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“It’s not your place to ask questions, missy.” Da grabbed her roughly by the shoulder and shoved her. “It’s your place to do what yer told.”
Knocked off balance, Fiona shot her hands out, but she couldn’t see the wall. Her knuckles struck wood and she landed hard against the boards. She hardly felt the jolting pain, because it wasn’t going to be anything compared to what was coming.
“Let me tell you what, girl.” Da worked himself into a higher rage, smacking the strap against his gloved palm. “If McPherson changes his mind and won’t have you, you’ll be the one to pay. I’ll make this look like a Sunday picnic—”
She gritted her teeth and closed her eyes, breathing slowly in and slowly out, ready for the bite of the strap. She heard the rustle of clothing, imagining her father was drawing his arm back for the first powerful blow. This won’t be so bad, she told herself, gathering what strength she had. She could endure this as she had many times before. She braced herself for the worst. It was best if she thought of being elsewhere, maybe astride Flannigan galloping toward the horizon. She imagined the strike of snow on her face and freedom filling her up. If only she could ignore the hissing strap as it flew downward toward her.
The lean-to door burst open with a thundering crack, and the strap never touched her back. Footsteps hammered on the board floor and Da cursed. Her eyes had adjusted enough to make out the shadowed line of two upraised arms, as if locked in battle. But the taller man, the stronger man, took the strap in hand and stepped away.
“It’s over, O’Rourke,” Ian McPherson’s baritone boomed like an avalanche. “You won’t beat this girl again. You hear me?”
“This is my house. You have no call giving me orders.”
“If you want me to consider marrying the girl, I do.” Warm steel, those words, and coldly spoken. He unwound the strap from where it had wrapped around his hand. Had he caught it in midstrike? Was he hurt?
It was hard to think past the relief rolling through her and harder to hear her thoughts over her father’s mumbled anger. He was saying something, words she couldn’t grasp, while Ian stood his ground, feet braced, stance unyielding. His words echoed in her hollow-feeling skull. If you want me to consider marrying the girl…
She squeezed her eyes shut. Marry. She wasn’t yet eighteen; her birthday was nearly five months away. The last thing she wished to do with her life was to trust a man with it.
“What is going on out here?” Ma’s sharp tone broke through whatever the men were discussing. Fiona opened her eyes, blinking against the stinging brightness as lamplight tumbled into the lean-to, glazing the man with blood staining his glove.
“Just setting a few things straight with the boy.” Da pounded past her. “Don’t stand there gawkin’, woman. Get me a drink.”
The door closed partway, letting in enough light to see the tension in his jaw. Ian McPherson hung the strap on the nail where it belonged, his shoulders rigid, his back taut. She inched toward the door, torn between being alone with an angry man and feeling responsible for his bleeding hand. He’d caught the strap, taking the blow meant for her.
Warmth crept around her heart, but it couldn’t be something like admiration. No, she would not allow any soft or tender feelings toward the man who wanted to bridle her in matrimony. She would be less free than she was now; this she knew from her mother’s life. Still, no one aside from Johnny had ever stood up for her. It wasn’t as if she could leave Ian McPherson bleeding alone in the dark.
“Is it deep?” She was moving toward him without a conscious decision to do so; she reached out to cradle his hand in her own. Blood seeped liberally from the deep gash in his leather glove. It had been a hard strike, then, if the strap had sliced through the material easily. She swallowed hard, hating to think that he was badly cut.
“I believe I shall live.” Although the tension remained in his jaw and tight in his powerful muscles, his voice was soft, almost smiling. “I’ve been hurt much worse than this.”
“If you have, then it wasn’t on my behalf.” She gingerly peeled off his glove, careful of the wound, which looked much worse once she could clearly see it. Her stomach winced in sympathy. She knew exactly how much that hurt. “Come into the kitchen so I can clean this properly.”
“I left the horses standing, and that’s not good for them in this cold.” He withdrew his hand from hers, although slowly and as if with regret. “I’ll bandage it myself when the horses are comfortable.”
“This should not wait.” Men. Even Johnny had been the same, oblivious to common sense when it came to cuts and illnesses. “You need stitches, and you cannot do that on your own.”
“I might surprise you. I have some skill with a needle.”
“Now you are teasing me.” She caught the upturned corners of his mouth. He wasn’t grinning, but the hint of it drew her and she smiled in spite of her objections to the man. “I’m not going to like you. I think it’s only fair that I give you honest warning.”
“I appreciate that.” He didn’t seem offended as he pulled away and punched through the door, holding it open to the pummeling snow. “It’s only fair to tell you that I don’t dislike you nearly as much as I expected to, Fiona O’Rourke. Now, stay in the house where it’s warm. I’ll be back soon enough and you can minister to my cut to your heart’s content.”
The shadows did not seem to cling to her with their sadness as he offered her one lingering look, and reassurance washed over her. She could not explain why she felt safe in a way she never had before; nothing had changed. Not one thing. Da was still drinking in the kitchen, Ma was still worn and irritable with unhappiness and exhaustion as salt pork sizzled in a fry pan, and yet the lamplight seemed brighter as she followed it through the door and into the kitchen where more work awaited her.
He had not bargained on feeling sorry for the girl and bad for her plight. Ian took a drink of hot tea, uncomfortable with the tension surrounding him. Other than the clink of steel forks on the serviceable ironware plates, there was no other sound. Mrs. O’Rourke, a faded woman with sharp angles and a sallow face, kept her head down and shoveled up small bites of baked beans, fried potatoes and salt pork with uninterrupted regularity. Mr. O’Rourke was hardly different, his persistent frown deepening the angles of his sharp features.
These were not happy nor prosperous people. What had happened to the family over the years? What hardships? While it wasn’t his business, he was curious. This was not the wealthy family from his grandparents’ stories. Not sure what to say, he kept silent and broke apart a sourdough biscuit to butter it. Searing pain cut through his hand. He’d used a strip of cloth as a bandage, but judging by the looks of things the cut was still bleeding. He would worry about it later. His mind was burdened, and he had greater concerns.
A single light flickered in the nearby wall lamp, but it was not strong enough to reach beyond the circle of the small table. He’d caught a glimpse of the kitchen when he’d come in from the barn, but Mrs. O’Rourke had been in the process of carrying the food from the stove to the table in the corner of the spare, board-sided room. A ragged curtain hung over a small window, the ruffle sagging with neglect. The furniture was spare and decades old, battered and hardly more than serviceable. Judging by the outline of the shack he’d seen through the storm, the dwelling was in poor repair and housed three tiny rooms, maybe four.
Nana is never going to believe this, he thought as he set down his cup. What happened to the O’Rourke family’s wealth? Times looked as if they had always been hard here. His chest tightened. He had some sympathy for that. Recent hardships had broken his family. But he reckoned in the old days when they had all been sitting around the peat fire dreaming of the future, his grandparents could not have foreseen this. There was no fortune here to save the McPherson family reputation. His grandmother was going to be devastated.
“More beans?” O’Rourke grunted from the head of the table, holding the bowl that had barely one serving remaining.
Ian shook his head and took a bite of the biscuit, his troubles deepening. What of the marriage bargain made long ago, in happier times? How binding was it? It was clear the O’Rourkes wanted their daughter married. But what did Fiona want? Not marriage, by the way she was avoiding any evidence of his existence. She stared at her plate, picking at her food, looking as if in her mind she were a hundred miles away. Her features were stone, her personality veiled.
His fingers itched to sketch her. To capture the way the light tumbled across her, highlighting the dip and fall of her ebony locks and her delicate face. She could have been sculpted from ivory, her skin was so perfect. The set of her pure blue eyes and the slope of her nose and the cut of her chin were sheer beauty. There was something about her that would be harder to capture on the page, something of spirit and heart that was lovelier yet.
“I see you’ve taken a shine to the girl.” O’Rourke sounded smug as he slurped at his coffee, liberally laced with whiskey by the smell of it. “Maeve, fetch us some of that gingerbread you made special. Fiona, get off your backside and clear this table right now. Come with me, McPherson. Feel like a card game?”
“I don’t gamble.” He pushed away from the table, thankful the meal had finally ended. The floor looked unswept beneath his feet, the boards scarred and scraped.
“Didn’t figure you for the type, although that grandmother of yours was a high and mighty woman.” O’Rourke didn’t seem as if he realized he was being offensive as he unhooked the lamp from the wall sconce and pounded through the shadowed kitchen, carrying the light with him. “Your old man knew how to raise a ruckus. The times we had when we were young.”
O’Rourke fell to reminiscing and in the quiet, Ian hesitated at the doorway, glancing over his shoulder at the young woman bent to her task at the table. New light flared in the corner—the 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 mean anything by it—”
“I don’t care what you mean. I thought that boy had money. His family was richer than Midas. What in blazes did they squander it on? We have need of it, and that pipsqueak shows up whining about being broke. Time to get back the money we put into that girl, if you ask me. If McPherson won’t take her, there’s others who will.”
And just who would that be? She stumbled into the brunt of the storm. The blizzard had grown, beating at her as if with enraged fists, her face full of ice so that she couldn’t breathe. Her father wasn’t making any sense, as usual. But he did sound determined to find a husband for her, someone who could hand over money to them. How could they do this to her? Could they actually force her to marry? No, this was America, not the homeland. It was modern times, not 1700.
But that was no comfort, none at all. The storm seemed to cage her in, blocking out the entire world. As if drowning, she knelt and upended the basin, letting the hot water steam and spill safely away from the pathway. She had underestimated her father’s callousness again. Ever since Johnny’s death, she had taken over all the chores Johnny used to do. His criticism had become unrelenting, and now he expected her to marry just so he could get some gain from it? She thought of her money sock tucked safely away, the savings she had set aside one coin at a time that no one knew about. Not even Johnny had known.
“Still at work?” The rugged baritone startled her.
She dropped the basin, shocked, as the hammering storm diminished. An unmistakable shadow appeared, standing between her and the fierce gusts, towering above her like righteousness. Ian McPherson.
“I couldn’t hear you because of the storm.” She straightened on unsteady legs. She felt beaten and battered. Did she have to face this man now, when she felt ready to crack apart? “What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be in with my father trying to barter him down to a better price?”
“You’re angry with me.”
“You’re smarter than you look, McPherson.” Anger was easier. It was the only thing keeping her strong. She swiped annoying amounts of snow from her lashes and squinted. Yes, that was a pack slung over his left shoulder. “Why aren’t you inside with a whiskey bottle? Or are you on your way to buy another bride?”
“No, not tonight. Maybe tomorrow when the storm breaks.” He knelt and retrieved the basin. Night and shadow shielded him and his voice was layered, too. She could not be sure, but maybe a hint of dimples teased at the corners of his mouth. “Sorry. I see this is no joking matter.”
“To you, maybe. I don’t know how anyone could think—” She stopped, biting her bottom lip. This had to be a nightmare, a bad dream she would wake from at any moment, wipe the sweat from her brow and thank the heavens above it was just a dream. But it wasn’t. The cruel wind gusted, chilling through her layers of wool and flannel, and she shivered, hard. Her teeth chattered. “Just get away from me, McPherson. I’m not fooled by you any longer.”
“I am sorry.” He lumbered close, gripping his cane tightly as he leaned on it. He remained straight and strong. “I didn’t come here to hurt you.”
“I’m not hurt.” Devastated. Betrayed. Disillusioned. Sure, she was all of those things. She knew her parents were not the best of people, but never had she believed they would bend this low. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“You’re lying more than a wee bit.” His leather gloves brushed her brow. His thumb rasped across her lashes, wiping away the snow because it could not be tears.
She reared away from his touch, pulse thumping as if with fear. It was too dark to see the expression on his granite face. She snatched the basin from him. “Just get going. Go on. Town is that way. Just follow the fences.”
“Eager to be rid of me?”
“More than you can guess.”
“I cannot blame you for that.” His hand fell to her shoulder, his baritone dipping low with regret. “You’re freezing out here. Let’s get you back in the house.”
“No, I can’t go there.” She thought of the four walls closing in on her and the darkness pounding with the blizzard’s wail. Her ma would not look at her, and her da, if she were lucky, might already be deeply drunk with his feet up on a stool. They would be sitting here as they did every evening, as if everything were the same as it always had been.
But it wasn’t. She could not stomach the notion of looking at them, or of knowing how wrong about them she had been. Sure, they were strict and often harsh. But deep down she had never thought they were this cold. She could not step foot in the sitting room, knowing what she was to them.
“You cannot be staying out here, pretty girl.” Well-meaning, he shielded her from the brunt of the wind as he steered her toward the fence line. The wooden posts were nearly buried, but offered dark bobbing buoys to follow in the strange, pearled darkness.
He was taking her to the barn. Her knees went weak with relief. She turned her back on the house, gripped her skirts and followed his tall shadow through the drifts. Snow needled her face, crept down her collar and over the tops of her shoes. The prairie was out there, still and waiting, calling like an old friend. Did she listen to it? Should she set aside her hopes to finish school and leave while she could?
“Careful. It’s deeper here.” Nothing but a shadow ahead of her blocking the worst of the storm, Ian stopped to reach back and take her elbow. Shadow became flesh and bone, and a stranger’s compassion softness in the brutal night. His grip was firm, a band of strength holding her as she struggled to lift her boot high enough to step out of the impossible drift. Her boot scraped over the berm of snow and then it was like falling, trying to find where the earth began. She went down and Ian held her safely until her toe hit ice and she found her balance.
“Want to head back?” he asked, releasing her.
The thought of being in the sitting room made her throat burn. She shook her head, letting him lead her through the darkness, and shivered deep inside, where no cold wind could possibly touch her. The image of her mother bending quietly to her task of stirring a drop of honey into her tea became all that she could see.
What if her parents thought they could pressure her to marry? Already they pressured her into doing so much. A good daughter would do more for her parents. A Christian girl would honor her parents with her obedience. Only a selfish girl would think of her own future when her family was running out of money for food and coal. Like they always did, would they talk at her and team up and make her feel as if helping them by marrying was the only right thing to do? She could hear their voices as if part of the brutal wind, chipping away at her like water against rock until she thought they might be right.
But this? Marrying a stranger against her wishes? How could that ever be right? She let the strong grip on her arm keep her upright, forcing her legs to keep moving and her feet to lift and fall into the unbearably cold snow. If her parents had their way, she could imagine her life twenty years from now: worn down by hardship and thankless work and hardened by a harsh marriage to a joyless man. That wasn’t the future she wanted. That wasn’t the way she wanted to live.
“Fiona?” Ian’s rough voice brought her back, straining as he fought the powerful wind to hold open the barn door. He was waiting for her, a kind presence on a heartless night.
“Sorry.” She stumbled across the threshold, passing so close to him she could feel the warmth of his breath. Tiny shivers skidded down her spine, from closeness or warning, she didn’t know which.
“You have a lot on your mind, lass.” The door banged shut, echoing in the dark.
“I wish I didn’t.” What she wanted was to go back to believing her future was bright. She wanted to turn back time and start over the day, armed with answers she did not now have. She knew her parents were hurting financially, but with every step she took all she could hear was her father’s words. If McPherson won’t take her, there’s others who will.
“I know the feeling.” His kindness could drive the cold from the air and the hopelessness from the night. Heaven help her, for she could turn toward him in the inky blackness as if she saw him. The thud of his rucksack hitting the ground and the pad of his uneven gait only confirmed it. His hand found her shoulder. “It’s a tough night you’ve been having. Let’s get you dry and warm. Come with me.”
“I can take care of myself.” Her deepest instinct was to push him away, to shrug off his comforting touch and turn away from his offer of help. Except for her friends, whom she trusted, she was wary of help from others, for there was always a price that came with it.
“Aye, I’m sure of it, but tonight you are heart weary. Let me help.” The smoky layers of his voice could charm away the winter. His fingers brushed her chin, tugging at the hood ties until they came free. Bits of snow rained off the edge, but before they could hit her in the face, he brushed them away, every one, as if he could see them quite clearly. “You, Miss Fiona, are in worse straits than I have ever seen.”
“I know. My father said—” She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to speak aloud the horrible words. “Why are they doing this? Why now?”
“Your teeth are chattering.” He eased down her hood and knocked the driven ice from around her collar. “There are blankets in the corner. Come with me.”
“Are you still considering marrying me?” She stood her ground.
