands. No, today was Emma’s birthday. She had been invited to attend the celebration at the girls’ request. Hadn’t she?

“Emma, I want to thank you for inviting me to join you on this special day. Since it is your birthday, I assume it was your idea?”

Emma had washed her hair without assistance. Seated in clean, dry clothes on a nearby flat rock, she combed tangles from her curls. “No,” she replied. “Actually, it was Papa’s idea to invite you, but I was ever so happy when he suggested it. We’ve been so busy being in trouble lately, we’ve hardly had the chance to see you.”

Their father’s suggestion? Jenny was shocked. What did it mean?

She’d best mull that one over. In the meantime, the youngest McBride looked to need some help. “Katrina, you’re about to get soap in your eyes. May I help you?”

“Please.” The girl sloshed into position in front of Jenny, who briskly rubbed the bar of soap. This job required extra suds. Little Kat’s hair was even dirtier than her sister’s.

Jenny tried to put any speculation about their father’s motives from her mind as she scrubbed the young girl’s scalp. She hummed beneath her breath as she worked. Of the three sisters, Katrina’s hair was closest in color to her father’s. Dark and wavy, it was thick and smooth as silk. Jenny dreamily wondered if Trace’s would feel the same.

Her cheeks flushed from embarrassment. Silly ideas. Her mind was filled with them. Perhaps she should dunk her head and wash away these thoughts herself.

“I’m hungry. I can’t wait to eat,” Maribeth declared. “Papa packed the best birthday basket, even down to Emma’s favorite dessert.”

“And he brought plates, too,” Katrina added, laying her hands atop Jenny’s in an effort to participate in the washing of her hair. “We don’t normally bring plates on our picnics. He brought them just for you. I know ‘cause I asked.”

“That was nice of your father.” Jenny couldn’t help but wonder if she’d had the right idea before. Maybe this was the way Trace McBride courted.

It made a measure of sense. From everything she had heard and observed about the man, he spent as much time as possible with the girls. Other people in town remarked on it, so unusual was the occurrence. Of course, other people’s children didn’t require quite as much supervision as the McBride Menaces.

Knowing this, Jenny could see where a man like Mr. McBride just might bring his children along on a courting call. He would consider his girls’ opinions in the choosing of a wife.

That’s in my favor. The girls have already said they’d like to have me as their mother
.

“Wait a minute.” She unintentionally spoke aloud. What difference did it make to her whether the McBride daughters liked her or not? She wasn’t looking for a husband, despite Monique and her ridiculous ideas.

Was she?

You’ve tried about everything else to combat the bad luck rumor. A husband might be just what you need.

“What? Wait a minute what?” Katrina asked. “I was standing still, MissFortune. I don’t want to get soap in my eyes.”

“No. No, of course not. I’m done now. You can rinse.” Distracted, Jenny retrieved the soap from Katrina’s hands and began to work up more soap bather, even though all three girls were through washing their hair.

What if he did ask her to marry him? What did she want? She didn’t love Trace McBride, not at this moment. Why, she hardly knew the man.

According to your mother that doesn’t matter. Remember what she said? Lust before love?

Jenny thought of her dreams; she did have a head start in that regard.

But she didn’t want a husband. She wanted Fortune’s Design and the autonomy it provided. She’d been only a little older than Emma when she first realized she wanted to be someone in her own right. Always Richard Fortune’s daughter or Monique Day’s little girl—how she had dreamed of being just Jenny Fortune.

It was only as she grew older that she came to realize what she truly wanted was her independence. Her security.

Security. Being sent from her father’s home to her mother’s every autumn, then back again in the spring, Jenny had not grown up knowing an overabundance of security. Fortune’s Design had offered that and more.

Now the Bad Luck Wedding Dress threatened to take it all away.

The question became one of how far she would go to hold on to it. If Trace McBride proposed marriage and agreed upon the conditions she’d request, would she go through with it?

You said you’d do anything to save Fortune’s Design
.

That was her answer, wasn’t it? She waited for her stomach to sink, but instead she experienced a tingle of anticipation. Well, fancy that.

“Come on, girls,” she said to the two younger McBrides. “We’d best get you out of the water and dried off.”

Maribeth called, “Last one out and dressed has to kiss a fish.”

Jenny absolutely refused to think about Mr. Throw- Fish.

TRACE HAD built a fire more from habit than need. They’d brought a cold picnic supper in a pair of wicker baskets; fried chicken, potato salad, a jar of green tomato pickles, peaches, and Emma’s favorite cake. He eyed the contents, then looked down the hill toward the creek, wishing the females would hurry. He was hungry.

The spot he’d chosen for their picnic was away from the creek and the hum of gnats that swarmed over water in the late afternoon. The grass here was thick, the breeze pleasant. He fed cedar sticks to the fire, the spit and crackle of the wood pleasing to the ears, the aroma of the smoke olfactory ambrosia.

He loved getting away from town, its crowds and noise and foul-smelling streets. Gazing below toward the gap in the cottonwoods hugging the creek bank, he watched a cardinal dip then rise, a splash of red paint against the bleached sky. Someday he’d own land like this. Maybe even this land itself. He’d give his girls space to grow up in. He’d give them a place to lie on their backs and name pictures in the clouds; a place with room to think and dream and plan for the future.

A place like Oak Grove where he had been given those same opportunities.

Damn. Trace kicked at a tuft of grass. He had to quit thinking of home. He didn’t need it. He
wouldn’t
need it. The house in town would provide all the room the girls needed. And Jenny Fortune would give the girls the mothering they required. He planned to secure her agreement to do so right after supper.

To that end, after the five of them feasted on Emma’s favorite dessert of lemon jelly cake and the girls scattered to play ball, he turned to Jenny and casually brought up the topic of the Bad Luck Wedding Dress. “I guess business has fallen off for you quite a bit since the trouble with the Bailey girls’ dress.”

Undoubtedly, the sour look that came to her face had little to do with the tartness of the cake filling. “Fallen off isn’t quite the right term. Disappeared would be more accurate.”

She looked cute when she got snippy, Trace observed, then wished he hadn’t. “It’s a bunch of foolishness, in my opinion. The notion that the wearing of a dress had anything to do with the Bailey girls’ troubles. It’s amazing, really, what nonsense people will believe.”

“Mr. Bailey is quite superstitious.”

“Big Jack Bailey is a fool.”

Jenny didn’t contradict him. Instead, she nodded toward the box that held the birthday gift Trace had commissioned for his daughter. “Thank goodness not everyone listens to rumors. I hope Emma likes the dress, although I must admit I am certain she will. Over the years I’ve sewn more young ladies’ frocks than I can count, and I believe this is one of my better designs.” Sincerity shone in her eyes as she added, “I want you to know, I do appreciate your support, Mr. McBride.”