Ella: an Everland Ever After Tale (7 page)

At the word “dream,” Ian looked up sharply, the fork halfway to his lips. “You think this is my dream?” He looked around the small, cool storage room, down at the dogs at his feet, and at the pie in his hand, and he shrugged. “Well…” He finally took the bite, and his eyes lit up. “A beautiful woman bringing me delicious foods might be part of my dream, after all.”

The sight of his lips, carefully pulling the bite of pie from the fork, had nearly made Ella faint. She was leaning forward in her chair, only a heartbeat away from touching him. “What’s the rest of your dream, Ian?”

He was staring at her while he chewed, and as before, she felt it right to her core. What was it about this man that made her want to touch him? To know all about him? To dream
with
him? While she watched, he slowly put the fork and the half-finished pie down on the shelf beside his usual lunch, and wiped his hands on his trousers.

Taking a deep breath, he watched her, as if struggling with a decision. His chest expanded, straining his gray vest until she thought the buttons might pop. Realized that she wouldn’t mind it at all, if she got to see more of the skin that peaked out at his collar. He rubbed the back of his neck, and swallowed. “The rest of my dream would be to have a partner. Someone who could help me in the store, bring in more customers, since apparently lady customers don’t like me on my own. Someone to talk things over with, and who’d give me an opinion, rather than just barking.” His lips twitched when he glanced at Shiloh, but his eyes quickly found hers again. “Someone to make a future with.”

“It sounds like you want a wife.” The words were out before she could stop them, before she could tell herself not to be too forward, too desperate, too hopelessly attracted to him.

But he didn’t smile. Instead, he nodded. “I’d never considered it, until recently. Until

I—”
Met me?
But he didn’t say it. He looked away. “I want a partner who sees
me
, not…” He knocked his stump against the barrel again, and trailed off, as if he didn’t need to point out that he wasn’t whole.

I see you, Ian Crowne
.

But she didn’t say it. Instead, they talked about his store, and his dogs, and his dreams. He asked her questions, and soon Ella’s head was pounding from trying to come up with new ways to not answer them. She didn’t want to talk about her life on the Miller Ranch; didn’t want him to know how different it was from the freedom he enjoyed. Didn’t want him to know that her stepfather’s man was waiting outside right now for her.

Ian was strong, and committed, and kind to animals, and to a girl like Ella, he was a prince. She swallowed, ashamed of her sudden desire—desire for
him
, but also for what he could offer her. Was he looking for a wife? Would he ever, possibly, consider someone like her? Someone who could work hard, but didn’t know much beyond cleaning, sewing, cooking, and housekeeping?

And was she being too presumptuous to even consider the possibility? He was a successful storekeeper who hadn’t said a thing about her more than appreciating she brought him food. She was a silly girl who dreamed impossible dreams.

“I have…” She swallowed down her shame. “I have to go. To cook dinner.”

“For your stepfather and sisters?” Why did he sound angry? She nodded warily, unable to think of a way to side-step the question. “Do they pay you? Do they help you?” She jerked her head again, but his voice—forceful and compelling—stopped her. “Do they?”

She had no choice but to answer. “No,” she whispered.

“You came here to buy them lace so that you could make them a dress, and now you’re going home to cook for them? Will you clean too?” His hands were fisted on his knees, and Ella sank lower in her chair, knowing that she had to answer him, but unable to make her voice work. She nodded. “And what do you get from all of this? Their gratitude?”

“No.”

“Then why do you do it?”

Because I have nowhere else to go!
But she couldn’t admit that, wouldn’t. Not to him. He was a decent man, and he would pity her. She would rather he admire her, or at least, remember her fondly. She couldn’t stand to know that he pitied her. So instead of answering, she began to gather up the remains of their lunch. There wasn’t much; Ian had eaten most of the chicken and half of the small pie.

He watched her in silence, but when she stood to leave, he slid off the barrel, catching hold of her forearm. The heat that sparked from his touch stopped her, and Ella forced herself to swallow and meet his gaze. He stood a good six inches taller than her, but that didn’t intimidate her. In fact, she felt safe, standing beside him; felt protected by his broad shoulders and his strong arms.

His hand ran down the length of her forearm, grasping her hand, and she shivered slightly. His expression was so serious, and not even the lock of rust-colored hair that had fallen over his brow distracted him. Instead, he squeezed her hand, and pinned her with the intensity of his gaze. “I’m sorry, Ella. I shouldn’t have pushed you. I just… I wanted to know more about you.” Oh dear, she’d forgotten how to breathe. “You are a woman I’d very much like to know more about.”

Licking her lips, she tried to get a sound past them, but no luck. Instead, she just nodded quickly, hoping that she could draw a breath before she passed out.

He seemed to understand. “Thank you. Thank you for visiting me, and for sharing your lunch with me. It was the best meal I’ve had in a long while. The company ensured it.”

Oh God
. Now she had to add weak knees to her list of complaints. He was going to make her faint with his compliments and heated stare. Ella did the only thing she could; she pulled her hand from his and murmured “Thank you for the lace.”

Then she turned and ran from the store.

Thank you for the lace?

He had poured his heart out to her, there in his back room, and that’s how she responded? “Thank you for the lace.” Ian groaned aloud, putting down his fork long enough to rake his hand though his hair, not caring that he mussed it. It’d been three days since that beautiful hour spent in her company, and he’d done his best to stay busy. But here, sitting at dinner alone, his thoughts naturally turned to her, and all of the things he’d done wrong.

She’d come into his store to buy lace.
Lace
. That was it. She’s shared her meal with him, probably out of pity and Christian charity. That was it. There was no need to read more into it.

Every time he thought of the way he’d touched her, held her hand, his stomach clenched in shame. He’d made a fool of himself, which is something that he’d always swore he wouldn’t do. He’d held her there, trying to tell her how much his company meant to him… after pushing her and pushing her for information about her family.

At the time, it’d seemed like a good idea; he wanted to know where to find her, and the more he thought about the calluses on her hands, the angrier he’d gotten. And when he asked her—did her family appreciate her?—and she’d said no, with her voice soft and her head hanging in shame… that’s when Ian felt the rage building. He very much wanted to know where she lived, just so he could go beat some sense into her stepfather. Didn’t the man know how special Ella was? Didn’t he appreciate all of her hard work for his family?

But the angrier Ian got, the more she withdrew from him, until he had to force himself to breathe normally or lose her altogether. So, when she was leaving, he stopped her and poured out his feelings.

And she’d thanked him for selling her the lace.

Ian groaned again. God, he really was an idiot. She’d probably been horrified when he told her how much her visit meant. She’d turned and run the moment he finished, and he couldn’t blame her. He’d spent almost twelve years missing part of himself; he couldn’t do half of the things men in Wyoming did on a daily basis… but for some reason, he’d thought that she might be different. She might see him for who he
was
, not for who he wasn’t.

He dropped his forehead into his palms, rubbing at his eyes. His pulse pounded in his ears, making his head ache and his teeth clench. This was miserable, and it was his own fault.

“What is wrong with you? Why you no eat
Senora
Spratt’s stew?”

Ian moved his hands just enough to see
Abuela
Zapato hobbling towards his table. She was a short, plump woman who wore her extremely-out-of-date bonnet everywhere, and carried her cane as much for swiping at errant boys as walking. She insisted on being called “Grandmother” not just because she ran the local orphanage, but because she treated everyone like her children. She was one of Ian’s few regular female customers, and over the last year he’d come to not mind her motherly habit of thinking that she knew the best for everyone. Today, though, she pulled back the second chair at Ian’s customary dinner table, and sat down without waiting for an invitation. “You are sick again,
hijo
? Mary, she tell me that you are sick before.”

Ian tried for a smile, and sat up straighter. Ignoring muscles in his back that groaned in protest, he dropped his elbows from the table. He glanced at the plate of Mrs. Spratt’s delicious beef stew and thick slice of bread, and swallowed his sigh. “It’s tasty as always, Mrs. Zapato.  I’m just not hungry today.”

“
Yo no te creo
! I leave the children with Rojita and Hank, I come to
chismear
with Mary,
no
? But we no talk, because I see you here, sighing and pushing food around. I hear you moaning from across the room! I think ‘There is a boy who needs Grandmother’s advice!’ You are sick at heart,
no
?”

Ian stared across the table at the woman who was always so solicitous when she came to his store, always so sensitive and caring. Would his father had been so perceptive of his feelings? Had his mother ever pushed him to share, like Mrs. Zapato was doing? “You’re right. I’m not feeling well today.”

“It is because of a woman.” It wasn’t a question.

“How did you…?”

The old woman shrugged dismissively. “When a man looks the way you look,
hijo
, it is because of a woman. Always.”

Her expression invited him to spill everything, but Ian couldn’t bring himself to share. Ella was… Ella was special, and secret, and only his. So he pressed his lips together and looked away.

Abuela
Zapato sighed. “You are a lonely man, Ian. Your dogs, they not give you everything you need. You need conversation and connection and comfort. You deserve these things, Ian.”

Do I
?

“You need
una
esposa.
A wife.”

He couldn’t help himself; he snorted. A wife. He used to court women and steal kisses and make plans for futures together. But he’d had to forget those plans twelve years ago, lying on a table in a field hospital with a leather strap in his mouth for the pain and a blurry doctor standing over him. Mrs. Zapato’s quiet words broke through the unpleasant memory. “You think you do not deserve these things? Deserve a wife? You are wrong.”

She drew Ian’s attention when she shifted forward in her seat, moving one veiny, callused hand to the tablecloth. “You are a good man, Ian Crowne. You have a business that is a success, you work hard. You have a home and a life to offer a woman. So you are missing a foot?
Pah!
” The old woman threw up her hands, but didn’t let Ian drop her gaze. “That is not so very important. What is a foot? Nothing, to a husband, to a father.”
A father
? It had been years since Ian had let himself dream of becoming a father. “You think you’re worth less without your foot? You are wrong.”

Ian swallowed. Everything
Abuela
Zapato was saying… was true. He could recognize that; he was an intelligent man. So why was it so hard to make his heart accept this as truth?

Maybe the older woman saw something in his expression—some indication of how lost he felt—because she reached across the table and patted his shoulder. “You are a good man, Ian Crowne. You need to stop hiding,
no?
Stop hiding yourself and your heart.”

“How?” God, his whisper sounded pitiful, but she only smiled, and squeezed his shoulder.

“Eat, first, or Mary will be mad. Then, join Everland. Make friends.” Ian wanted to protest that he had friends, but at that moment, he couldn’t name a single one. “Go to the saloon, go to your Sunday social—I know about this, I do. Meet people. Meet women. Meet your woman.”

Mrs. Zapato patted him once more, and then stood and shuffled off towards the door.
Meet your woman
. Surely it wouldn’t be that easy? Despite the fact that he rarely socialized, Ian knew most of the people in town, and hadn’t heard of a woman who was forced to slave for her family. But if she hadn’t left on the train, she
must
still be here somewhere.

Because no matter what old
Abuela
Zapato said, he didn’t want any other woman; he wanted Ella. He wanted the woman who had looked at him and saw
him
.

But he
could
take Mrs. Zapato’s advice. It would gain him… what? Acceptance. Because if nothing else, these two brief interactions with Ella—and the dreams he’d had in between—had taught him that he wanted more from life than what he had. Was
ready
for more from life. And gaining acceptance in Everland—showing them all that he was here and he wasn’t going away, no matter what they thought of him—was the way to go about that.

And so, he ate the rest of the beef stew. And then, thanking Mr. Spratt with a smile, he collected his crutch and made his way towards the saloon. To make a place for himself in this community.

Mabel’s dress was a monument to lacey gaudiness. All three pink flounces were lined in lace; there were thick lace borders at the wrists, neck, waist and shoulders; and thinner versions at absolutely every seam. It had required Ella to remove most of the stitches she’d already put in to add the lace, and the finished dress was… Well, she thought it was hideous, but Mabel was pleased.

“Ella, I have to admit that sometimes you aren’t completely useless.” Her oldest stepsister was standing on an ottoman, admiring herself in the sewing room’s full-length mirror. Her twisting and turning was making it difficult for Ella to keep the hem she was pinning straight. If she could get this finished soon, maybe Mabel wouldn’t insist on adding lace to
this
part too.

“You’re too kind,” she muttered around a mouthful of pins, rolling her eyes in the direction of her sister’s shoes. “Now hold still.”

Mabel tsked. “What do you think, Sibyl? Is there enough lace?”

Ella peeked at the girl sitting at the vanity and flipping through a magazine Papa had sent away for. Her pretty little lips curled up in distaste, but she lifted the pages so that her sister wouldn’t see, and made a vague noise of agreement.

Hiding her own smile, Ella hurried through the pinning. In her opinion, this youngest Miller sister had the best taste in clothes, and wore them well. She was also the least-awful of Ella’s stepsisters. Ella liked to think that it was because she’d helped raise the girl, and Sibyl had looked to her as a child as often as she’d looked to Mabel and Eunice. Of course, as she grew, and realized how much her family expected from Ella, she began to demand attention too.

But at least she only went along with her sisters; didn’t think of the truly diabolical punishments as Mabel did. Why, on more than one occasion, Mabel waited until midnight to sneak downstairs and kick soot all over the parlor rug, in revenge for one of Ella’s irritated retorts. Of course, she never admitted it, but her smug attitude—and the mess all along the hem of her nightgown, which she expected Ella to clean along with the parlor—was proof enough.

And Mabel found fault with almost everything that Ella did, no matter how well Ella did it. Just like this dress for the picnic; no matter that Ella had followed Mabel’s pattern exactly, her older sister still found a way to make her re-do it. And Papa always,
always
sided with his daughters.

“The July Fourth celebration is only eight days away.” Mabel was still preening when Ella looked up from where she squatted at her sister’s feet. “I’m sure that this will be the year that I receive the proposal from the man of my dreams.”

She’d said that last year, too, as Ella recalled. And the year before. But
this
year, Ella was in whole-hearted agreement with her oldest stepsister; Mabel
had
to get married soon. “Who is that?”

“Why, Roy DeVille, Jr. of course.” The way she sighed his name caused one of Ella’s brows to inch up on its own, and she exchanged a surprised glance with Sibyl, who’d dropped the magazine to listen.

“I didn’t know that you…” How to put it delicately?” “Liked him.”

Mabel put both her hands on her hips, still studying herself. “What you don’t know could fill a rain barrel. His father owns the largest ranch in the area; it just makes sense that we’d marry and combine them. And he’s so, so handsome…” She trailed off with another sigh.