The Shepherd's Betrothal (11 page)

She realized she'd forgotten who she was. God didn't make mistakes, and being a woman didn't make her any less adept in the business world. She could, and with God's grace she would.

She opened her bedroom door and hurried down the stairs, where the rest of the family was waiting for her. The bandage was still on but she didn't care. Today she would choose to have fun, enjoy life and not put herself down. Yes, she'd made mistakes, but who hadn't?

Her mother smiled as she approached. “Ye are beautiful, Hope.”

“Thank you, Mum.”

Her mother wrapped her arm around Hope's waist and whispered in her ear. “I'm glad you're feeling better, Hope. I trust ye have forgiven yourself.”

Hope nodded. Had she? Yes, she had, and it felt wonderful to be free from the events of the past. It was time to look forward.

* * *

The next day Hope began in earnest to research the various dressmakers in St. Augustine, find out who owned a storefront and who worked from their home. By the end of the day she had gathered enough information to start analyzing whether or not it would be a profitable business. And if she were to start such a business, would she hire employees? How big did she want this business to grow? Or did she prefer to keep it small, enough for a bit of income… No, that wouldn't be good enough. She would need to eventually pay for her needs, to rent or own her own home, to completely provide for herself.

Would she design a line of clothing that she would prefer to wear, or a line that the social elite would prefer to wear, or both? Personally, she'd rather design clothes she'd like to wear, but from the few shops she'd entered earlier that day, she could see that making fancy gowns for the genteel ladies of society was a large part of the business.

She worked until she was called to dinner.

“Good evening, Father.” She kissed him on the cheek and sat down in her seat.

“Good evening, daughter.” He winked. The two of them had a running gag of being formal with each other for a moment at the table.

Gabe shook his head. Mother came in from the kitchen carrying the serving dish with roast beef, potatoes, carrots and onions with brown gravy. Gabe took the platter from his mother and placed it in the center of the table. “Thank ye, son.”

“You're welcome, Mother.” Gabe wiggled his eyebrows at Hope, making her laugh.

“What has brought ye cheer, Hope? It is good to see but I am curious,” her father asked.

“I'm working on something. Give me a couple of days and I will share it with you. I'd like your input but I'd like to work out the details first.”

Drake smiled and nodded. He reached out his hands and the family followed suit, each taking the hand next to them. With her left she was connected to her father. With her right she was connected to her mother, and Gabe sat across from her with the same connection. Her father led them in prayer, then they began the harmony of taking food items and passing the bowls and platters around.

Gabe opened the conversation, extolling his business prowess for the day. Hope listened. Her father plied him with questions, most of which Gabe had the answers to. Mother seldom said much when it came to business but when she did, it was always a well-thought-out comment.

“I've been speaking with Ian to learn about his business. This is beef country—I'm a little leery of just how much mutton and lamb can be brought into this market. However he did speak with several of the butchers in town and George Leonardy let him know that he never has enough for his customers.”

Hope was curious to hear news about Ian but she fought the urge to ask any questions. She did not want to appear anxious or overly interested in Ian McGrae, the man who kissed her, then broke her heart.

“Don't forget specialized markets, son. A man can do quite well providing something different.”

“I for one am looking forward to having more lamb on our tables.” Mother spoke up. “Of course, your father and I grew up eating our fair share of it.”

Specialized markets… Should she be considering her style of clothing as a specialized market? She knew some women on the frontier were making their skirts like pants so they could sit on a horse with the same ease as a man.

“What about the wool? Does he have a plan for that?” Hope asked.

“Yes. Apparently they shear the sheep at the early part of the summer then the animal has a good coat before the winter months.”

Gabe cocked his head but didn't ask her any questions. He, more than most, probably knew that she and Ian were not suited for one another. Although she wished it could be different. She remembered the feel of his lips on hers. Hope looked down at her plate and closed her eyes. She would not think about that kiss again, especially not in front of her parents and brother.

“Mother, do you know of anyone who cards and spins wool in St. Augustine?” Hope asked.

“A few of the older ladies do. However, most sheep ranchers send their wool to manufacturing plants.”

“I'll mention that to Ian. Thank you, Mum. By the way, dinner is wonderful this evening.” Gabe accented his words with the lift of his fork.

A round of praise went out thanking mother for her culinary skills. Hope's mind went over the process of shearing sheep to processing the wool, spinning it into threads, then making fabric… No, that wasn't for her. She preferred buying fabric already made.

Perhaps Ian was right. Perhaps she wasn't cut out to live as a shepherd's wife.

Hope closed her eyes and concentrated on who she was created to be rather than what others thought she should be. She would not slip into the mire of depression again. It didn't suit her, and if it were possible to stop oneself from going down that road, she would choose to.

A knock at the door stopped everyone. Father got up to answer it… “Mr. Lang.” Hope didn't recognize the voice but she did recognize the tone. Someone was in need or in trouble.

I
an scanned the dock, looking for the right ship. Word had come that his sheep and ram were in port. He turned and looked down the street toward the Seaside Inn. He wondered if Hope was there this morning, helping Grace. He couldn't stop thinking about her being in his arms.

He shook off the thoughts as he approached the ship. He could see and hear the sheep bleating in their pen on the dock. A smile creased his lips. They were finally here.

He greeted the first mate and signed for his stock. He'd brought fresh water and oats, not knowing what his animals had been fed on board.

“Conall,” Ian called. The dog stood at attention. Conall would help him walk the sheep back to the ranch. Ian hoped he'd made the right choice to walk them back and not transport them in a wagon. The animals would be in need of some exercise after the long voyage.

“They weren't a troublesome lot,” the first mate said with a smile. “Your father provided well for their care on board.”

“Thank ye.” Ian signed the paperwork and opened the pen door. “Stay, boy,” Ian ordered. There was no sense making the sheep walk around the pen. He checked each of their legs and hooves. Satisfied, he opened the gate and encouraged them to walk toward Harbor Street. As the sheep exited the pen, Ian whistled, giving Conall the command to walk the sheep down the dock and toward the road.

Between Ian and Conall the sheep obeyed. They continued on until he reached the halfway point to his ranch. There he told Conall to rest. The sheep stopped moving and grazed on the green grass in front of them. His ram was a bit more cautious and surveyed the area for a moment before he grazed.

Jackson Hastings pulled up with his wagon. “Hi, Ian, these the sheep you been waiting on?”

“Yes, sir.”

Jackson climbed down from his rig and examined the stock. “Fine-looking ram.”

“Thank ye. Me father was very generous in giving him to me.”

“Five ewes and a ram are a very generous gift. As a man who's raised livestock for most of my years, I know good stock. Can I give you and the sheep a lift to your ranch?”

Ian glanced at the sheep. They were tired. “That be right kind of ye. I should have brought me wagon.”

“Glad to lend a hand.” Fifteen minutes later the sheep were bleating in the back of the wagon. Conall sat up front with Jackson Hastings and Ian. “They don't know a good thing when they find it,” Jackson said.

Ian chuckled. “That be true enough.”

“How's the house working out for you?”

“Very well.”

“You might consider building an addition after your stock is doing well, perhaps in the winter.”

“House is fine for now.”

“I suppose for a single man that would be true but… well, it isn't my place to say…”

“What?”

“I thought you were looking to get married one day. My wife and I started with a small house but we planned on building it larger and with a second floor once the children started coming.”

Ian felt his cheeks redden. “If I find a wife, yes, I would need to build an addition.”

Jackson smiled. “I don't mean to pry but weren't you and Miss Lang…?”

“Our betrothal was ended by mutual agreement when I arrived.” Ian wasn't about to tell his personal business to a stranger, although Jackson was obviously close to the Langs if he knew about the betrothal. More importantly he didn't want to stain Hope's reputation in the community.

“Ah, I understand. She's a fine woman, though.”

“Aye, that she is,” Ian acknowledged. They arrived at the driveway to his property. “Ye can let us off here. The sheep will need to walk off their concerns about riding in the wagon.”

Jackson chuckled. “They are a loud bunch.”

Ian and Jackson made quick work of getting the sheep off the wagon and onto the road. Ian whistled and gave Conall the signal to bring the sheep down the lane. He turned back to Jackson and extended his hand. “Thank ye again.”

“You're welcome. Come by the house sometime, perhaps a Sunday dinner. I'll check with the missus and let you know.”

“That is most kind.”

Ian stood there for a moment as he watched Jackson climb back up on his wagon and pick up the leather reins. Jackson turned and waved. Ian lifted a hand in reply. Ian paused.
How many people know about our betrothal?

* * *

Hope sat at a small tea table with Sandra Allen, whose husband owned the local mercantile. A few strands of her ash-blond hair tumbled down the sides of her cheeks. Sandra kept her hair back with a rose-colored ribbon. They were enjoying a warm cup of tea, chatting about her husband's business, when a man carrying a bushel barrel of pumpkins came in. “Excuse me.” Sandra went to the counter. “Looks like a mighty fine batch, Mr. Middleton.”

“Thank you. I've got three more bushels in the wagon. Would you like any of those?”

“I think we can sell a second bushel.”

“Thank you.” Mr. Middleton placed the basket on the floor and hustled outside to retrieve another bushel.

Hope's mind raced over all Sandra had to think about in order to be prosperous in her business. For instance, items that could spoil could constitute a loss. Hope was glad she was going to be dealing in fabric. Hope thought she and Sandra could work out a deal where Hope would not have to pay the full retail prices since she would be purchasing the entire lot. After Sandra finished with Mr. Middleton she came back and sat down with Hope. “Where were we?”

“I'm looking into starting my own dressmaking shop.” Hope went on to explain her desire to work with Sandra.

“I'll have to speak with my husband, but if you'll take care of all the paperwork, and we simply have to be the receivers of the fabric, that sounds like a fair deal. When are you hoping to begin?”

“I'm still looking into storefronts, but I'm also considering working from my home until I build up a client list.”

“Count me in. I'm in need of a dress that doesn't get in the way of hauling items up and down from the shelves, and that won't knock items off the display tables. I like that business outfit you made a while back for yourself. It was sharp looking and didn't come with excessive layers. So what would be the cost of one of your dresses?”

“I'll have to get back to you on the cost. I'm still analyzing the figures. I don't want to jump in and start a business without looking at it thoroughly.”

“You always did have a head for numbers.” Sandra leaned in a bit closer. “And business, like me,” she whispered and winked.

Hope chuckled. “We don't have many dressmakers with shops in St. Augustine and there could be a good reason for that. One is that we are a major port so the latest fashions from New York, London and Paris are available at all times. Then there are our northern visitors who come for a season and then return. They come with trunks full of clothing.”

Sandra leaned back. “You have a point there. Like I said, I'd love a skirt that didn't have the excess fabric but I don't want to be too modern. I'm not certain my customers could handle that.”

“I understand. Let me take your measurements and I'll draw up a design or two.”

Sandra beamed. “Could you make the skirt separate so I can change blouses if they get dirty with all the dust that comes off those shelves?”

“Anything you want.”

Sandra went to retrieve her tape measure. Hope took her measurements and wrote them down in her notebook where she kept all her notes concerning this venture.

The door jangled as a new customer walked in. Hope looked up. Sunlight glinted off the chestnut hair of Ian McGrae, who paused in the doorway, his blue eyes sparkling. “Miss Lang, a pleasure to see ye.”

“And you, Mr. McGrae.” Hope knew she should leave but her feet didn't want to obey. Instead she sat back down at the table and poured herself another cup of tea.

“May I join ye?” Ian stood with his hat crunched in his hands.