“How do you know my father?” Fiona’s voice sounded as raw as it felt.

“I don’t. I never met him until this day, although I grew up hearing tales about him and my father. And I know who you are, Fiona O’Rourke.”

A terrible roaring filled her ears, louder than the blizzard’s wail, louder than any sound she had ever known. The force of it trembled through her, and she felt as if a lasso were tightening around her neck. Her dreams cracked apart like breaking ice. “Y-you know me?”

“Aye.” Gently came that single word.

“But how? Unless you are—” Her tongue froze, her mind rolled around uselessly because she knew exactly who he was. For she had grown up hearing those same tales of her da and another man, the man whose son now towered before her. “No, it can’t be.”

“Ian McPherson. Your betrothed.”

JILLIAN HART

grew up on her family’s homestead, where she raised cattle, rode horses and scribbled stories in her spare time. After earning her English degree from Whitman College, she worked in travel and advertising before selling her first novel. When Jillian isn’t working on her next story, she can be found puttering in her rose garden, curled up with a good book and spending quiet evenings at home with her family.

Jillian Hart
Gingham Bride

www.millsandboon.co.uk

I trust in the mercy of God forever and ever.

—Psalms 52:8

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

Angel County, Montana Territory,

December 1883

“Ma, when is Da coming back from town?” Fiona O’Rourke threw open the kitchen door, shivering beneath the lean-to’s roof. Please, she prayed, let him be gone a long time.

A pot clanged as if in answer. “Soon. And just why are you askin’?”

“Uh, I was just wondering, Ma.” Soon. That was not the answer she had been hoping for. Her stomach tightened with nerves as she set down the milk pail and backed out the door. She wanted to hear that Da had gone to his favorite saloon in town for the afternoon, which would give her plenty of time to fix the problem before her father returned.

“You are still in your barn boots?” Ma turned from the stove in a swirl of faded calico. “Tell me why you are not ready to help with the kitchen work? What is taking you so long outside today?”

The word lazy was not there, but the intonation of it was strong in her mother’s fading brogue. Fiona winced, although she was used to it. Life was not pleasant in the O’Rourke household. Love was absent. She did not know if happiness and love actually existed in the world. But she did know that if her father discovered the horse was missing, she would pay dearly for it. She had school to think of—five full months before she would graduate. If she was punished, then she might not be able to go to school for a few days. The thought of not seeing her friends, the friends who understood her, hurt fiercely and more than any punishment could.

“I will work harder, Ma. I’ll be back soon.” She scrambled through the shelter of the lean-to. Wood splinters and bark shavings crackled beneath her boots.

“It will not be soon enough, girl! I’ve already started the meal, can’t you see? You are worthless. I don’t know if any man will have the likes of you, and your Da and I will be stuck supporting you forever.” A pot lid slammed down with a ringing iron clang. Unforgiving and strict, Ma turned from the stove, weary in her worn-thin dress and apron. She raised the spatula, clutching it in one hand. “When your Da comes home, he will expect the barn work to be done or else.”

It was the “or else” that put fear into her and she dashed full speed past the strap hanging on a nail on the lean-to wall and into the icy blast of the north wind. Outside, tiny, airy snowflakes danced like music. She did not take the time to watch their beauty or breathe in their wintry, pure scent as she plunged down the steps into the deep snow. She hitched her skirts to her knees and kept going. The cold air burned her throat and lungs as she climbed over the broken board of the fence and into the fallow fields. Snow draped like a pristine silk blanket over the rise and fall of the prairie, and she scanned the still, unbroken whiteness for a big bay horse.

Nothing. How far could he have gone? He had not been loose for long, yet he was not within sight. Where could he be? He might have headed in any direction. Thinking of that strap on the wall, Fiona whirled, searching in the snow for telltale tracks. The toot, too-oot of the Northern Pacific echoed behind her, a lone, plaintive noise in the vast prairie stillness, as if to remind her of her plans. One day she would be a passenger on those polished cars. One day, when she had saved enough and was finished with school, she would calmly buy a ticket, climb aboard and ride away, leaving this great unhappy life behind.

In the meantime, she had a horse to find, and quick. But how? It was a big job for one girl. She lifted her skirts, heading for the highest crest in the sloping field. If only her brother were still alive, he would know exactly what to do. He would have put his arm around her shoulder, calming her with kind, reassuring words. Johnny would have told her to finish her chores, that he would take care of everything, no need to worry. He would be the one spotting the hoofprints and following them. He would know how to capture a runaway. She lumbered through the deepening drifts, watching as the snow began to fall harder, filling the gelding’s tracks.

How could she do this alone? She missed her brother. Grief wrapped around her as cold as the north winds and blurred the endless white sweep of the prairie. She ached in too many ways to count. It would be easier to give in to it, to let her knees crumple and drop down into the snow, let the helplessness wash over her. Snow battered her cheeks, stinging with needle sharpness. If she wanted the future she had planned, the promise of a life on her own and alone, so no one could own her or hurt her, then she must find the gelding. She must bring him in and finish the barn work. Those were her only choices.

What would her friends say? She plunged deeply into the snow, following the set of telltale tracks snaking through the deeply drifted snow. She sank past her knees, hefting her skirts, ignoring the biting cold. She imagined sitting in Lila’s cozy parlor above the mercantile her parents owned with the fire crackling and steeping tea scenting the room, surrounded by those who were more family to her than her own parents.

“Fee, you ought to stay with one of us instead of leaving town,” Kate might say in that stubborn, gentle way of hers. “I’m sure my folks would put you up if I told them what your home life is like.”

“Or you would stay with us,” Lila would offer with a look of mischief. “My stepmother would be more than happy to take you in and manage your life.”

“Or with me,” Earlee would say. “My family doesn’t have much, but I know we could make room for you.”

Fiona’s throat ached with love for her friends, and she knew she could not share this with them. Some things were too painful and besides, her parents would come for her if she stayed anywhere in Angel County. The new sheriff was one of Pa’s card-playing buddies. She feared for her friends. There was no telling what Pa might do if he were angry enough. It would be best to find the horse.

A plaintive neigh carried toward her on the cutting wind. Flannigan was easy to spot, standing defiantly on a rise of the prairie, a rusty splash of color in the white and gray world. Thank heavens! She faced the brutal wind. If she could get to him fast enough, she could lead him back to his stall and no one would be the wiser. The strap would remain on the lean-to wall untouched and unused. Relief slid through her and her feet felt light as she hurried on. The deep snow clutched at her boots as if with greedy hands, slowing her progress.

On the rise ahead, the gelding watched her brashly. Now all she had to do was to hold out her hand and speak gently to him, and surely he would come to her as he did in the corral. To her surprise, the gelding tossed his head, sending another ringing neigh echoing across the landscape. He turned and ran, disappearing into the folds of land and the veil of snowfall.

No! She watched him vanish. Her hopes went with him. What if he kept running? What if she could never catch him? What if she had to return home and face Da’s wrath? She plunged after him. She reached the crest where he’d stood and searched the prairie for him. Her eyes smarted from staring into the endless white. Panic clawed at the back of her neck, threatening to overtake her.

Get the horse, her instincts told her. Run after him as far as it takes. Just get him back before Da comes home. She closed out the picture of the dark lean-to and her father’s harsh words as he yelled at her, listing everything she had done wrong. Desperation had her lunging down the steep rise, sobbing in great lungfuls of wintry air, searching frantically for any movement of color in the vast white.

There he was, flying through an empty field, black mane and tail rippling, racing the wind. What would it be like to run as far and as fast as you could go, to be nothing but part of the wind, the snow and sky?

“Flannigan!” she cried out, praying that her voice carried to him. But it was not her voice that caused the giant workhorse to spin and turn toward town. A distant neigh echoed across the rolling fields and like a death toll it reverberated in her soul. Would he keep running? How would she ever catch him?

“Flannigan!”

The horse hesitated, his tail up and his black mane fluttering in the wind. Proud and free, the gelding tossed his head as if troubled, torn between galloping over to her and his own freedom.

She knew just how he felt, exactly how attractive the notion of fleeing could be. Please don’t do it, she begged with all her might, but it made no difference. The gelding rocked back on his hooves and pivoted, running like a racehorse on the last stretch. She took off after him, wishing she could do the same, her skirts fluttering in the winter wind.

Ian McPherson sat up straighter on the hard wooden edge of the homemade sled’s seat, trying to get a better look at the young woman in the fields. Flecks of white stung his eyes and cheeks and the storm closed in, turning serious, as if to hide her from his sight. He caught flashes of red skirt ruffles beneath the modest dove-gray coat and a mane of thick black curls flying behind her. “Who is that running through the snow?”

“If I tell you the truth, you will have a mind to get back on that train.” O’Rourke was a somber man and his hard face turned grim. “We couldn’t beat common sense into that girl. Don’t think we didn’t try.”

Ian gulped, knowing his shock had to show on his face. He could find no civil response as he turned his attention back to the young lady who hiked her skirts up to her knees, showing a flash of flannel long johns before the storm and the rolling prairie stole her from view. “She’s got some speed. Can’t say I have seen a woman run that fast before.”

“Likely her neglect is the reason the gelding got out. That girl hasn’t got a lick of sense, but she is a good worker. My wife and I made sure of it. That’s what a man needs in a helpmate. She will be useful. No need to worry about that.”

“Oh, I won’t.” Useful. Not what he wanted in a wife. He didn’t want a wife. He had more than enough responsibility resting on his shoulders.

Aye, coming here was not the wisest decision he had ever made. But what other choice did he have? Creditors had taken his grandparents’ house and land, and he still felt sick in his gut at being unable to stop it. Gaining a wife when he was near to penniless was not a good solution, even if his nana thought so. A better solution would be to find his own wife sometime in the future, even though, being a shy man, courting did not come easily to him.

“Don’t make up your mind on her just yet.” O’Rourke hit the gelding’s flank fairly hard with his hand whip. The animal leaped forward, lathering with fear. “You come sit down to eat with us and look her over real good.”

Look her over? The father spoke as if they were headed to a horse sale. Ian strained to catch another glimpse of her, but saw only gray prairie and white snow. What would the girl look like up close and face-to-face? Probably homely and pocked, considering her parents were desperate to marry her off.

“Remember, you gave us your word.” O’Rourke spit tobacco juice into the snow on his side of the sled. “I don’t cotton to men who go back on their word.”

“I only said I would come meet the girl. I made no promises.” Although he did have hopes of his own. He couldn’t explain why his eyes hungrily searched for her. Maybe it was because of the pretty picture she made, like a piece from a poem, an untamed horse and the curly haired innocent chasing him. It was his imagination at work again, for he was happier in his thoughts than anywhere. Hers was an image he would pen down later tonight when he was alone with his notebook.

“Your grandfather promised.” O’Rourke was like a dog with a bone. He wouldn’t relent. “I knew this would happen first time you caught sight of her. Fiona is no beauty, that’s for sure, but I’m strapped. Times are hard for me and my wife. We can’t keep feedin’ and clothin’ her and we don’t want to. It’s high time she was married and your family and me, we had this arranged before you both was born.”

He had heard it all before. Nearly the same words his grandmother had told him over and over with hope sparkling in her eyes. After all that she had lost, how could he outright disappoint her? Life was complicated and love more so.

Would the girl understand? Was she already packing her hope chest? She swept into sight, farther away, hardly more than a flash of red, a bit of gray and those bouncing black curls. From behind, she made a lovely pose, willowy and petite, with her flare of skirt and elegant outstretched hand, slowly approaching the lone horse. The animal looked lathered, his skin flicking with nervous energy as if ready to bolt again.

“Fool girl,” O’Rourke growled, halting the horse near a paint-peeling, lopsided barn. “She ought to know she’ll never catch the beast that way.”

Her back was still to him, distant enough that she was more impression than substance, more whimsy than real with the falling snow cloaking her. If he had the time, he could capture the emotion in watercolors with muted tones and blurred lines to show her skirt and outstretched hand.

Ian vaguely realized the older man was digging in the back for something, and the rattle of a chain tore him from his thoughts and into the bitter-cold moment. He did not want to know what O’Rourke was up to; he’d seen enough of the man to expect the worst. He hopped into the deep snow, ignoring the hitch of pain in his left leg, and reached for his cane. “I shall take care of it. I have a way with horses.”

“So do I.” O’Rourke shook out a length of something that flickered like a snake’s tongue—aye, a whip. “This won’t take long with the two of us.”

“No need to get yourself cold and tired out.” Under no circumstances was he going to be involved in that brand of horse handling. Best to placate the man, and then figure out what he was going to do. What his grandparents hadn’t told him about their best friend’s son could fill a barrel. The ten-minute drive from town in the man’s company was nine minutes more than he felt fit to handle. He gestured toward the ramshackle shanty up the rise a ways. “You go on up to the house where the fire is warm. Let me manage this for you.”

“Well, young fellow, that sounds mighty good.” O’Rourke seemed pleased and held out the whip. “I suspect you might need this.”

Ian looked with distaste at the sinuous black length. “I see a rope looped over the fencepost. That will be enough.”

“Suit yourself. It will be here if you need it.” O’Rourke sounded amused as he tossed down the whip and sank boot-deep into the snow. He gestured toward the harnessed gelding, standing head down, as if his spirit had been broken long ago. “I’ll leave this one for you to stable.”

It wasn’t a question, and Ian didn’t like the sound of mean beneath the man’s conversational tone. Still, he’d been brought up to respect his elders, so he held his tongue. O’Rourke and how he lived his life were not his concern. Seeing his grandmother through her final days and figuring out a way to make a living for both of them was his purpose.

He ought not to be giving in to his fanciful side, but with every step he took he noted the gray daylight falling at an angle, shadows hugging the lee side of rises and fence posts, but not over the girl. As he loosened the harness and lifted the horse collar from the gelding’s back, he felt a strange longing, for what he did not know. Perhaps it was the haunting beauty of this place of sweeping prairies and loneliness. Maybe it was simply from traveling so long and far from everything he knew. There was another possibility, and one he didn’t much want to think on. He led the horse to the corral gate, unlooped the coiled rope from the post, used the rails to struggle onto the horse’s back and swiped snow from his eyelashes.

Where had she gone? He breathed in the prairie’s stillness, coiling the long driving reins and knotting them. He leaned to open the gate and directed the horse through. No animal stirred, a sign the storm setting in was bound to get worse. Only the wind’s flat-noted wail chased across the rolling and falling white prairie. Different from his Kentucky home, and while he missed the trees and verdant fields, this sparse place held beauty, too.

“C’mon, boy.” He drew the gate closed behind them. The crest where he’d last spotted the girl and horse was empty. He pressed the gelding into a quick walk. Falling flakes tapped with greater force and veiled the sky and the horizon, closing in on him until he could no longer see anything but gray shadows and white snow. He welcomed the beat of the wild wind and needle-sharp flakes. The farmer in him delighted in the expansive fields and the sight of a cow herd foraging in the far distance. Aye, he missed his family’s homestead. He missed the life he had been born to.

When he reached the hill’s crest, hoofprints and shoe prints merged and circled, clearly trailing northward. A blizzard was coming, that was his guess, for the wind became cruel and the snowflakes furious. At least he had tracks to follow. He did not want to think what he would find when he was face-to-face with the woman. He could only pray she did not want this union any more than he did. And why would she? he mused as he tucked his cane in one hand. The girl would likely want nothing to do with him, a washed-up horseman more comfortable chatting with his animals than a woman.

Perhaps it was Providence that brought the snow down like a shield, protecting him from sight as he nosed the horse into the teeth of the storm. Maybe the Almighty knew how hard it was going to be for him to face the girl, and sent the wind to swirl around him like a defense. He could do this; he drew in a long breath of wintry air and steeled his spine. Talking to a woman might not be his strong suit, but he had done more terrifying things. Right now none came to mind, but that was only because his brains muddled whenever a female was nearby. Which meant that somewhere in the thick curtain of white, Miss Fiona O’Rourke, his betrothed, had to be very close.

He heard her before he saw her. At least he thought that was her. The quiet soprano was sheer beauty, muted by the storm and unconsciously true, as if the singer were unaware of her gifted voice. Sure rounded notes seemed to float amid the tumbling snowflakes, the melody hardly more than a faint rise and fall until the horse drew him closer and he recognized the tune.

“O come all ye faithful,” she sang. “Joyful and triumphant.”

He wondered how anything so warm and sweet could be borne on the bitterest winds he’d ever felt. They sliced through his layers of wool and flannel like the sharpest blade, and yet her sweet timbre lulled him warmly, opening his heart when the cruel cold should have closed it up tight.

“O come ye, oh come ye…” The snowfall parted enough to hint at the shadow of a young woman, dark curls flecked with white, holding out her hand toward the darker silhouette of the giant draft horse. “To Bethlehem. Come and behold him…”

The horse he rode plunged toward her as if captivated. Ian understood. He, too, felt drawn to her like the snowflakes to the ground. They were helpless to take another course from sky to earth just as he could not help drawing the horse to a stop to watch. Being near to her should have made his palms sweat and cloying tightness take over his chest, but he hardly noticed his suffocating shyness. She moved like poetry with her hand out to slowly catch hold of the trembling horse.

“Born the king of angels. O come let us adore him.” Her slender, mittened hand was close to touching the fraying rope halter. “O come—”

“Let us adore him.” The words slipped out in his deeper baritone, surprising him.

She started, the horse shied. The bay threw his head out of her reach and with a protesting neigh, took off and merged with the snowy horizon.

“Look what you have done.” Gone was the music as she swirled to face him. He expected a tongue-lashing or at the very least a bit of a scolding for frightening the runaway. But as she marched toward him through the downfall, his chin dropped and his mind emptied. Snow-frosted raven curls framed a perfect heart-shaped face. The woman had a look of sheer perfection with sculpted high cheekbones, a dainty nose and the softest mouth he’d ever seen. If she were to smile, he reckoned she could stop the snow from falling.

He took in her riotous black curls and the red gingham dress ruffle peeking from beneath her somber gray coat. Shock filled him. “You are Fiona O’Rourke?”

“Yes, and just who is the baboon who has chased off my da’s horse and will likely cost me my supper?” She lifted her chin, setting it so that it did not look delicate at all but stubborn and porcelain steel. She looked angry, aye, but there was something compelling about Miss O’Rourke and it wasn’t her unexpected beauty. Never in his life had he seen such immense sadness.

Chapter Two

Who was this strange man towering over her and what was he doing in her family’s fields? Fiona swiped her eyes, trying to see the intruder more clearly. The storm enfolded him, blurring the impressive width of his powerful shoulders and casting his face in silhouette. The high, wide brim of his hat added mystery; he was surely no one she had seen on the country roads or anywhere in town. He did not seem to have a single notion of what he had just done, scaring off Flannigan again, when she’d almost had his halter in a firm grip.

“What possessed you to trespass into our fields?” She was working up a good bit of mad. Time had to be running out. She had not been watching the road well, but Da’s sled might come down the road at any moment. She had no time to waste. “Why are you here?”

“I heard your singing.”

“What? And you felt you had to join in the caroling?” Men. She had little use for them. Aside from her brother, she did not know a single one without some selfish plan. “Go sing somewhere else. I have a horse to catch.”

“Then hop up.” He held out his hand, wide palmed, the leather of his expensive driving gloves worn and thin in spots.

“Hop up? You mean ride with you?” Was the man delusional? She took a step back. Angel County was a safe, family place, but trouble wandered through every now and then on the back of a horse. The ruffian in front of her certainly looked like trouble with his quality hat, polished boots and wash-worn denims. And his horse, there was something familiar about the big bay who was reaching out toward her coat pockets as if seeking a treat.

“Riley?” Her chin dropped in shock, and she knew her mouth had to be hanging open unattractively. She could hear her parents’ voices in her head. Close your mouth, Fiona. With your sorry looks you don’t want to make anything worse, for then we’ll never be rid of ya.

She snapped her jaw shut, her teeth clacking. “What are you doing on our horse?”

“I know your father” was all he said.

“My da was driving Riley. Does that mean he is back home so soon?”

“Aye.” His brogue was a trace, but it sent shivers down her spine. Something familiar teased at the edges of her mind, but it wasn’t stronger than the panic.

“My father is home,” she repeated woodenly. “Then he must know the other workhorse has gone missing.”

“Afraid so. We had a good view of you racing after the horse from the crest of the road.” His hand remained outstretched. “Do you want me to catch him for you, or do you want to come?”

She withered inside. It was too late, then. She would be punished even if she brought the horse back, and if not, then who knew what would happen? This strange man’s eyes were kind, shadowed as they were. Yet all she could see was a long punishment stretching out ahead of her. After the strap, she would be sent to her tiny attic room, where she would spend her time when she was not doing her share of the work. And that was if she brought the horse back.

If she lost Flannigan, she could not let herself imagine what her parents would do. This man had no stake in finding the horse. She did not understand why he was helping her, but her hand shot out. The storm was worsening. There wasn’t a lot of time. “Take me with you.”

“All right, then.” He clasped her with surprising strength and swept her into the air. Her skirts billowed, the heel of her high barn boot lightly brushed Riley’s flank and she landed breathlessly behind the man, her hand still in his.

“Who are you?” The storm fell like twilight, draining the gray daylight from the sky and deepening the shadows beneath the brim of his hat. She couldn’t make out more than the strong cut of a square jaw, rough with a day’s dark growth.

“There will be time enough for that later. Hold on tight.” He drew her hand to his waist. He could have been carved marble beneath his fine wool coat. With a “get up!” Riley shot out into an abrupt trot, the bouncing gait knocking her back on the horse’s rump. She slid in teeth-rattling jolts, each bump knocking her farther backward. Her skirt, indecorously around her knees, slid with her.

A leather-gloved hand reached around to grip her elbow and hold her steady. “Never ridden astride before?”

“Not without a saddle.” The words flew out before she could stop them. If her parents knew she had ever ridden in such an unladylike fashion, they would tan her hide for sure. But the stranger, whoever he was, did not seem shocked by her behavior.

“Just hold on tight to me and grip the horse’s sides with your knees.”

Did she ask for his advice? No. Her face blushed. She might not have been bashful riding this way with her brother watching, but this man was a different matter. She fell silent, bouncing along, staring hard at the stranger’s wide back. Riley’s gait smoothed as he reached out into a slow canter, and she raised her face into the wind, letting the icy snow bathe her overheated skin.

Lord, please don’t make me regret this. Yes, she was second-guessing her impulsive decision to ride with this man, this stranger. Maybe he was the new neighbor down the way. The Wilsons’ farm had sold last month. Or maybe this was the new deputy come to town. Either way, she needed to find the horse.

“Hold up.” The stranger had a resonant voice, pleasantly masculine. He leaned to the side, studying the ground. The accumulation rapidly erased Flannigan’s hoofprints. “I think he’s turned northwest. There’s a chance we won’t lose him yet.”

“We can’t lose him.” Terror struck her harder than any blizzard.

“I’ll do my best, miss. Are you sure you don’t want me to turn around and take you back to your warm house?”

“You don’t understand. I can’t go back unless I have the horse.” She shivered and not from the cold. No one understood—no one but her best friends, that was—how severe her life was. She had learned a long time ago to do her best with the hand God had dealt her. She would be eighteen and on her own soon enough. Then she would never have to be dominated by anyone. She would never have to be hurt again. “Please. We have to keep going.”

“You sound desperate. That horse sure must mean something to you.” Gruffly spoken, those words, although it was hard to tell with the wind’s howl filling her ears. He pressed Riley back to a canter. The storm beat at them from the side now, brutally tearing through layers of clothes. Her hands hurt from the cold.

Night was falling; the shadows grew darker as the stranger stopped the horse to study the ground again and backtracked at a slow walk. With every step Riley took, her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. Please, don’t let me lose Flannigan, she begged—prayer was too gentle of a request. She should have been more vigilant. She should have realized something was amiss when the horse hung back in the corral instead of racing to the barn for his supper. Had she been quicker, this never would have happened. And she wouldn’t be fearing the beating to come.

You could just keep on going. The thought came as if whispered in the wind. They were headed away from town and toward the eastern road that would take her straight to Newberry, the neighboring railroad town. She could send word to her friend Lila, who could gather the girls and find a way to unearth her money sock from the loose floorboard in the haymow.

“There he is.” The stranger wheeled Riley around with a confident efficiency she had never seen before. The huge animal followed his light commands willingly, this gelding who had lost his will to care long ago.

It was impossible to see around the broad line of the man’s back. When he unlooped the rope and slip knotted it while he directed Riley with his knees, hope burrowed into her and took root. Maybe catching Flannigan would be quick and painless, if the stranger was as good with a lasso as he was with the horse.

“Hold on. He’s bolting.”

That was her only warning before he shouted “Ha!” and pressed Riley into a plunging gallop. Snow battered her from all directions, slapping her face. The horse’s movements beneath her weren’t smooth. He was fighting through the uneven snow and she jounced around, gripping the stranger’s coat tightly.

“Can you stay on?” He shouted to be heard over the cadence of the horse and the roaring blizzard.

She wanted to but her knees were slipping, her skirt had blown up to expose her red flannel petticoats and long johns and she was about to slide off the downside slope of Riley’s rump. “No,” she called out as she slid farther. A few seconds more and there would be nothing beneath her but cold air and pounding hooves.

“I’ll be back for you.” To her surprise, the stranger twisted around, caught hold of her wrist and swept her safely to the side, away from the dangerous hooves. She landed in the snow on her feet, sinking in a drift past her knees. Horse and rider flew by like a dream, moving as one dark silhouette in the coming night.

Cold eked through her layers and cleaved into her flesh, but she hardly noticed. She stood transfixed by the perfect symmetry between man and horse. With manly grace he slung the lasso, circling it twice overhead before sending it slicing through the white veil. Without realizing it, she was loping through the impossible drifts after them, drawn to follow as if by an invisible rope. Perhaps it the man’s skill that astonished her as the noose pulled tight around defiant Flannigan’s neck. She could not help admiring the strength it took to hold the runaway, or the dance of command and respect as the horse and rider closed the distance. A gloved hand reached out, palm up to the captive gelding. The stranger’s low mumble seemed to warm the bitter air. Her brother could not have done better.

“Our runaway seems tame enough.” He emerged out of the shadows, towering over her, leading Flannigan by a short lead. He dismounted, sliding effortlessly to the ground. “He got a good run in, so he ought to be in a more agreeable mood for the journey back. Let me give you a foot up.”

He was taller than she realized; then again, perhaps it was because her view of him had changed. He was bigger somehow, greater for the kindness he had shown to Flannigan, catching him without a harsh word or a lash from a whip, as Da would have done. She shook her head, skirting him. “I’ll ride Flannigan in. He ought to be tired enough after his run. He’s not a bad horse.”

“No, I can see that. Just wanted to escape his bonds for a time.”

Yes. That was how she felt, too. Flannigan nickered low in his throat, a warm surrender or a greeting, she didn’t know which. She irrationally hated that he had been caught. It was not safe for him to run away, for there were too many dangers that ranged from gopher holes to barbed wire to wolves, but she knew what it felt like to be trapped. When she gazed to the north where the spill and swell of land should be, she saw only the impenetrable white wall of the storm. Although the prairie had disappeared, she longed to take off and go as fast and as far as she could until she was a part of the wind and the sky.

“Then up you go.” The stranger didn’t argue, merely knelt at her feet and cupped his hands together. “I’m sure a beauty such as you can tame the beast.”

Did she imagine a twinkle in his eyes? It was too dark to know for sure. She was airborne and climbing onto Flannigan’s back before she had time to consider it. By then the stranger had limped away into the downfall, a hazed silhouette and nothing more.

You could take Flannigan and go. It was her sense of self-preservation whispering at her to flee. It felt foolish to give in to the notion of running away, right now at least; it felt even more foolish to lead the horse home. Da had fallen into an especially dark mood these last few months since he had lost much of the harvest. Thinking of the small, dark sitting room where Da would be waiting drained the strength from her limbs. She dug her fingers into Flannigan’s coarse mane, letting the blizzard rage at her.

“I’ll lead you.” His voice came out of the thickening darkness. There was no light now, no shades of grayness or shadows to demark him. “So there will be no more running away.”

Her pulse lurched to a stop. He couldn’t know, she told herself. He might be able to lasso a horse, but he could not read minds. That was impossible. Still, her skin prickled as Flannigan stepped forward, presumably drawn by the rope. His gait rolled through her, and she felt boneless with hopelessness. The wind seemed to call to her as it whipped past, speeding away to places unknown and far from here, far from her father’s strap.

This was December. She had to stick it out until May. Only six months more. Then she would have graduated, the first person in her family to do so. That meant something to her, an accomplishment that her parents would never understand, but her closest friends did. An education was something no one could take from her. It was something she could earn, although she did not have fine things the way Lila’s family did, or attend an East Coast finishing school as Meredith was doing. An education was something she could take with her when she left; her love of books and learning would serve her well wherever she went and whatever job she found.

It will be worth staying, she insisted, swiping snow from her eyes. Although her heart and her spirit ached for her freedom and the dream of a better, gentler life, she stayed on Flannigan’s broad back. His lumbering gait felt sad and defeated, and she bowed her head, fighting her own sorrow.

“I know how you feel, big guy.” Going home to a place that wasn’t really a home. She patted one mostly numb hand against his neck and leaned close until his mane tickled her cheek. “I almost have enough money saved up. When I leave, I can keep some of it behind for payment and take you. How would you like to ride in a boxcar? Let’s just think of what it will be like to ride the rails west.”

Flannigan nickered low in his throat, a comforting sound, as if he understood far more than an animal should. She stretched out and wrapped her arms around his neck as far as they could reach and held on. Come what may, at least Flannigan would not be punished. She would see to that. She would take full responsibility for his escape.

And what about the stranger? She couldn’t see any sign of him except for the tug of the rope leading Flannigan inexorably forward. There was no hint of the stranger’s form in the gloom until they passed through the corral gate and she caught the faintest outline of him ambling through the snow to secure the latch. Flannigan blew out a breath, perhaps a protest at being home again. She drew her leg over the horse’s withers and straightened her skirt.

“I’ll help you.” His baritone surprised her and he caught her just as she started to slide. Against her will, she noticed the strength in his arms as she was eased to the ground. She sank deep and unevenly into a drift. His helpfulness didn’t stop. “Can you find your way to the house, or should I take you there?”

“I have to see to the horses.”

“No, that’s what I plan to do. Let me get them sheltered in the barn and then I’ll be seeing you safely in.” Stubbornness rang like a note in his rumbling voice.

She had a stubborn streak, too. “I’m hardly used to taking orders from a stranger. These are not your horses, and what are you doing on this land?”

“Your da invited me.”

“A drinking buddy, no doubt. It must be poker night already.” She shook her head, plowing through the uncertain drifts and trailing her mittens along Flannigan’s neck until she felt the icy rope. She curled her fingers around it, holding on tight. “I don’t allow intoxicated strangers to handle my horses.”

“Intoxicated?” He chuckled at that. “Missy, I’m parched. I won’t deny, though, I could use a drink when I’m through.”

Was that a hint of humor she heard in his lilting brogue? Was he teasing her? He had a gentle hand when it came to horses, but he could be the worst sort of man; any friend of her father’s would be. Birds of a feather. She saw nothing funny about men like her da. She pushed past him, knocking against the iron plane of his chest with her shoulder.

“Go up to the house, then, and you can wet your whistle, as my da would say.” Why was she so disappointed? It wasn’t as if she cared anything about this man. She didn’t even know his name. It just went to show that men could not be trusted, even if they were prone to good deeds.

“That’s it? I help you bring in your horse and now you are banishing me from your barn?”

“Yes.” Why was he sounding so amused? A decent man ought to have some semblance of shame. “Likely as not, my Da already has the whiskey poured and waiting for you.”

“Then he’ll be a mite disappointed.” The stranger grasped the rope she held, taking charge of Flannigan. “Come along. The barn is not far, if I remember, although I cannot see a foot in front of me.”

“Just follow the fence line.” She was tugged along when she ought to stand her ground. There was something intriguing about this stranger. It was not like one of Da’s fellows to choose barn work over cheap whiskey.

“This is better.” She heard his words as if from a great distance, but that was the distortion of the wind and the effort as he heaved open the barn door. She realized she was the only one gripping Flannigan’s rope and held him tightly, leading him into the dark shelter of the main aisle.

“Where is the lantern?” His boots padded behind her, leading Riley into the barn.

“I was just getting to that.” Really. As if she expected them all to stand around in the dark. She wrestled off her mittens, ice tinkling to the hard-packed dirt at her feet, and felt with numb fingertips for the match tin.

“Need any help?”

“No.” Her hands were not cooperating. She balled them up and blew on them, but her warm breath was not enough to create any thaw. She must be colder than she thought. Boots padded in her direction, sure and steady in spite of the inky blackness. Although she could not see him, she could sense him. The scent of soap and clean male skin and melting snow. The rustle of denim and wool. His masculine presence radiating through the bitter air.

The shock of his touch jolted through her. She stumbled backward, but he held her hands, warming them with his. The act was so unexpected and intimate, shock muted her. Her mouth opened, but not a single sound emerged. He was as if a part of the darkness but his touch was warm as life and somehow not threatening—when it should be.

We’re alone, she realized, her pulse quickening. Alone in the dark, in the storm and with a strange man. She felt every inch of the yawning emptiness around her, but not fear. Her hands began to warm, tucked safely within his. She wanted to pull away and put proper distance between them, but her feet forgot how to move. She forgot how to breathe.

“There. You are more than a wee bit chilly. You need better mittens.” He broke the hold first, his voice smooth and friendly, as if unaffected by their closeness. “Now that my eyes are used to the dark, I can almost see what I’m doing.”

Her hearing registered the scrape of the metal match tin against the wooden shelf on the post, the strike of the match and Flannigan’s heavy step as he nosed in behind her. Light flared to life, a sudden shock in the blackness, and the caress of it illuminated a rock-solid jawline and distinctive planes of a man’s chiseled, rugged face.

A young man’s face. Five o’clock shadow hugged his jaw and a faint smile softened the hard line of his sculpted mouth. He had to be twenty at the oldest. As he touched the flame to the lantern wick, the light brightened and highlighted the dependable line of his shoulders and the power of his muscled arms. A man used to hard work. Not one of Da’s friends, then, or at least not one she had seen before.

“How do you know my father?” Her voice scraped along the inside of her throat, sounding as raw as it felt.

“I don’t.” He shrugged his magnificent shoulders simply, an honest gesture. He shook out the match and stowed it carefully in the bottom drawer of the lantern’s base. “I never met him until this day, although I grew up hearing tales about him and my father. And I know who you are, Fiona O’Rourke.”

A terrible roaring filled her ears, louder than the blizzard’s wail, louder than any sound she had ever known. The force of it trembled through her, and she felt as if a lasso were tightening around her neck. Her dreams cracked apart like breaking ice. “Y-you know me?”

“Aye.” Gently came that single word.

“But how? Unless you are—” Her tongue froze, her mind rolled around uselessly because she knew exactly who he was. For she had grown up hearing those same tales of her da and another man, the man whose son now towered before her. “No, it can’t be.”

“Ian McPherson. Your betrothed.” Since the lantern was lit, he seized a cane that she now noticed leaning against the post. He leaned on it, walking with a limp to snare Flannigan’s lead rope. “Come, big fellow. I’ll get you rubbed down. That’s a fine coat of lather you have there.”

Ian McPherson. Here? The ground beneath her boots swayed, and she gripped a nearby stall door. For as long as she could remember, Ma and Da would talk of better times when they were young and of their friends the McPhersons. Sometimes they would mention the old promise between older friends that their children would one day marry. But that was merely an expectation, a once-made wish and nothing more. Whatever her parents might think, she was certainly not betrothed and certainly not to a stranger.

The barn door crashed open, startling the horses. Flannigan, now cross tied in the aisle, threw his head and tried to bolt, but the lines held him fast. Riley, who was not tied, rocked back onto his hindquarters, wheeled in the breezeway and took off in a blind run.

Da grabbed the reins, yanking down hard enough to stop the gelding in his tracks. The horse’s cry of pain sliced through her shock and she raced to Riley’s side. Her hands closed around the reins, trying to work them from her father’s rough hands.

“I’ll take him, Da. He needs to be rubbed down—”

“McPherson will do it.” His anger roared above the storm. “No need to see how the gelding got loose. You nearly lost the second one, fool girl. If I hadn’t been standing here to stop him, he would have gotten out. Come to the house.”

Fiona wasn’t surprised when he released his iron hold on the reins to clamp his bruising fists around her upper arms and escort her to the door.

“McPherson, you come on up when you’re done. Maeve has a hot supper ready and waiting.”

Fiona heard the low resonance of Ian’s answer but not his words. The hurling wind beating against her stole them away, and she felt more alone than ever as she was tugged like a captive along the fence line toward the house. Her father muttered angrily at the storm and at her, promising to teach her a lesson. She blocked out images of the punishment she knew was to come, her feet heavy and wooden. As Da jerked her furiously along, the wide, endless prairie, hidden in the storm, seemed to call to her. She stumbled but did not fall.

Chapter Three

The lean-to was black, without a single flicker of light. Da’s boots pounded like rapid gunshots across the board floor, the sound drowning out her lighter step. The sharp scent of coal in the far corner greeted her as the door slammed shut behind her with a resounding crack. Even the blizzard was angrier, beating at the closed door with immeasurable fury.

At least she was numb now. She had tucked her feelings deep so that nothing could really hurt her. The inky darkness made it easier. She heard Da’s steps silence. The rasp of leather as he yanked the strap from the nail came louder than the raging storm.

“You’re darn lucky that McPherson hasn’t changed his mind outright and hightailed it back to Kentucky.” Low and soft, her father’s voice was deceptively calm as he ambled close.

Although she could not see him, she sensed his nearness as easily as she sensed the strap he clutched in both hands. “You didn’t tell me he was coming.”

“Doesn’t matter if you know or you don’t. You will marry him.”

“But why?” She choked against the panic rising like bile in her throat. Her instincts shouted at her to step back and run. The door wasn’t far. A few quick steps and she would be lost in the storm. Da couldn’t catch her, not if she ran with all her might.

But how far would she get? The storm was turning deadly, with the temperature well below zero. Even if she could make it to Earlee’s house, her friend lived more than half a mile away. She would freeze if she tried to walk that far.

“It’s not your place to ask questions, missy.” Da grabbed her roughly by the shoulder and shoved her. “It’s your place to do what yer told.”

Knocked off balance, Fiona shot her hands out, but she couldn’t see the wall. Her knuckles struck wood and she landed hard against the boards. She hardly felt the jolting pain, because it wasn’t going to be anything compared to what was coming.

“Let me tell you what, girl.” Da worked himself into a higher rage, smacking the strap against his gloved palm. “If McPherson changes his mind and won’t have you, you’ll be the one to pay. I’ll make this look like a Sunday picnic—”

She gritted her teeth and closed her eyes, breathing slowly in and slowly out, ready for the bite of the strap. She heard the rustle of clothing, imagining her father was drawing his arm back for the first powerful blow. This won’t be so bad, she told herself, gathering what strength she had. She could endure this as she had many times before. She braced herself for the worst. It was best if she thought of being elsewhere, maybe astride Flannigan galloping toward the horizon. She imagined the strike of snow on her face and freedom filling her up. If only she could ignore the hissing strap as it flew downward toward her.

The lean-to door burst open with a thundering crack, and the strap never touched her back. Footsteps hammered on the board floor and Da cursed. Her eyes had adjusted enough to make out the shadowed line of two upraised arms, as if locked in battle. But the taller man, the stronger man, took the strap in hand and stepped away.

“It’s over, O’Rourke,” Ian McPherson’s baritone boomed like an avalanche. “You won’t beat this girl again. You hear me?”

“This is my house. You have no call giving me orders.”

“If you want me to consider marrying the girl, I do.” Warm steel, those words, and coldly spoken. He unwound the strap from where it had wrapped around his hand. Had he caught it in midstrike? Was he hurt?

It was hard to think past the relief rolling through her and harder to hear her thoughts over her father’s mumbled anger. He was saying something, words she couldn’t grasp, while Ian stood his ground, feet braced, stance unyielding. His words echoed in her hollow-feeling skull. If you want me to consider marrying the girl…

She squeezed her eyes shut. Marry. She wasn’t yet eighteen; her birthday was nearly five months away. The last thing she wished to do with her life was to trust a man with it.

“What is going on out here?” Ma’s sharp tone broke through whatever the men were discussing. Fiona opened her eyes, blinking against the stinging brightness as lamplight tumbled into the lean-to, glazing the man with blood staining his glove.

“Just setting a few things straight with the boy.” Da pounded past her. “Don’t stand there gawkin’, woman. Get me a drink.”

The door closed partway, letting in enough light to see the tension in his jaw. Ian McPherson hung the strap on the nail where it belonged, his shoulders rigid, his back taut. She inched toward the door, torn between being alone with an angry man and feeling responsible for his bleeding hand. He’d caught the strap, taking the blow meant for her.

Warmth crept around her heart, but it couldn’t be something like admiration. No, she would not allow any soft or tender feelings toward the man who wanted to bridle her in matrimony. She would be less free than she was now; this she knew from her mother’s life. Still, no one aside from Johnny had ever stood up for her. It wasn’t as if she could leave Ian McPherson bleeding alone in the dark.

“Is it deep?” She was moving toward him without a conscious decision to do so; she reached out to cradle his hand in her own. Blood seeped liberally from the deep gash in his leather glove. It had been a hard strike, then, if the strap had sliced through the material easily. She swallowed hard, hating to think that he was badly cut.

“I believe I shall live.” Although the tension remained in his jaw and tight in his powerful muscles, his voice was soft, almost smiling. “I’ve been hurt much worse than this.”

“If you have, then it wasn’t on my behalf.” She gingerly peeled off his glove, careful of the wound, which looked much worse once she could clearly see it. Her stomach winced in sympathy. She knew exactly how much that hurt. “Come into the kitchen so I can clean this properly.”

“I left the horses standing, and that’s not good for them in this cold.” He withdrew his hand from hers, although slowly and as if with regret. “I’ll bandage it myself when the horses are comfortable.”

“This should not wait.” Men. Even Johnny had been the same, oblivious to common sense when it came to cuts and illnesses. “You need stitches, and you cannot do that on your own.”

“I might surprise you. I have some skill with a needle.”

“Now you are teasing me.” She caught the upturned corners of his mouth. He wasn’t grinning, but the hint of it drew her and she smiled in spite of her objections to the man. “I’m not going to like you. I think it’s only fair that I give you honest warning.”

“I appreciate that.” He didn’t seem offended as he pulled away and punched through the door, holding it open to the pummeling snow. “It’s only fair to tell you that I don’t dislike you nearly as much as I expected to, Fiona O’Rourke. Now, stay in the house where it’s warm. I’ll be back soon enough and you can minister to my cut to your heart’s content.”

The shadows did not seem to cling to her with their sadness as he offered her one lingering look, and reassurance washed over her. She could not explain why she felt safe in a way she never had before; nothing had changed. Not one thing. Da was still drinking in the kitchen, Ma was still worn and irritable with unhappiness and exhaustion as salt pork sizzled in a fry pan, and yet the lamplight seemed brighter as she followed it through the door and into the kitchen where more work awaited her.

He had not bargained on feeling sorry for the girl and bad for her plight. Ian took a drink of hot tea, uncomfortable with the tension surrounding him. Other than the clink of steel forks on the serviceable ironware plates, there was no other sound. Mrs. O’Rourke, a faded woman with sharp angles and a sallow face, kept her head down and shoveled up small bites of baked beans, fried potatoes and salt pork with uninterrupted regularity. Mr. O’Rourke was hardly different, his persistent frown deepening the angles of his sharp features.

These were not happy nor prosperous people. What had happened to the family over the years? What hardships? While it wasn’t his business, he was curious. This was not the wealthy family from his grandparents’ stories. Not sure what to say, he kept silent and broke apart a sourdough biscuit to butter it. Searing pain cut through his hand. He’d used a strip of cloth as a bandage, but judging by the looks of things the cut was still bleeding. He would worry about it later. His mind was burdened, and he had greater concerns.

A single light flickered in the nearby wall lamp, but it was not strong enough to reach beyond the circle of the small table. He’d caught a glimpse of the kitchen when he’d come in from the barn, but Mrs. O’Rourke had been in the process of carrying the food from the stove to the table in the corner of the spare, board-sided room. A ragged curtain hung over a small window, the ruffle sagging with neglect. The furniture was spare and decades old, battered and hardly more than serviceable. Judging by the outline of the shack he’d seen through the storm, the dwelling was in poor repair and housed three tiny rooms, maybe four.

Nana is never going to believe this, he thought as he set down his cup. What happened to the O’Rourke family’s wealth? Times looked as if they had always been hard here. His chest tightened. He had some sympathy for that. Recent hardships had broken his family. But he reckoned in the old days when they had all been sitting around the peat fire dreaming of the future, his grandparents could not have foreseen this. There was no fortune here to save the McPherson family reputation. His grandmother was going to be devastated.

“More beans?” O’Rourke grunted from the head of the table, holding the bowl that had barely one serving remaining.

Ian shook his head and took a bite of the biscuit, his troubles deepening. What of the marriage bargain made long ago, in happier times? How binding was it? It was clear the O’Rourkes wanted their daughter married. But what did Fiona want? Not marriage, by the way she was avoiding any evidence of his existence. She stared at her plate, picking at her food, looking as if in her mind she were a hundred miles away. Her features were stone, her personality veiled.

His fingers itched to sketch her. To capture the way the light tumbled across her, highlighting the dip and fall of her ebony locks and her delicate face. She could have been sculpted from ivory, her skin was so perfect. The set of her pure blue eyes and the slope of her nose and the cut of her chin were sheer beauty. There was something about her that would be harder to capture on the page, something of spirit and heart that was lovelier yet.

“I see you’ve taken a shine to the girl.” O’Rourke sounded smug as he slurped at his coffee, liberally laced with whiskey by the smell of it. “Maeve, fetch us some of that gingerbread you made special. Fiona, get off your backside and clear this table right now. Come with me, McPherson. Feel like a card game?”

“I don’t gamble.” He pushed away from the table, thankful the meal had finally ended. The floor looked unswept beneath his feet, the boards scarred and scraped.

“Didn’t figure you for the type, although that grandmother of yours was a high and mighty woman.” O’Rourke didn’t seem as if he realized he was being offensive as he unhooked the lamp from the wall sconce and pounded through the shadowed kitchen, carrying the light with him. “Your old man knew how to raise a ruckus. The times we had when we were young.”

O’Rourke fell to reminiscing and in the quiet, Ian hesitated at the doorway, glancing over his shoulder at the young woman bent to her task at the table. New light flared in the corner—the mother had lit another lamp—and in the brightness she was once again the lyrical beauty he had seen on the prairie trying to tame the giant horse. He realized there was something within Fiona O’Rourke that could not be beaten or broken. Something that made awareness tug within him, like recognizing like.

“McPherson, are you comin’?” The bite of impatience was hard to miss, echoing along the vacant board walls.

Ian tore his gaze away, trying hard not to notice the shabby sitting room. A stove had gone cold in the corner and the older man didn’t move to light a fire, probably to save the expense of coal. He set the lamp on a shelf, bringing things into better focus. Ian noted a pair of rocking chairs by the curtained window with two sewing baskets within reach on the floor. A braided gingham rug tried to add cheer to the dismal room, where two larger wooden chairs and a small, round end table were the only other furniture. He took the available chair, settling uncertainly on the cheerful gingham cushion.

“You’ve met Fiona, and you like what you see. Don’t try to tell me you don’t.” O’Rourke uncapped his whiskey bottle, his gaze penetrating and sly. “Do we have a deal?”

“A deal?” Hard to say which instinct shouted more loudly at him, the one urging him to run or the one wanting to save her. Unhappiness filled the house like the cold creeping in through the badly sealed board wall. He fidgeted, not sure what to do. His grandmother would want him to say yes, but he had only agreed to come. His interest, if any, was in the land and that was hard to see buried beneath deep snowdrifts. Still, he could imagine it. The rolling fields, green come May, dotted with the small band of brood mares he had managed to hold on to. “Shouldn’t we start negotiating before we agree to a deal?”

“No need.” A sly grin slunk across his face, layered in mean. “Your grandmother and me, we’ve already come to terms. Ain’t that why you’re here?”

Warning flashed through him. “You and my grandmother have been in contact?”

“Why else would you be here?”

Oh, Nana. Betrayal hit him like a mallet dead center in his chest. Had his grandmother gone behind his back? “What agreement did the two of you reach?”

“Six hundred dollars. My wife and I stay in our house for as long as we live. Now, I can see by the look on your face you think that’s a steep price. I won’t lie to ya. The girl is a burden, but like I said, she’s a hard worker. That’s worth something. Besides, I saw you looking her over. A man your age needs a wife. I ought to know. That’s why I settled down.”

Horror filled him; he couldn’t say what bothered him more. He launched out of his chair, no longer able to sit still. He thought of his frail grandmother, a woman who had lost everything she once loved. Her words warbled through his mind. It won’t hurt a thing for you to go take a look. The land might be just what we need—what you need—to start over and keep your grandfather’s legacy living on.

Legacy? That word stood out to him now. At the time, the plea on his grandmother’s button face had persuaded him to come, that and the doctor’s dim prognosis. Nana’s heart was failing. So, he’d reasoned, how could he disappoint her in this final request? Not the marriage agreement—he had been clear with her on that—but in taking a look and in agreeing to meet the people once so important to their family.

Now, all he saw were broken dreams—his grandmother’s, his grandfather’s and his hopes to start again.

“What are you up to, young man?” O’Rourke slammed his bottle onto the unsteady table—not so hard as to spill the liquor—and bounded to his feet. “Your family agreed to this. The girl and six hundred dollars and not a penny less.”

“Six hundred for the girl?” Ian raked his good hand through his hair, struggling with what to say. The truth would probably make the man even more irate and if that happened, would he take it out on Fiona? He thought of his return ticket on tomorrow’s eastbound train and shivered. His palm burned with pain, a reminder of how hard O’Rourke had meant to thrash his daughter. His stomach soured.

“I feared this would happen. She’s no prize, I grant you that. I’m sorry you had to see how she can be. She could have lost that horse, and that ain’t the first time she’s done something like that. Trouble follows that girl, but she can be taught to pay better attention. I’ll see to it.”

He felt the back of his neck prickle. He glanced over his shoulder and noticed the shadow just inside the doorway to the kitchen. A glimpse of red gingham ruffle swirled out of view. She had come to listen in, had she? And what did she think of her father trying to sell her off like an unwanted horse?

“It costs to feed her and shelter her. Her ma and I are tired of the expense. Since we lost our Johnny, we don’t have anyone to work the fields in the summer or in town for wages in winter.”

And that’s what a child was to these people? A way to earn money without working for it? “I don’t have six hundred dollars, Mr. O’Rourke. My grandmother is ill and she isn’t aware of how precarious our finances are. My grandfather made some bad investments. We are nearly penniless as a result.”

“You have no money?” Fury rolled through the man, furrowing his leathery face and fisting his hands.

“Not a spare six hundred dollars. I didn’t come to renegotiate for the girl.” He had hoped he could bargain for the land with the little savings he had left. He had traveled here with a hope that O’Rourke would be willing to sell at a bargain to his friend’s son. That a wedding would not have to be part of the deal.

“If you don’t have the money, then this is a waste.” O’Rourke cackled, the fury draining, but the bitterness growing. “Tell your grandmother the arrangement is off.”

“That’s for the best.” Ian heard the smallest sigh of relief from behind the shadowed doorway. Again he caught sight of a flash of red gingham as she swirled away, perhaps returning to the kitchen work awaiting her. Disappointment settled deep within him. He told himself it was from losing out on land he had hoped to afford, but in truth, he could not be sure.

Chapter Four

Ma turned down the wick to save kerosene, and the small orange flicker turned the kitchen to dancing shadows. Darkness crept in from the corners of the room like the winter’s cold. “Don’t forget to wipe down, Fiona, after you throw out the dishwater.”

“Yes, Ma.” She dried her hands on the dish towel and hung it on the wall behind the stove to dry. Tiny tremors rippled through her, as they had been doing for the last half hour or so, ever since she’d heard her da’s fateful words. Tell your grandmother the arrangement is off.

Thank the heavens. Gratitude and relief pounded through her. A terrible fate avoided, and she was grateful to God for it. As she unhooked her coat from the wall peg by the door, she caught sight of her mother pouring a cup of tea in the diminished light at the stove, her one luxury. She worked with great care to stir in a frugal amount of honey. Fiona winced, turning away from the sight, fighting pity she didn’t want to feel. She herself had narrowly missed that kind of fate although her feet remained heavy as she slipped into her coat and hefted the basin of dirty wash water from the table. How could her parents do such a thing? And why? With the way Da was asking for six hundred dollars, she might as well be livestock up for sale.

Angry tears burned behind her eyes as she buttoned her coat, blurring the image of her ma’s threadbare calico dress and apron, of her too-lean frame as she took a first soothing sip of tea. Fiona didn’t have to look to know exhaustion hollowed her mother’s face. That she would spend the rest of the evening sewing quietly with her head down while Da ranted and raved about their troubles.

Tiredly, she trudged through the lean-to and, sure enough, her father’s voice followed her.

“You get that look off your face, woman.” Da’s shout rang too loud and slurry. “You keep that up and you’ll be living in the back of a wagon. Is that what you want?”

“I didn’t mean anything by it—”

“I don’t care what you mean. I thought that boy had money. His family was richer than Midas. What in blazes did they squander it on? We have need of it, and that pipsqueak shows up whining about being broke. Time to get back the money we put into that girl, if you ask me. If McPherson won’t take her, there’s others who will.”

And just who would that be? She stumbled into the brunt of the storm. The blizzard had grown, beating at her as if with enraged fists, her face full of ice so that she couldn’t breathe. Her father wasn’t making any sense, as usual. But he did sound determined to find a husband for her, someone who could hand over money to them. How could they do this to her? Could they actually force her to marry? No, this was America, not the homeland. It was modern times, not 1700.

But that was no comfort, none at all. The storm seemed to cage her in, blocking out the entire world. As if drowning, she knelt and upended the basin, letting the hot water steam and spill safely away from the pathway. She had underestimated her father’s callousness again. Ever since Johnny’s death, she had taken over all the chores Johnny used to do. His criticism had become unrelenting, and now he expected her to marry just so he could get some gain from it? She thought of her money sock tucked safely away, the savings she had set aside one coin at a time that no one knew about. Not even Johnny had known.

“Still at work?” The rugged baritone startled her.

She dropped the basin, shocked, as the hammering storm diminished. An unmistakable shadow appeared, standing between her and the fierce gusts, towering above her like righteousness. Ian McPherson.

“I couldn’t hear you because of the storm.” She straightened on unsteady legs. She felt beaten and battered. Did she have to face this man now, when she felt ready to crack apart? “What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be in with my father trying to barter him down to a better price?”

“You’re angry with me.”

“You’re smarter than you look, McPherson.” Anger was easier. It was the only thing keeping her strong. She swiped annoying amounts of snow from her lashes and squinted. Yes, that was a pack slung over his left shoulder. “Why aren’t you inside with a whiskey bottle? Or are you on your way to buy another bride?”

“No, not tonight. Maybe tomorrow when the storm breaks.” He knelt and retrieved the basin. Night and shadow shielded him and his voice was layered, too. She could not be sure, but maybe a hint of dimples teased at the corners of his mouth. “Sorry. I see this is no joking matter.”

“To you, maybe. I don’t know how anyone could think—” She stopped, biting her bottom lip. This had to be a nightmare, a bad dream she would wake from at any moment, wipe the sweat from her brow and thank the heavens above it was just a dream. But it wasn’t. The cruel wind gusted, chilling through her layers of wool and flannel, and she shivered, hard. Her teeth chattered. “Just get away from me, McPherson. I’m not fooled by you any longer.”

“I am sorry.” He lumbered close, gripping his cane tightly as he leaned on it. He remained straight and strong. “I didn’t come here to hurt you.”

“I’m not hurt.” Devastated. Betrayed. Disillusioned. Sure, she was all of those things. She knew her parents were not the best of people, but never had she believed they would bend this low. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“You’re lying more than a wee bit.” His leather gloves brushed her brow. His thumb rasped across her lashes, wiping away the snow because it could not be tears.

She reared away from his touch, pulse thumping as if with fear. It was too dark to see the expression on his granite face. She snatched the basin from him. “Just get going. Go on. Town is that way. Just follow the fences.”

“Eager to be rid of me?”

“More than you can guess.”

“I cannot blame you for that.” His hand fell to her shoulder, his baritone dipping low with regret. “You’re freezing out here. Let’s get you back in the house.”

“No, I can’t go there.” She thought of the four walls closing in on her and the darkness pounding with the blizzard’s wail. Her ma would not look at her, and her da, if she were lucky, might already be deeply drunk with his feet up on a stool. They would be sitting here as they did every evening, as if everything were the same as it always had been.

But it wasn’t. She could not stomach the notion of looking at them, or of knowing how wrong about them she had been. Sure, they were strict and often harsh. But deep down she had never thought they were this cold. She could not step foot in the sitting room, knowing what she was to them.

“You cannot be staying out here, pretty girl.” Well-meaning, he shielded her from the brunt of the wind as he steered her toward the fence line. The wooden posts were nearly buried, but offered dark bobbing buoys to follow in the strange, pearled darkness.

He was taking her to the barn. Her knees went weak with relief. She turned her back on the house, gripped her skirts and followed his tall shadow through the drifts. Snow needled her face, crept down her collar and over the tops of her shoes. The prairie was out there, still and waiting, calling like an old friend. Did she listen to it? Should she set aside her hopes to finish school and leave while she could?

“Careful. It’s deeper here.” Nothing but a shadow ahead of her blocking the worst of the storm, Ian stopped to reach back and take her elbow. Shadow became flesh and bone, and a stranger’s compassion softness in the brutal night. His grip was firm, a band of strength holding her as she struggled to lift her boot high enough to step out of the impossible drift. Her boot scraped over the berm of snow and then it was like falling, trying to find where the earth began. She went down and Ian held her safely until her toe hit ice and she found her balance.

“Want to head back?” he asked, releasing her.

The thought of being in the sitting room made her throat burn. She shook her head, letting him lead her through the darkness, and shivered deep inside, where no cold wind could possibly touch her. The image of her mother bending quietly to her task of stirring a drop of honey into her tea became all that she could see.

What if her parents thought they could pressure her to marry? Already they pressured her into doing so much. A good daughter would do more for her parents. A Christian girl would honor her parents with her obedience. Only a selfish girl would think of her own future when her family was running out of money for food and coal. Like they always did, would they talk at her and team up and make her feel as if helping them by marrying was the only right thing to do? She could hear their voices as if part of the brutal wind, chipping away at her like water against rock until she thought they might be right.

But this? Marrying a stranger against her wishes? How could that ever be right? She let the strong grip on her arm keep her upright, forcing her legs to keep moving and her feet to lift and fall into the unbearably cold snow. If her parents had their way, she could imagine her life twenty years from now: worn down by hardship and thankless work and hardened by a harsh marriage to a joyless man. That wasn’t the future she wanted. That wasn’t the way she wanted to live.

“Fiona?” Ian’s rough voice brought her back, straining as he fought the powerful wind to hold open the barn door. He was waiting for her, a kind presence on a heartless night.

“Sorry.” She stumbled across the threshold, passing so close to him she could feel the warmth of his breath. Tiny shivers skidded down her spine, from closeness or warning, she didn’t know which.

“You have a lot on your mind, lass.” The door banged shut, echoing in the dark.

“I wish I didn’t.” What she wanted was to go back to believing her future was bright. She wanted to turn back time and start over the day, armed with answers she did not now have. She knew her parents were hurting financially, but with every step she took all she could hear was her father’s words. If McPherson won’t take her, there’s others who will.

“I know the feeling.” His kindness could drive the cold from the air and the hopelessness from the night. Heaven help her, for she could turn toward him in the inky blackness as if she saw him. The thud of his rucksack hitting the ground and the pad of his uneven gait only confirmed it. His hand found her shoulder. “It’s a tough night you’ve been having. Let’s get you dry and warm. Come with me.”

“I can take care of myself.” Her deepest instinct was to push him away, to shrug off his comforting touch and turn away from his offer of help. Except for her friends, whom she trusted, she was wary of help from others, for there was always a price that came with it.

“Aye, I’m sure of it, but tonight you are heart weary. Let me help.” The smoky layers of his voice could charm away the winter. His fingers brushed her chin, tugging at the hood ties until they came free. Bits of snow rained off the edge, but before they could hit her in the face, he brushed them away, every one, as if he could see them quite clearly. “You, Miss Fiona, are in worse straits than I have ever seen.”

“I know. My father said—” She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to speak aloud the horrible words. “Why are they doing this? Why now?”

“Your teeth are chattering.” He eased down her hood and knocked the driven ice from around her collar. “There are blankets in the corner. Come with me.”

“Are you still considering marrying me?” She stood her ground.

“Not anymore.” The full truth, he couldn’t deny it. From the moment he had spotted her in the fields looking like snow-speckled poetry, he had been drawn. He didn’t want to admit it, but something had changed. Maybe it wasn’t anything more serious than pity for the girl—there was certainly a lot to feel sorry about in her circumstances—but he knew his awareness of her was not that simple. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he could see her wide, honest eyes, the cute slope of her nose and the new sadness on her face that tonight’s events had drawn. “I came here hoping you would feel the same as I did about our betrothal.”

She turned away. Her hair tumbled like a curtain shielding her from his view, but he could sense her smile, small and thoughtful and pure relief. He was able to herd her down the main aisle. The runaway horse stretched his neck over his stall gate and nickered in greeting.

“Hello, handsome.” She stopped with a spin of her skirts and a stubborn set to her jaw. Tension tightened the muscles of her shoulder beneath his gloved hand, and he let her go. She breezed away from him, ice crackling in her clothing, a lithe shadow that was like a spring breeze moving through him.

Just ignore it. The feelings are bound to go away. He set his teeth on edge, tucked his cane against the post and lifted the match tin off the ledge. He needed a moment, that was all, and the feelings would pass. At least, he prayed they would pass.

“You are such a good man.” Her quiet praise made the horse nicker and the other animals peer around their gates to call out for her attention. A meow rang from the rafters above. Sure enough, a black-faced cat crept into the shadows, eyes shining, to preen for the girl below.

“Mally, where have you been? I haven’t seen you all day.” Her greeting made the feline purr and the cow moo plaintively, as if anxious for Fiona’s attention, too.

The emotions stirred within him like embers coming to life in a hopeless place. He struck the match and lit the wick, unable to keep his gaze from following her as she reached up to touch the cat’s paw. The feline’s purr grew rusty as he batted at her playfully.

His fingers itched to capture this image, the Cinderella girl with her patched clothes and her Midas heart. Everything she touched seemed to love her. The cow leaned into her touch with a sigh, and the other gelding—the one he had ridden earlier—leaned so far over his stall that he cut off his air supply and began to choke.

“Riley, you poor guy. I won’t forget you.” She unwrapped her arms from the gelding’s neck and the lantern light found her, highlighting the curve of her face, gleaming on her ebony locks and revealing her gentle nature.

He grabbed his cane and followed his shadow down the aisle. The melody of her voice trailed after him. He was not surprised when the cat bounded along the wooden beam overhead, hopped onto the grain barrel and plopped to the ground. Hurrying for more of Fiona’s affection, no doubt.

Ice spiked into his skin and crept in fragments beneath his collar, but he ignored the cold and discomfort. He gathered a patched wool blanket from the end stall, where it sat on top of an equally old quilt, and stepped around the pillow and the small sewing basket tucked in the soft hay. He had spotted this private corner when he had been rubbing down the horses before supper.

“Let’s get this around you before you freeze.” He shook the folds from the blanket.

“Oh, I can take care of myself.” Her chin came up and her eyes squinted, as if she were trying to judge his motives.

“I don’t doubt that, lass, but let me.” He swept close to her, near enough to breathe in the softness of her hair. She smelled like roses and dawn and fresh snow. He swallowed hard, ignoring a few more unexamined feelings that gathered within him. Emotions that felt far too tender to trust. He stepped around the cat rubbing against her ankles to drape the blanket around her shoulders. Tender it was, to tuck the wool against her collar so that she would be warmer. “I have an unexplainable need to take care of others.”

“A terrible flaw.” Amusement crept into the corners of her mouth, adding layers of beauty.

He felt sucker punched. Air caught in his chest, and his hand was already reaching before he realized what he was doing. His fingers brushed the curve of her cheek, soft as a spring blossom. Her black hair felt like fine silk against his knuckles. Shyness welled up, stealing all his words. It was too late to pretend he didn’t care and that he could simply walk away without a backward glance come morning.

“How is your hand?” Her fingers caught his wrist, and it was like being held captive by a butterfly. Now he knew how runaway Flannigan had felt, forced to choose between Fiona and his freedom.

“It’s been better.” His voice caught in his throat, sounding thick and raw. He ought to step away now, put a proper distance between them and keep it that way. Best to remember he had not come here to get sweet on Fiona O’Rourke.

“Are you trying to go back on your promise?” Humor tucked into the corners of her pretty mouth.

Captivated, he could only nod. Then, realizing he had meant to shake his head, gave a half shrug.

“Too bad, McPherson. You will do as I say or pay the consequences.” She tugged him across the aisle with the wash basin in one hand and the blanket cloaking her like a royal robe. “You promised I could doctor your cut to my heart’s content, and I fully intend to. You need a stitch or two.”

“It’ll be well enough with a cleaning and a bandage,” he croaked in protest. Perhaps she didn’t notice the croaking or, worse, the bashfulness heating his face.

“So you’re a tough guy. I should have known.” She didn’t sound as if she approved of tough guys. “Sit down and stay while I fetch the iodine.”

A more dashing man would have the right thing to say, meant to charm and make the lass toss him a beautiful smile. A smarter man wouldn’t tempt fate and would sit quiet and stoic, determined to do the right thing and not stir up feelings he had no right to. But sadly, he was neither dashing nor smart because he eased stiffly onto the pile of bagged oats stacked against the wall and savored the sight of her. His eyes drank her in, memorizing the slight bounce to her walk, the life that rose up within her here, in the safety of the barn. Gone was the withdrawn and pale girl who’d sat across the table from him. His fingers itched for his pen to try to capture the fairy-tale woman and the adoring cat weaving at her ankles.

What harm can come of this, boy? Nana’s voice replayed in his memory. Time to face your duty. You marry the girl, and you have property. Think of it. Our champion horses would be grazing on McPherson land again. Our name will have the respect it once had.

But at what cost? He still reeled from his grandmother’s betrayal. She was the only family he had left, and he loved her. But if she were here, she would have sold her wedding ring for the money to seal this deal, holding on too tightly to what was past.

“Are you all right?” Fiona waltzed back into the lantern’s reach. The light seemed to cling to her, bronzing her as if with grace and illuminating the gentle compassion on her sweet face.

“I’ve been better.”

“Me, too.” Every movement she made whispered through the darkness. She knelt before him and set a small box down on the floor, the straw crinkling around her. “Why did you do this? Why did you come?”

“Because my grandmother is dying and I could not say no to her.” He fell silent as she gathered his injured hand in her soft, slender ones. Tender emotions tugged within him. “She wants to find what is lost, and I—” He could not finish, the wish and the words too personal.

“I overheard you. You’re penniless.”

“Aye, and that’s not good when you have a sick grandmother needing care.” He winced as she untied his bandage and the wound began to bleed fresh. “I regret coming. I’ve made things worse for you.”

“No, you were not the cause.” Dark curls tumbled forward like a lustrous curtain, hiding her face. “I will be all right.”

“I fear you won’t. You cannot look at your parents the same way after tonight.”

“True.” She searched through the dim interior of the small box at her knee, focusing too hard on the task. She had such small, slender hands. Too tender for what lay ahead of her.

He could sense the hardship she tried to hide because it was too painful to speak of. He knew that feeling well. There was more hardship to come for her and her family, and he didn’t like being the one to bear the news. “Before your father told me to get out of his house, he admitted something. The bank is ready to take back the property. At month’s end, you all will be homeless.”

“So that’s why.” She shook her head, scattering dark curls and diamond flecks of melting snow. Stark misery shadowed her innocent blue eyes. “Most of the harvest fell in the fields without Johnny to harvest it. Ever since then, we have been scraping by.”

“Your father let the harvest rot?”

“He says he is not a working man. He lives as if he still has his family’s wealth, although he has not had it since he was probably our age.” She uncapped a bottle and wet the edges of a cloth. “Now he needs money to stop an eviction. I see. He ought to know he isn’t going to find any takers that way. Who would buy a woman? Especially me.”

He bit his lip, holding back his opinion. He was not an experienced man by any means, but Father’s lack of decency had given him more than a glimpse of the bad in the world. The land was ideal but mortgaged beyond its value. A man could work himself into the ground trying to keep up with the payments. How did he tell her it wasn’t the land that would attract a certain kind of man?

Unaware of the danger, she leaned closer. Her face was flawless ivory and he could not look away. He did not feel the sting of the iodine. There was only her, this beauty with her gleaming midnight curls and soft pink mouth pursed in concentration. Her touch was the gentlest he had ever known, like liquid gold against his skin. When she drew away, he felt hollowed out, as if darkness had fallen from within.

“I don’t know how to thank you for your act of mercy.” She cast him a sidelong look through jet-black, lush lashes as she rummaged in the small box once again.

“Just doing the right thing.” He remembered how small she had looked in the lean-to, and the horror filling him when he realized she was about to be hit and hit hard.

“And do you often do the right thing, Ian McPherson?” A needle flashed in the lantern light.

“It can wear a man to the bone trying. If only life were more cooperative.” He cast her a grin, choosing to keep his stories private. What would she think of him if she knew how he had failed his loved ones? How he had lost his future trying to hold on to the past? He cleared his throat, struggling to let go of things that could not be changed. “I see you were serious about the stitches.”

“Is that a note of fear I hear in your voice?”

“Not me. I’m not afraid of a needle and a bit of thread.”

“Yes, how could I forget you are a tough one? Grit your teeth, then, for this will do more than sting.”

“These will not be my first stitches.”

“No, I suppose not.” The corners of her mouth drew down as she threaded the needle, and he could easily follow her gaze to where he’d left his cane leaning within easy reach.

Thank the Lord, it was a question she did not ask and so he did not have to answer.

Chapter Five

Homeless by month’s end? Fiona’s hands trembled as she tied the last knot. The needle flashed in the lamplight as she worked it loose and used her sewing scissors to snip the thread. One last douse of iodine to Ian’s wound, and she wrapped it well with clean bandages from the roll she kept on hand in the barn. She could not bear to think of the times her kit had come in handy, for Johnny had been always getting a cut here or a gash there. She could almost hear his voice echoing in the pitch-black corners of the barn, as if whispering beneath the beat of the wind.

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