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
