The Bad Luck Wedding Dress (5 page)

Emma pointed toward the floor and the woman who worked in the street-level shop. “But won’t it be worth it?” They all nodded.

ONE WEEK later when Marshal T.I. Courtright arrived for what was becoming a daily visit to the End of the Line Saloon, Trace had a shot of rye whiskey poured and waiting for him. He preferred bourbon himself.

Courtright drained his glass before he spoke. “You’re going to have to do something, McBride.”

He
had
done something. In seven days he’d been through three more housekeepers. This morning he’d hauled his girls across the street so the nuns could deal with them. He should have known holy women had no chance of controlling holy terrors. All this nonsense was playing hell with his plans to go respectable. Making a place for his daughters in Fort Worth society would be difficult enough considering his soon-to-be-former occupation. No way would the good women of Fort Worth accept his daughters as one of their own if they continued with these pranks. Trace closed his eyes and asked, “What did they do today?”

“They’ve crossed the line this time. This ain’t no pickle swiping or even turning mice loose at the Baptist Ladies’ Benevolent Society meeting. This is out-and-out criminal activity. Punishable, I might add, by—” he pulled a paper from his pocket, donned his spectacles, and read “‘branding, lashing, a one-thousand-dollar fine, one-year imprisonment, and restoration.’“

Trace, having a passing acquaintance with the laws of crime and punishment in Texas, took a long swig of bourbon, then croaked, “Are you telling me my girls stole a horse?”

“Two of ‘em.” Courtright took off his spectacles and returned them and the paper to his pocket. “From the nuns at Saint Stanislaus Kostka Church.”

“Good God.”

“I reckon you’d better hope so. We did recover the horses, at least. Little Katrina told us where to find ‘em.” A reluctant grin tugged at his lips. “They tied them up over behind First Baptist.”

Trace dropped his chin and shook his head in defeat as Courtright continued, “You’re gonna have to do something and fast. Folks around here won’t put up with that sort of behavior out of young’uns. Especially girls. You’ve been living on borrowed time as it is, all the mischief they’ve caused in the past year or so.”

Trace clamped his mouth shut as anger—at the marshal, his daughters, the entire world—threatened to burst into words. But how could he be mad at Courtright? The man was right. The girls were out of hand. Horse thieves, by God!

He finished off his drink and asked, “Where are they?”

“Jail.”

“What?” Trace shouted, shoving to his feet, heedless of the chair that clattered to the floor.

“I had to do something with them, McBride. Only have one prisoner today, and he’s sleeping off his drunk. Figured a dose of cell time might get through to ‘em. You sure as hell haven’t.”

Trace was out of the front door in a flash. His long strides ate up the ground as he hurried toward the jail-house, conveniently located at the far end of the Acre. That sonofabitch had put his little girls in jail!

That sonofabitch had put his little
hoodlums
in jail.

“What am I doing wrong with those girls?” he muttered. If they were boys, he’d know what to do. Same thing his father used to do to him—the three Ws. Words, work, and woodshed. In the past week or so, Trace had served up the first two on a regular basis. He’d worn out his tongue lecturing and worked his girls until the house sparkled. But he simply couldn’t bring himself to haul them to the woodshed. He didn’t believe a man should ever hit a woman, no matter how young that woman might be.

So what did a father do with daughters who stole horses from nuns?

The summer heat bore down relentlessly as he made his way toward the calaboose. The odor of whiskey slapped at his senses and made him think of the locked-up drunk. He silently cursed the marshal. What had the man been thinking of, putting three little girls in jail? They’d be frightened. Kat would have nightmares for weeks. What if one of the deputies brought in a criminal before he got there? Trace sprinted the last hundred yards to the Fort Worth City Jail.

Deputy Rufus Scott sat at one desk, cleaning his fingernails with a knife. He looked up as Trace burst through the door, saying, “I want my girls now.”

The deputy laid down his blade. “They ain’t here.”

“What?” Trace’s gut clenched.

“That dressmaker came and got ‘em. Said she was taking them to your place. Talked me up one side and down the other, she did. Hell, wasn’t my doin’s putting them here. Marshal Courtright decided that all on his lonesome.”

Jenny Fortune. Trace breathed a long sigh of relief. How she had found out about these latest shenanigans, he didn’t really care. She had taken care of his girls for him and that was all that mattered. Without another word to the deputy, he turned and left the jailhouse, headed for home.

He made quick work of getting there. When he turned the corner of Throckmorton and Eleventh, he spied the trio of nuns lying in wait along the garden fence of Saint Stanislaus. Well, hell. Trace slowed his steps, knowing the time to demonstrate repentance was at hand.

“Mr. McBride!” Sister Gonzaga called, blue eyes glaring beneath her wimple, her round cheeks flushed with heat or maybe anger. Probably both. “Mr. McBride, we have serious trouble here.”

Trace cleared his throat, but before he could speak, Sister Janette Louise asked, “We trust you have heard the news?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m real sorry about—”

“Sorry isn’t good enough, Mr. McBride.” Sister Agnes sniffed with disdain. “Those girls of yours are completely out of control!”

Trace set his teeth. He’d about had enough of other folks criticizing his children. It was one thing for him to do it, but quite another for someone else to open their mouth—nun or not. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Listen, Sister, I’ll make a nice donation to the church. That should—”

Sister Gonzaga swiped the money from his hand and deposited it in her pocket even as Sister Janette Louise said, “It’s the girls we are concerned about, Mr. McBride. These pranks are a cry for help.”

“They’re crying for something, all right,” he grumbled.

“Those girls need female influence in their lives. They need a mother, Mr. McBride.”

“They had a mother,” Trace snapped. “She’s dead.”

Sister Janette Louise smiled beatifically. “Dear Maribeth has told us that their mother died some years ago. You need to put your grieving aside and provide for those sweet little angels.”

Grieving? Not likely. “Those sweet little angels stole your horses, Sisters. You have my apologies, and as soon as I’m through with them, you’ll have theirs also. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He turned to go.

Sister Agnes snorted. “Angels, hah! I wouldn’t be surprised to see horns and a tail on any of them. Especially that Maribeth. A dervish in petticoats, that girl is.”

Trace shot a look over his shoulder but forced himself to keep his mouth closed. Damn, but he’d like to tell those women off. His daughters were doing fine without a mother. Just fine. He could take care of his own, by God. He could—

Reaching for the door to his home, Trace stopped. Hell. The worst lies were the ones a man told himself.

The girls weren’t doing fine. Like a springtime Texas twister, they had cut a swath of mischief a mile wide through the center of town. Even the mayor had stopped by the End of the Line to complain.

Trace heaved a weary sigh. What was he going to do?

You could send them home. Grandmother would teach them to be ladies
.

Trace closed his eyes as his mouth flattened into a grim line. It’s what he should do. It’d be the best thing for them. He could hire someone to take them east, and within a year, his grandmother would have drummed the devilment out of them. Perhaps in time and with her help, his girls could overcome the stigma of being Trace McBride’s daughters. Except for that to happen, he’d have to give them up.

I can’t do it. I need them. I can’t let them go.

Besides, he’d be damned before he allowed Katrina within a hundred miles of his dear brother Tye.

He entered the building, his troubles adding weight to his boots. He hated having to discipline his girls. They’d never believe it, but the giving of these lectures and chores was much worse than the listening and doing. To add insult to injury, all the lectures and chores were proving ineffective. But he couldn’t allow these incidents of mischief to continue. Unless he broke them of this habit, one of these days the McBride Menaces would land themselves in serious trouble.

Trace didn’t intend to allow that to happen.
But what the hell am I going to do?

He forced himself to climb the stairs. Jenny Fortune’s voice drifted from above, the scolding notes striking an already sore nerve. Who did she think she was? What right did she have to talk that way to his girls?

Trace followed the sound, righteous indignation churning in his gut. He conveniently forgot how she’d befriended his daughters, going so far as to rescue them from the calaboose. He refused to remember all the praises sung by his girls on this woman’s behalf.

The woman was trouble. He’d known it for days. Half the time the girls called her MissFortune, running the two words together. Trace thought it a particularly appropriate name.

Well, before I’m through with her, Miss Jenny Fortune is going to wish she’d damn well kept her nose out of my family business
.

He prepared to enter the parlor with both barrels blasting, but the sight that met his eyes upon reaching the room unloaded the words from his mouth. His daughters, all three of them, sat perched on the settee, their hands clasped in their laps.

They gazed up at Jenny Fortune, their expressions brimming with repentance.

They had never, ever, looked that way at him. Not even when he had them scrubbing the inside of the fireplace. Witnessing such a look here and now served to edge his temper right on up past boiling.

How did she do it? What had the woman said to get through to his daughters? No one had noticed his arrival, so Trace decided to listen a minute and maybe learn what magic the modiste possessed. The delay might just stop him from killing someone. He crossed his arms, leaned against the doorframe, and silently fumed.

“You are right, Miss Fortune,” Emma said. “I guess we never looked at it that way before. We
do
want to be ladies, it’s just that we don’t know how. Papa tries; he truly does. But he isn’t good with girl things. I’d never have finished my sampler if you hadn’t taught me.”

Maribeth piped up in defense of her father, “True, but Papa taught us to play poker. That’s better than silly old embroidery anytime.”

Trace nodded smugly until he noticed Emma and Jenny Fortune sharing one of those knowing-women looks. A pang of emotion gripped his chest and time seemed to stop.
Emmie’s growing up so fast
. He hadn’t really noticed before. His little girl was becoming a young lady and there wasn’t anything he could do to stop it. A near silent groan escaped him as another thought occurred.

Monthlies. Oh, Lord. How the hell was he going to handle that?

When he turned back into the conversation, Jenny was speaking. “… can see practicing arithmetic skills by playing poker. Certainly it’s a novel approach. But what you girls must learn is that some things are simply not appropriate endeavors for young ladies. Hiding horses from nuns most definitely falls in that category.” She tugged a chair near the settee and sat down beside them, an imploring note in her voice as she spoke. “Oh, girls, you touch a special place in my heart. I see so much of myself in you.”

Katrina took her thumb out of her mouth long enough to say, “It’s ‘cause our eyes are mirrors. Sister Agnes told me that.”

Maribeth snorted. “That’s not what she meant, goose. She was saying our souls are mean ‘cause we were giving her the evil eye when she took away our cards.”

The evil eye? Trace thought.

“The evil eye?” Jenny asked. “Oh, dear.” Then she shook her head and said, “What I meant is that I understand what it’s like not to have a mother to teach you feminine skills.”

“But you have a mother,” Emma interrupted. “We’ve met her. She’s beautiful!”

“Yes,” Jenny said with a sigh. “But she’s an artist and they are very different. It’s almost like your father teaching you poker. I’m afraid my mother taught me a number of skills, but not many of them are proper for a girl who wishes to be a lady.”

“Papa says we’re ladies,” Maribeth said. “He lots of times calls us his little ladies.”

“That’s good.” Jenny reached up and smoothed a gentle hand over Maribeth’s hair. “But you see, a woman cannot just say she’s a lady and be one. She must act like a lady.” That scolding note reentered her voice as she added, “Stealing from the mercantile and playing pranks on unsuspecting people are not the actions of a lady.”

“But how do we learn?” Emma asked, gazing tearfully up at Jenny. “The housekeepers Papa hires are too busy cooking and cleaning to teach us anything.”

Maribeth groaned. “Who wants to learn anything from them, anyway. They’re all—”

“Mari…” Jenny warned.

Katrina said, “I want you to be our teacher, Miss Fortune. I want you to be my mama. Except you can’t cry anymore. I don’t like it when you cry. “

I want you to be my mama
. The sentence ricocheted in Trace’s mind like a slug from a Colt. 45. Guilt bubbled in its wake, and as the woman reached out to wrap Katrina in a hug, Trace reacted with heated, almost savage fury. He marched into the parlor, demanding, “Jenny Fortune, what the hell have you done to my daughters?”

It is bad luck to spin a chair around on one leg.

CHAPTER 4

JENNY’S MOUTH DROPPED OPEN in shock. Twisting in her seat, she gazed up at Trace McBride, noting in a glance the irate set of his mouth and the furious rage in his eyes. He charged into the room like an angry bull—big and powerful and intent on doing damage—and Jenny had the notion to run for cover. Instead, she drew herself up straight, lifted her chin, and fixed him with a chilly look. “I beg your pardon?”

He halted in the center of the parlor, his hands braced on his hips. His gaze swept over his daughters before settling on her, and the picture in Jenny’s mind altered from angry bull to predatory wolf.

“It is not your place to scold my girls. They are
my
responsibility.” Trace thumped his chest with his thumb. “
My
concern.”

A few choice replies regarding responsibility and concern hovered on her tongue, but she bit them back. The man was obviously overwrought. Understandably, she thought, considering his daughters had been ensconced in the local jail. Taking his worries into account, Jenny was inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Then he opened his mouth again.

Clipping his words, Trace said, “And I’ll thank you, Miss Fortune, to refrain from putting ridiculous notions into their heads.”

“Ridiculous notions?” she repeated, defensiveness creating a rise in her voice.

The cords in his neck strained as he shouted, “
You are not their mother!
”

His words echoed in the sudden silence.

That does it, Jenny thought. How could she ever have found this pigheaded, unappreciative man attractive? She pushed to her feet, saying, “You are correct, Mr. McBride, I am not the girls’ mother.
My
daughters would have the benefit of sufficient supervision so as to avoid landing themselves in the city jail on a summer afternoon.”

Hands on hips, she walked toward him as she stated, “
My
daughters would enjoy the benefits of effective discipline.
My
daughters would have been taught to act like proper ladies, and
my
daughters would not have learned to use the love I feel for them to wrap me around their mischievous little fingers!”

Emma gasped and Maribeth muttered grumpily as Jenny halted a few short feet from the man. She defiantly held his gaze, waiting for his attack. In his eyes she saw fury and something else, some brittle emotion she couldn’t name.

Then Katrina’s innocent little voice filled the moment. “Oh, MissFortune, I wish I were your little girl. I want a mama so very bad.”

Trace swayed as if he’d been struck, and in the instant before he closed his eyes, Jenny identified the feeling she was seeing in their depths. Grief. Overwhelming, all consuming, grief.

Poor man. He must have loved his wife so deeply.

At that realization, a tide of compassion for Trace and for his dear little Menaces washed away her anger. Jenny drew a deep breath, licked her lips, and said in a low, even voice, “If I have overstepped my bounds with Emma, Maribeth, and Katrina, then I apologize, Mr. McBride. Let me assure you, however, that I have never intended to offer them more than my friendship.”

When he looked at her again, his stare was empty. He remained silent as she nodded first at him and then the girls before turning to make a dignified exit from the parlor.

The last remnants of Trace’s anger faded along with the click of the dressmaker’s steps against the stairs. She had hit it on the nose. He was handling his girls all wrong. They needed something he wasn’t giving them and that had to change.

The thought sneaked in like an unwelcome guest.
They need a mother
.

Trace set his teeth against the vicious curse that burst from his very heart. There had to be another way. He’d be damned if he’d marry again to provide the girls a mother.

Right, McBride, as if you aren’t damned already for what you did to die one they had.

He looked at his daughters, and the disapproval in their gazes laid him even lower. Emma heaved a sigh. Maribeth shook her head and said, “You treated Miss Fortune worse than Kat treats her peas.”

“I smush my peas,” Katrina said seriously. “I don’t like peas. You shouldn’t have hollered at Miss Fortune. I’m ‘barrassed.”

Great. Wonderful. Trace heard the front door bang shut and felt a bit bare-assed himself.

Emma stood and walked to the parlor window, pushing back the curtains. As she gazed down into the street, her teeth nibbled worriedly at her lower lip. Then she said, “You’ll have to apologize, Papa. That’s the only way.”

Trace dragged his attention away from Jenny Fortune. His Menaces were trying to do it to him again—manipulation by way of distraction. This time he wouldn’t let it happen. “Whoa, there, girls. Let’s back this blackboard right on up. I don’t believe the dressmaker is the issue

here.” He quirked a finger at Emma. “Sit back down, Emmaline Suzanne.”

As his eldest hastened to do as instructed, he allowed the anger he felt over his daughters’ criminal capers to show in his expression. Gratified to see the uneasy looks they exchanged, he questioned, “Did you really believe I’d forget my little girls had taken to stealing? Did you think it’d slip my mind that you landed yourselves in the calaboose?”

Emma and Maribeth shared a look. Kat popped her thumb in her mouth, her eyes round and worried.

“Nuns, for goodness’ sakes!” he exclaimed, throwing out his hands. “You stole from nuns! What kind of daughters am I raising?”

After a quick glance at her sisters, Emma lifted her chin and shrugged. “Maybe we’ve made a few mistakes, Papa, but we haven’t done anything you haven’t done before.”

“What!”

Emma smoothed the skirt of her yellow gingham dress, every inch the young lady as she said, “We’ve listened to your bedtime stories all our lives, Papa. The ones about the mischief you used to make when you were growing up. During the day when we’re here alone and wishing for something to do, we remember all the fun you had. We’re just taking after you.”

Trace was flabbergasted. As the father of the McBride Menaces, he’d listened to more than his share of nonsense. This bit, however, blew the meringue right off the pie. “I never stole horses from any nuns!”

“You swiped a pig from a preacher,” Maribeth noted matter-of-factly.

Katrina nodded quickly and took her thumb from her mouth long enough to add, “Horses are easier to catch than pigs, Papa. We decided. They don’t make bridles for pigs.”

Bridles for pigs. What he needed were bridles for three young girls. Trace hung his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. He’d never have guessed that repeating the tales of his youthful escapades could cause this much trouble. Those stories had become one of the little rituals between them as they traveled. The girls had always begged for stories, and once they wore out the pages of the storybook he’d carried from home, he’d taken to repeating instances of his past.

Besides, he’d missed his family something fierce. His brother’s name flashed in his mind and he corrected himself. He’d missed most of his family, not all of it. Talking about them to the girls had sometimes helped to dull the ache. He never guessed they would mimic his mischief. Why, none of his sisters would ever have dreamed of tagging along on one of the boys’ escapades; they wouldn’t have wanted to get their dainty little hands dirty.

Of course, Grandmother would have nagged them silly if they had. After the death of her eldest son and his wife in a carriage accident, Mirabelle McBride’s main goal in life appeared to have been teaching her granddaughters how to be prissy. He and Tye had often complained….

Trace set his jaw, furious at the thought. That was twice within the span of a minute the name had popped into his mind. It had to stop. His brother was dead to him, had been since that bloody night in Charleston. He wouldn’t allow him into his thoughts.

If I can’t bury him for real, I can at least bury him in my mind
.

So done, Trace lifted his gaze and studied his girls, one after the other. Only on Emma’s face did he see any evidence at all of prissy. Did they need it? Was it important? He scowled. So what if his grandmother had spent so much time on it? His girls would be all right without it. Surely. He didn’t necessarily like that feminine trait anyway.

Trace felt better until he recalled that every last one of his prissy sisters had grown up to marry well and happily.

“What are you going to do to us, Papa?” Maribeth asked, portraying her normal impatience.

Angrier now and not certain why, Trace’s glower deepened. Not a one of the girls appeared the least bit repentant for their actions. Apprehensive, yes. As well they should be. They had to know their punishment would be severe for this particular prank.

But damn, he hated to do it. Sure as shootin’, they would turn those puppy-dog eyes his way and make him feel even worse than he already did. It happened that way every time, and nothing could get to him quicker. If they had a mother—

Damn. I won’t think that way. I won’t.

“What am I going to do to you?” he repeated, beginning to pace the room. “Well, I reckon that’s a good question.” He didn’t have a clue, actually. The girls had already cleaned the place from top to bottom. He’d have to get creative with his punishment. He rubbed the back of his neck, saying, “If your Miss Fortune hadn’t stepped in, I’d have left y’all in jail.”

Maribeth looked at Emma and rolled her eyes.

Trace set his teeth. He didn’t scare them one little bit. Maybe it was time to see if someone else could put the fear of God into them. “As it is, I reckon I’ll turn you over to the folks most inconvenienced by your actions.”

It took a moment for Emma and Maribeth to catch on. When they did, Emma murmured, “Oh,” and hung her head. Maribeth cried, “Aw, Papa, you can’t!”

He smiled. “C’mon, girls. It’s time to pay a visit to Sister Gonzaga.”

THE PACKAGE on the shelf was wrapped in plain brown paper but tied with hair ribbons in nine different colors. Next to it sat a dress box containing a young woman’s gown made of calico, designed with a careful eye and sewn with loving stitches. Today was Emma McBride’s birthday.

Jenny hadn’t seen the girls except in passing for the past ten days, ever since the clash with their father upstairs. “Talk about Town” reported that their time was divided between the Catholic and Baptist churches, doing odd jobs and for the most part staying out of trouble. She hoped for Mr. McBride’s sake that was true. He’d certainly appeared at the end of his patience when he stormed into the parlor that memorable afternoon.

She could empathize with the feeling. She was reaching the end of her own patience with the superstitious citizens of Fort Worth.

With every day that passed, the outlook for Fortune’s Design grew bleaker. Nothing she tried made a difference. She’d cut her prices and placed an advertisement in the Democratto alert customers to the change. She’d had broadsides printed and passed out to people on the streets. She’d attended every pie supper, quilting bee, and church social in town, but no one appeared willing to take the risk of wearing a Jenny Fortune design.

Her gaze drifted to the ribbon-wrapped box. Except for Trace McBride, that is. He had not canceled his order for Emma’s dress. Neither had the Widow Sperry, bless her soul.

Jenny had work to do today because of that kind lady. The last order on her book was a cool-weather dress in black bombazine. Rilda Bea Sperry, an elderly woman whose wealth was the direct result of having married and buried four husbands, had scoffed at the idea of being felled by bad luck if she patronized Fortune’s Design. As she happily proclaimed while ordering the gown, what some perceived as bad luck, others knew to be a windfall. Jenny wished Fort Worth had more people like her.

Before the latest Bailey bride’s mishap and the subsequent mention of the Bad Luck Wedding Dress in the
Democrat
Jenny had been forced to turn away work. Nowadays if her shop’s welcome bell rang at all it was more likely a gust of wind than a customer. Even the McBride girls hadn’t shown their faces inside the store since the trouble with the nuns’ horses.

The McBride girls. Jenny wondered how the drama upstairs had ended. Their father had been so upset, so angry. She’d have changed her opinion of the man entirely had she not seen his concern for his daughters and sensed his grief for his wife. It must be exceedingly difficult for a man to raise three daughters alone. Look at all the trouble her own father had encountered, and there had been only one of her.

She fluffed out the bombazine, eyed the length of hem yet to be sewn, then resumed her stitching. She really shouldn’t try to compare Trace McBride and her father. The saloonkeeper wasn’t anything like Richard Fortune.

Lucky for the McBride girls
.

Jenny dropped her needle at the mean-spirited thought. Guilt rolled over her in waves. Richard Fortune wasn’t a bad father, not at all. He simply expended so much energy on his science and her mother—the two great loves of his life—that there wasn’t a lot left over for his daughter. She understood; she truly did.

There wasn’t a doubt in Jenny’s mind that her father cared deeply for her. He always wanted what was best for her. Why, the argument that had led to her parents’ second divorce had begun as a disagreement over her education. And he wouldn’t be insisting she return to Thicket Glen if he didn’t care.

And yet he did it all from a distance. For all of the love they shared, she and her father had never quite bridged the space between them. She’d wanted hugs and he’d patted her head, when he remembered she was around.

Trace McBride hugged his girls all the time.

Jenny sighed in self-disgust as she put the final stitch in the dress hem, then reached for her scissors and snipped the thread. She shouldn’t indulge in uncharitable thoughts. It was selfish of her to wish she had a father who was more … demonstrative. Someone like Mr. McBride.