The Bad Luck Wedding Dress (29 page)

“Do you have bags with you, Tye? I’ll put you in the green room. Girls, since you are headed upstairs now, you may show him the way.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said with a nod, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.

She lowered her voice to where the girls couldn’t hear and added, “Allow me to state a warning. If you cause me one moment’s worth of trouble, I’ll show you the door myself.”

“Fair enough,” he said with a grin.

He rose from his chair to follow the girls when Jenny stopped him with a hand on his arm. “One more thing. You say Trace has severed all ties. What, in your opinion, will my husband do when he returns to find you in his home?”

“It’s been six years.” He glanced away as if looking into the past, then back at her. “Our grandmother seems to believe he’ll be ready to listen to what I have to say.”

“And what do you think?”

He shrugged. “Time will tell, Jenny. Time will tell.”

She was still thinking about his answer a few minutes later when Bart Rogers marched into the kitchen, threw down Mrs. Howell’s dress, and quit.

Jenny was glad to see him go. He had no excuse for using the words he did to describe her daughters. No excuse at all.

She poured another cup of tea. Sipping it, she considered how nicely problems worked out sometimes. Considering Bart Rogers had left them in the lurch, Trace would be so relieved when he arrived home to find his brother at Willow Hill.

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

BIG JACK Bailey descended the stairs of Mary Rose’s fancy town mansion and smiled with satisfaction. His baby girl had done good, damned good, even if she had married out- of-state blood. He’d known his son-in-law Stephen came from money, but until he caught a glimpse of his home, he hadn’t realized how much. Gilt mirrors and crystal chandeliers, carpets that cost more than a section of Texas ranchland. Silver everywhere a fellow looked.

Jack detoured to Stephen’s library and the Cuban cigars kept in a teak box atop the desk. Removing one, he slid it along his upper lip, inhaling the scent with pleasure. After twirling it between his fingers, he opened his jacket and tucked it into an inside pocket. Someone cleared his throat and Jack turned. His son-in-law and a stranger stood in the doorway.

“Afternoon, Steve,” he said, not the least bit embarrassed at having been caught swiping a smoke. “I’ve just come from upstairs and a visit with Mary Rose and the baby. Fine-lookin’ little boy we got. He’s Bailey through to the bone. Now, have you had any luck in discovering who sent me that fake telegram?”

The young man shook his head. “Not yet. I’ll be truthful with you, sir. With the baby coming early and then the trouble Mary Rose went through, it’s not been my first priority.”

“Well, get on with it, boy. We need to know. I want a piece of that fool’s hide whoever he is. I was plumb scared to death about Mary Rose, as were her sisters. Whoever would do such a wicked thing should be shot, and I might just do it myself. Find out who did it, Steve. I hate being in the dark about anything.” At that, Stephen and the stranger shared a look, causing Big Jack to scowl. Something was going on. “You gonna introduce me to your friend?”

His son-in-law spoke with obvious reluctance. “Allow me to introduce Bernard Scott. He has a brother who is a lawman back in Fort Worth.”

Big Jack’s brows lifted. “Scott? You talking about ol’ Rufus?” At the man’s nod, Big Jack observed, “It’s a small world, ain’t it.”

Scott stepped forward. “It’s a hard world, sir. I’ve just returned from a visit to Fort Worth, in fact.” He took a deep breath, then continued, “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, sir. Terrible news. You might want to take a seat.”

Bailey grimaced and looked away. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Why?”

Scott appeared to brace himself before speaking. “Mr. Bailey, I’m afraid your son Frank has met with an untimely death.”

Big Jack heard a roaring in his ears and the room began to spin. “You want to repeat that, boy?”

“The marshal had the doctor examine your son’s body. He’s pretty sure it was venom from a sting of some sort— likely a vinegarroon scorpion. I’m very sorry, Mr. Bailey. You have my condolences.”

Frank dead. His mouth cotton-dry, Big Jack worked to form his words. “What… where? Where did it happen?”

“At your old home.”

Big Jack sucked in a breath. Sonofabitch. That’s just where he’d have taken that goddamned dressmaker. “Was she with him?”

“She?”

“The dressmaker! Frank was to take care of her.”

“If your son was somehow involved with a lady when he died, my brother never mentioned it.”

Oh, he’d been involved all right, and somehow that goddamned dressmaker had turned the tables on his Frank. His only son.

It hit him then. Grief and rage and fury and anguish packed a punch that knocked his knees right out from under him. As he sank slowly to the floor, he seized upon one thought like a lifeline.

The woman. That goddamned bad-luck Jenny Fortune.

She was going to pay
.

“PLEASE, EMMIE!” Maribeth begged. “Papa said there are five different entrances to the secret passageway and I’ve only found four. Uncle Tye showed me one, but he says I have to find the last one by myself. I’ve looked and looked and looked, but I can’t find it. Please, Emmie? Uncle Tye says you knew the passage at the old house like the back of your hand. You could find this one for me. I’m certain of it.”

“No, Maribeth.” Emma looked up from the book she was reading. “I’ve told you before. I don’t want to go inside those tunnels. They’re creepy and I don’t like them.”

Maribeth put her hands on her hips. “How do you know? You haven’t gone inside Willow Hill’s secret passages once. How do you know you don’t like them?”

“I just know.”

“You’re just chicken.”

Emma tossed her head and returned her gaze to her book. Maribeth put her hands in her armpits and flapped her arms, squawking, “
Bawk-bawk-bawk. Bawk-bawk’ bawk
.”

“Stop it.” Emma slammed her book shut. She’d tolerate a lot from her sister, but being called chicken wasn’t one of them. “Just because I think before doing something doesn’t mean I’m not brave. It means I’m not stupid. I’d never climb a tree after pecans that weren’t ready to fall, Maribeth. They’re not good eating. It’d be stupid to go after them if you can’t eat them.”

Maribeth’s eyes blazed. “Don’t you be calling me stupid. I never said I was after pecans. You’re just saying that because you’re trying to make me forget that you’re too much a ‘fraidy cat to go into my secret passageway.”

“It’s not your secret passageway.”

Maribeth shrugged. “Might as well be. I’m the only one who goes inside.”

“That’s what you think.”

“What do you mean?”

“What about the ghost?”

“Ghost? There’s no such thing. Besides, this is a brand- new house. We don’t have any ghosts.”

Emma lifted her chin and lied. “But this hill used to be a graveyard. Papa only told me because he knew you’d be scared.”

“Scared? Me?” Maribeth laughed. “Now I know you’re lying. Papa knows I’m never scared. I’m nothing like you, Emma. I’m no ‘fraidy cat.”

“If that’s what you want to think, go ahead.” Emma opened her book and acted as if she were reading.

Maribeth drew herself up regally. “Liar, liar pants on fire. My secret passageway doesn’t have ghosts. You’re just chicken, Emmaline Suzanne.” With another pair of squawks, she left the room.

And Emma fumed. She fumed for the rest of the day. Every time her sister saw her, Mari did that chicken-wing act with her arms. Emma thought Katrina must be giving Maribeth lessons, because every squawk became more and more dramatic. It made Emma downright furious.

But it was the chicken feathers on her dinner plate that made her overcome her fear. She dared not allow Maribeth’s challenge to go unmet any longer. Otherwise, she’d be hearing squawks and eating feathers for years.

Emma decided to plant a ghost in the tunnel.

She waited until after Jenny had tucked her sisters in bed and gone downstairs to share an evening cup of chocolate with Uncle Tye. Then, candle in hand, Emma gathered her supplies, clenched her teeth, and entered the hidden passage.

It smelled like new wood, not musty old dust, and this tunnel didn’t seem near as big as the one in her memory. This one was kind of cozy, in fact. The steps leading downstairs didn’t even creak.

In a moment of honesty, she admitted that she had been afraid to enter the tunnel. Every time she even thought about ducking into the spaces, she started to shiver. She didn’t know why, exactly. It had something to do with her mother—her real mother—and the hidden corridors in the house back in South Carolina.

“Well, I’m not afraid anymore,” she whispered to herself, hiking the coil of rope up higher on her shoulder. She’d rig the “ghost” near the parlor entrance. That was right below Maribeth’s bedroom, and with any luck the sounds would wake her during the night.

Emma whistled beneath her breath and went to work, imagining how she’d scare her chicken-squawking sister half to death. She was almost finished when, from the other side of the wall, she heard Jenny’s muffled voice mention her name.

Emma stopped what she was doing and listened for a moment. An old memory tugged at her mind and made her stomach hurt.

Forget it, Emma. There is nothing to be afraid of here. It’s just like the spy hole at the other house, only better because it goes all over Willow Hill
.

She lifted her chin. She’d venture into the passageway any time she wanted, by gosh. No stomachache ever got the best of Emma McBride.

TWO LOUD blasts of a whistle announced the train’s approach to Fort Worth’s Texas &. Pacific station. While the axles turned the brakes squealed, and a figure stepped out into the vestibule, waiting for the car to slow. He ended up jumping too soon, but he landed with catlike grace to the accompaniment of a railroad official’s disparaging holler.

Trace didn’t pause long enough to wave at the man or collect his baggage. He didn’t even wait to hire a wagon. He’d been cooped up on the train since early that morning, and he could use a brisk walk. Besides, he could make it to Willow Hill in five minutes on foot. A ride wouldn’t get him there any faster.

He was anxious to get home—eager to see his children and impatient as hell to bed his wife.

What would Jenny say about his success? He came home having been named the architect for both the Hill County and Wise County courthouses. Would she think the time away from home well spent?

Yes. Jenny was his greatest supporter. She’d be proud of him.

Willow Hill came into sight and Trace broke into a jog. The parlor windows glowed golden with light, a beacon in the deepening dusk. The wind that whistled through the trees carried the faintest hint of laughter, and Trace knew a warmth inside his chest that had nothing to do with physical exertion.

Home. Family. He missed it more than he ever would have guessed. And while it didn’t paint him in the most favorable light, he wouldn’t deny he liked the idea of his family missing him too.

After all, who else would help Maribeth with throwing a ball? Who else would play tickle monster with Kat? Who else would know when Emmie needed a daddy’s proud wink? And who else would give Jenny a kiss to make her melt?

Trace misstepped on that last thought, and only a bit of good luck and a tree trunk handy for balance kept him from falling.

The front door opened beneath his touch with a quiet whoosh. Trace shook his head, determined to scold the ladies of the house about leaving the place unlocked. Stepping inside, Trace shut the door silently behind him, figuring to make his homecoming a surprise.

A low murmur of voices came from the parlor. Then, a laugh. Jenny’s laugh. She said, “I can’t believe you did that. Her husband must have been livid.”

A low-pitched masculine voice replied, “Yes, he was, and rightfully so.”

Bart Rogers. In Willow Hill’s front parlor. Picturing the rough, hard-scrabble man trying to wield one of Jenny’s little teacups made him grin.

The man’s voice continued, “The woman made a fool of him in front of the entire town.”

Trace’s smile faded.
No. It couldn’t be
. The warmth— the welcome—dripped from his bones like melting wax. He stood motionless, emotionless, while minutes passed as hours. Then the man’s voice sounded once again and icy cold gripped his heart.

Fear. It was a monster that had breathed inside him all these years. A monster that propelled him toward the doorway where he halted unnoticed and gazed at the man he’d prayed he’d never see again.

Silently, he screamed,
Katrina
…

Aloud, in a voice as cold as his dying dreams, he said, “Thackery. I’d hoped I killed you.”

Even as Jenny’s stomach sank, even as dread skimmed across her skin, she gazed from her husband to his brother, then back to Trace once more and marveled. She’d never seen two people look so much alike.

Right down to the murder gleaming in their eyes.

What was this? Tye had said he’d come here to make peace. Rising from her seat beside the fire, Jenny sought to defuse the tension vibrating in the room. “Welcome home, darling.”

Trace ignored her, hurling his words at his brother. “Get the hell out of my house.”

Tye settled against the sofa as though he owned it. “Not until I get what I’ve come for, brother dear.”

Trace’s hands fisted. “You goddamned stinking piece of—”

“Papa! You’re home!”

Jenny looked toward the entry hall where she spotted three sets of feet scampering down the staircase. She glared first at Trace, then at Tye. “Watch what you say. Think of the children, for goodness’ sake.”

Tye’s casual pose disappeared as he shot to his feet and squared off against his brother. “I am,” he said flatly. “That’s why I’m here.”

Trace spat a curse and lunged toward his twin.

“Wait!” Jenny called.

The girls barrelled into the parlor, the older two girls crying, “Papa!”

Katrina put her hands on her hips and shouted, “Don’t you hurt my daddy!”

In the process of throwing a punch, both men froze, identical stricken expressions on their faces. A shudder of unease swept over Jenny. Something frightening was happening here. Something she didn’t understand.