The Bad Luck Wedding Dress (13 page)

“I want to ride an elephant” Katrina turned to her father. “Can I, Papa? Can I ride an elephant? Will you take us to the circus, please?”

Trace gazed around the table. “Don’t have to, Katie- cat,” he said in a loud whisper. “We’re already there.”

Jenny laughed into her napkin, pretending a cough.

Katrina’s eyes clouded with worry. “But Papa …”

“I’ll take you, sweetheart. Don’t worry.” He winked at his youngest daughter, who clasped her hands joyfully together.

Her face beaming, she asked, “Can Miss Fortune go with us? We’d have ever so much fun.”

“I’ll be Miss Fortune’s escort, young lady,” Edmund Wharton said. He dabbed at his mouth with a pristine napkin and gave Jenny an intimate smile. “Ah, the circus. Mr. Barnum puts on quite a show, I’m told. The bareback riders are said to be unbelievably daring.”

Trace glanced around the table. No one but he seemed to have noticed how the light in Jenny’s eyes dimmed as she nodded in response to her fiancé’s comment.

Her fiancé. Memory of that kiss Wharton planted on Jenny had haunted him all afternoon. First thing tomorrow he intended to patch that damned spy hole in his bedroom floor.

Trace stabbed his beefsteak with his fork. Why had he come here tonight? Why was he putting himself and his girls through this? After Emma informed him that Jenny had accepted Wharton’s proposal moments before the kiss he witnessed, he’d decided not to go anywhere near the Cosmopolitan Hotel that evening. But as the girls took to hammering him about stopping Miss Fortune’s wedding, he’d decided the best thing for them—and possibly himself—would be to demonstrate how he supported the dressmaker’s decision to marry.

The problem was he didn’t support it. Not one bit. Not to this fellow.

He lifted a bite of meat to his mouth and observed Edmund Wharton while he chewed. The man was a snake, a sharper. Trace couldn’t imagine Jenny Fortune married to a man like that. She needed someone scholarly, someone more reserved and cerebral.

Wharton would give her physical.

The steak’s flavor turned sour at the thought, and Trace forced himself to swallow. His hand clenched around his fork as he imagined his fist crashing into the pretty boy’s face.

The violence of his reaction—both this afternoon and again this evening—had shown him the necessity of supporting the dressmaker’s decision to marry. He realized he was dangerously close to falling under the woman’s spell himself. A wedding ring around her finger would put an end to that, thank God.

Trace didn’t mess with other men’s wives. He knew just how destructive such an action could be.

Watching Jenny smile at something Maribeth said, Trace reminded himself that marriage between Wharton and the seamstress would also mean the finish of the foolish fantasies his girls had indulged in concerning him, the lady, and marriage vows. What a blessing that would be!

Ever since Emma’s birthday picnic, the Menaces had wrenched up the harassment. That foolishness with their teacher was but a small part of it. Hell, they’d done everything but book a church and preacher.

He lifted his water glass to his lips as Monique turned to him and said, “Before I forget, allow me to compliment you on the quality of spirits you serve at the End of the Line, Mr. McBride. I was quite impressed with the entire establishment, in fact.”

Trace damn near choked on his drink. Clearing his throat, he said, “You’ve visited my saloon?”

“Yes. I accompanied Jenny this afternoon while she visited the whorehouse across the street.” Emma’s and Maribeth’s heads jerked up and their mouths fell open. Before Trace found his voice, Monique forged ahead. “The madam and I had a long chat about you, and I wanted to see your place of business. I will caution you to watch the bartender named Bob. I believe he was watering the whiskey. Pete, however, poured a nice strong drink.”

When his older daughters shared a scandalized look, Trace smothered a groan and turned his attention to containing the damage. “Girls,” he said, offering his daughters a pointed smile, “you may be excused.”

“But, Papa, we’re not ready to leave yet.” Emma’s gaze darted from her father to Monique, desire to hear more written all across her face.

“That’s right,” Maribeth added. “We can’t go yet. Look at Katrina’s peas. All she’s done is smush them. She hasn’t eaten a one and you said—”

“Now, Maribeth.” Trace’s tone brooked no argument. “Mrs. Raines is upstairs in her apartment waiting for your visit.”

With one look at her father, Maribeth’s mouth snapped shut. She scooted from her chair without another word, as did her sisters. The Menaces knew not to push him any further today.

He’d given them plenty of warning. Before they left home he’d laid out his expectations concerning their behavior at dinner. No whining, no back talk, and absolutely no shenanigans or they would suffer dire consequences.

As they politely said their good-byes, Trace was thankful he’d previously made arrangements for his daughters to go upstairs after dinner to visit with the hotel proprietor’s invalid mother. The girls liked the elderly Widow Raines and usually enjoyed the weekly visits that had begun following an incident involving a rock, a window, and a bruise on Mrs. Raines’s head.

At this particular moment, he wished he had a rock to chunk at Edmund Wharton. The oily bastard was sipping at his drink, his lip; twitching in smug amusement.

Like well-mannered young ladies, his daughters filed from the room. They spoiled the effect somewhat by making a mad dash up the staircase clearly visible through the French doors that separated the dining area from the hotel lobby.

Monique’s eyes were wide with innocence as she said, “Oh, dear, did I speak out of turn?”

“Of course you spoke out of turn, Monique,” Edmund drawled, lifting his wineglass toward Trace in mock salute. “Few men care for their dealings with whores to be discussed at the dinner table. Am I right, McBride?”

“Now, Edmund, I wasn’t referring to Trace’s sexual exploits. Rachel Warden mentioned those only in passing.” Monique gave Trace a wink and continued, “Mainly we talked about his financial exploits. He is quite the success story according to Rachel. His End of the Line is considered the best saloon in town, despite the fact he has no abovestairs business. I was quite impressed, actually.”

She freed a dazzling smile and addressed Trace. “That’s another reason I was so glad you accepted my invitation here tonight. I had an idea that might help Fortune’s Design through these difficult times until the wedding restores her reputation. Your saloon has the perfect place for a stage, Mr. McBride. If you were to host a floor show, my daughter could design costumes for the dancers similar to some of the dresses she’s fashioned for Rachel’s girls. Why, you’d have to add to your building to serve all your customers.” With a quick glance to Edmund, she said, “You must see this one gown she’s made. It’s striped black-and- scarlet satin and cut all the way to—”

“I’ve seen it,” Trace said flatly, Monique’s words recalling the image to his mind.

“That’s right.” Monique waved a hand. “Silly of me to forget. That’s what gave me the idea to begin with. Rachel said you took one look at my daughter and—”

“Mother!” Jenny put down her fork, obviously embarrassed. “Please. I’m not designing any dresses for any floor show.”

“I should say not,” Edmund agreed. “You won’t have time because you’ll be too busy sewing a trousseau.” Lifting her hand, he pressed a kiss to her palm and added, “I think I’ll request five ensembles, my dear, all similar to this black- and-scarlet striped silk.”

Trace shoved to his feet. “Excuse me. I’m afraid I’ve developed a bad case of indigestion. It’s time I fetched my girls on home, anyway. Can’t keep them out too late on a school night.”

He heard Edmund Wharton’s self-satisfied chuckle as he walked away. Monique Day sputtered on about wedding plans, and Jenny remained silent. Upon reaching the doorway into the hotel lobby, he couldn’t resist a glance back.

She was watching him, her eyes dimmed with an emotion he didn’t want to name. Fragile, he thought. As if a stiff wind could snap her in two. Not at all like his Jenny Fortune.

His Jenny Fortune. Well, hell.

Trace slammed the French door behind him.

CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

WIND BUFFETED the lone figure standing on the second-floor veranda of the stately home overlooking the Ashley River. A dark gray haze hung low in the sky, swallowing the tree- tops and lending an appropriate sense of isolation to the morning.

Tye McBride’s lips curled in a bitter smile. He didn’t need weather to provide the perception of solitude. He was used to feeling alone, even when surrounded by people. Especially then, in fact, because the crush of bodies in a crowd made him feel his loss more intensely.

His loss. That made it sound like a death, and in a very real way it was. All his life he’d shared a bond with another soul, his other half, his twin. Distance had not affected it, neither had war. Even in the darkest days of Reconstruction politics, when they were pitted against each other in a vicious battle of words, the connection had never been severed.

Until that god-awful night seven years ago when a woman had succeeded where all else had failed.

Since then, Tye had been alone. Bitterly, guiltily, miserably alone.

Rain spat from the cloud, splattered against the cobblestones, and advanced upon him like a harsh, cold death. The wind whipped and swirled, sending a loose shutter somewhere above him flapping against the wall. Tye stood his ground, braced against the wind, facing the decision he had avoided a good portion of the day.

He glanced down at the newspaper clenched in his fist. Waterspots had left darkened splotches across the yellowed pages but failed to obstruct the letters of a masthead. D-E-M-O. For the
Fort Worth Daily Democrat
, a Texas newspaper dated April 18, 1879, and delivered to him by the investigator earlier that day.

Texas. Why the hell Texas
?

On page 3 under “Letters to the Editor” the owner of a local saloon had chided the city fathers for their crackdown on the entertainments offered in a place the writer called “the Acre.” The letter read in part:

Mayor Beckham has gone beyond the public mandate to control the lawlessness in the entertainment section of our fair town. With the cattle season beginning, I implore the city leaders to rescind the ordinances that have closed so many of our amusements, keeping the cowboys on the prairie with their herds and their monies still in their pockets. Fort Worth’s economic survival depends on it.

The letter was signed “Trace McBride, Proprietor, End of the Line Saloon.”

Tye drew back his arm and threw the rolled newspaper as hard and as far as he could. Weighted by the rain and blown by the wind, it landed atop a flower planter almost directly below.

“Damn. A bartender.” The injustice of it, the irony of it, made him want to scream. Years ago, alcohol had damn near killed Tye, and his brother had saved him. Trace had left his home, his family, and his flourishing career as an architect to spend three months drying out his hostile and sometimes dangerous brother.

When it was over, Tye had sworn never to touch the stuff again. He’d broken the vow once, and it had cost him everything.

“Thackery,” a soft voice called from behind him. “Come inside. You’re getting drenched.”

Turning around, he smiled at his grandmother. At seventy-four, Mirabelle McBride was still a beautiful woman. White hair crowned a face lined with age, but time had yet to dim the vividness of her emerald eyes. She held out a hand. “Help me, Thackery. This stormy weather seeps into my bones.”

Tye immediately moved to do her bidding. He would not fail Mirabelle. If she needed him in any way at all, he’d be there to help her. Pressing a kiss to her temple, he took her arm and offered her his support. Just as she had done for him and Trace and their three sisters since the day they buried their parents.

“Help me to the rocker by the fireplace, dear, and add more wood if you don’t mind. It’s chilly in this parlor. Too chilly for an old woman.”

“Grandmother, you’ll never be old.” Tye settled her into the seat, then took a log from the woodbox and tossed it onto the low burning flames. Sparks rose up the chimney and within moments the wood caught fire. He lifted a brass poker and moved the logs around. As he returned it to the stand, Mirabelle spoke.

“What will you do now, Thackery?”

He shut his eyes. Though he stood mere feet from the now crackling fire, he felt cold inside. Brittle. “I don’t know. I haven’t decided.”

She tisked. “You decided four years ago when you began searching for your brother.”

The Westminster chime of the mantel clock struck the quarter hour. “I don’t have to go myself. Anyway, I don’t want to leave you, Grandmother.”

“I will not be used as an excuse, Tye,” she said pointedly. “I am quite capable of watching out for myself. It isn’t as if I’d be alone, not with your sister living here now.”

“What about the plantings? I need to—”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, dear, but isn’t that why you asked your sister to move home? That husband of hers is an excellent manager. Ellen and Scott and I can take care of Oak Grove just fine, and if we need any help, your other sisters are only a day away.”

“But—”

“No ‘buts,’ Thackery. You must settle between you face-to-face. You owe him that much.”

He did owe his brother. He owed an explanation and an apology for a start, but neither one would ever be enough to make up for his betrayal, to replace what he had stolen.

What he had stolen
. The words were thorns in his heart. For all his villainy, Tye wasn’t the only one who had stolen. Trace had stolen from him, too. Something irreplaceable. Something precious.

Guilt fed the anger that flared, fierce and hot inside him. He whirled away from the fire and began to pace the room, fists clenched at his sides. “You’re right, Grandmother. I have to go, don’t I? This situation must be resolved, one way or another.”

Mirabelle tugged on the lap robe draped over the back of her rocker, then spread it across her legs. “I know it will be difficult for you, Tye, and it will be difficult for Trace, also. When he left here he was hurt and angry and grieved, but six years is a long time. He’ll be ready to listen now.”