Jillian Hart - Gingham Bride

“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.

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.