The Bad Luck Wedding Dress (10 page)

“Outside,” he instructed. “At least I’ll get a breath of fresh air out of this.”

Jenny was pleased at that idea herself. She nodded toward the gentleman, then exited the restaurant. Turning right, she walked beyond the window before she stopped, not wishing to be observed by the men inside.

Big Jack hooked his thumbs through the armholes of his vest. “Make it quick, Dressmaker.”

“I’ll be pleased to keep it brief.” Jenny faced him and demanded, “These pranks must stop.”

He frowned. “Pranks? What the hell are you talking about, girl?”

“I’m talking about the dead roses on my pillow. I’m talking about the black drapes over the mirrors in my house. I’m talking about the fact I found every pair of shoes I own under my bed last night!”

Shock widened Big Jack’s eyes, and his hand went to his neck to grasp the gold rabbit’s foot pendant he wore on a chain. “Good Lord, you shouldn’t do that. Shoes under a bed bring bad luck!”

“I’m aware of that superstition, Mr. Bailey.” She folded her arms, her voice tight. “But what, pray tell, is red paint brushed across my sheets and walls supposed to bring? Other than cleanup work, that is?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I didn’t play any pranks on you.”

“Don’t lie to me, Mr. Bailey!”

His brow lowered and his eyes snapped. “You’d best watch your mouth, Seamstress. I don’t cotton to folk who have done me wrong—man or woman—and heaven knows you’ve done me more harm than most. I’ve held off doing anything about it, but you’re pushing me now.”

He lowered his voice and took a step toward her. “I’ll make you pay. I’ll make you pay ten times over for every hurt done to each of my girls.”

His tone brought a shiver to Jenny’s skin, and she thought she may have made a mistake by confronting Big Jack Bailey. Had temper encouraged her to recklessness? It wouldn’t be the first time she’d acted like her mother. Perhaps it was time to employ the more prudent side of her nature inherited from her father.

She set her mouth in a determined line. “I’m not trying to push, Mr. Bailey. I simply wish to make my point. You may threaten me all you like—with notes or telegrams or dead roses in my bed—but I cannot undo anything that has happened to your daughters. I am not at fault for their accidents.”

“Yes, you are. You and that damned Bad Luck Wedding Dress. Listen to me well. I suggest you stay out of my sight for a good little while. I’ll be less likely to give you the trouble you deserve if I don’t find you in my face all the time.”

Jenny set her teeth. More threats. She was sick to death of threats. “I’ll make you a deal, sir. You stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours. No more vandalism, or I’ll go to Marshal Courtright.”

His scowl was ferocious. “Are you attempting to threaten me?”

She shrugged. “I simply want us to have an understanding.”

“Well, understand this. I suggest you go home and yank those shoes out from under your bed. Turn your socks inside out and wear ‘em that way until noon. Double check all the beds in your house to make sure nobody’s left a hat on them. In other words, Miss Fortune, do every goddamn thing you can think of to bring you good luck and ward off the bad.”

He leaned toward her and said, “Because believe me, you don’t want any more troubles to visit my daughters. Especially Mary Rose. Up until now, she has avoided the bad luck—the only Bailey bride to do so. You’d better hope to hell it stays that way.”

He turned to leave, then paused and drilled her with his gray-eyed gaze. “ ‘Cause otherwise, I’ll kill you. So help me, I’ll kill you.”

THE WHISKEY tasted bitter going down and rested in Trace’s stomach like glowing coals. “I can’t believe she did that. Are you certain about this, Courtright?”

“Saw it myself,” the marshal said, nodding. “Miss Fortune all but shook her finger at Big Jack Bailey.”

Trace groaned. “Dammit, I thought she had more sense than that. You need to do something, Marshal, before this thing gets out of hand.”

“Now, McBride.” Courtright swirled the amber liquid in a crystal glass. “I can appreciate your concerns, but there is really nothing I can do. You didn’t see anyone; we can’t know for a fact that Bailey was behind this.”

“Oh, he was behind it all right. Who else but Big Jack Bailey has a motive for leaving ‘gifts’ like the ones left for Jenny Fortune?” Trace took another sip of his drink and recalled what he’d found in her bedroom the night before. A frilly pink-and-white room shrouded in black crepe. A white satin eiderdown soaked in blotches of red. Withered red roses gathered in a bridal bouquet and tied with black ribbon lying on her pillow.

“Big Jack has always been a bit crazy,” the marshal began. “One time he damn near killed one of his cowhands for stomping on a spider in the ranch house parlor. Said it was bad luck.”

“See what I mean? He’s tormenting Jenny Fortune because of that blasted wedding dress. He’s crossed the line. I made her tell me about it last night. He’s left her notes, sent her telegrams. Now this. I’m telling you, Marshal, you need to have a chat with Big Jack.”

Courtright rubbed a palm across his grizzled cheek. “This was the first I’d heard about any notes. Maybe she’s making it all up? Maybe she did up her house like that herself, trying to get a rise of sympathy out of folks.”

“No, Jenny wouldn’t do that.”

The marshal’s craggy brow lifted. “That dress shop of hers is in a bad way, according to the newspaper. I wouldn’t put a scheme like that past Miss Fortune, considering who her mother is. Have you ever tangled with that woman … Monique Day? She could break a man like a matchstick.” He punctuated the thought with a quick gulp of whiskey.

Jenny must take after her mother, Trace thought. He had the feeling she could snap half the men in Fort Worth in two with not much more than a bat of her eyelashes if she put her mind to it. “You’re wrong, Marshal. Jenny Fortune is telling the truth about these threats, and if you don’t do something, she’s liable to end up dead.”

“Hell, McBride, that’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think? Even if Big Jack is behind this business, he hasn’t done anything other than scare her a little bit.”

“Yet.” Trace finished his drink and set the empty glass on the bar with a bang.

The marshal waved a hand. “You’re overreacting. Besides, for all his superstitions, nasty notes and dead roses don’t sound like Big Jack to me. Just can’t picture him playing a few harmless pranks.”

“These are not harmless pranks. The woman is scared out of her mind.”

The lawman shook his head. “Nope, I can’t see that. Miss Fortune doesn’t strike me for scared. Braving Big Jack Bailey before breakfast at the Tivoli isn’t the act of a fearful person.”

“Stupid is the word that comes to my mind,” Trace replied glumly.

“Why are you so concerned about the dressmaker’s problems, anyway?” Courtright inquired, his eyes sparked with interest. “Is something going on between you two?”

“No. Nothing but the rent, that is. It’s my property she’s renting for her shop, you know; my building Bailey broke into to steal the dressmaker’s form. Not to mention the fact that my defenseless daughters live one floor above. I reckon I have a stake in what happens to Jenny Fortune.”

“Defenseless daughters?” Courtright chuckled. “That’s the funniest one I’ve heard all day.”

Trace averted his gaze, unwilling to listen to any more of the marshal’s jabs. The sight of a boy sallying up to the bar brought a scowl to his face.

“One bottle of gin, please,” Casey Tate asked the bar tender, his boy’s voice sounding sadly out of place in the surroundings.

Casey Tate was almost thirteen years old. He lived next door at Miss Rachel’s Social Emporium where his mother made her living on her back, while he earned his keep playing step-and-fetch-it for the madam. When Trace first took notice of the boy, a few discreet questions had assured him Casey played no role for Rachel more unsavory than that of delivery boy. A visit with both the madam and the mother insured it would stay that way.

In his most authoritative voice, Trace called, “Casey Tate. Haven’t I told you to stay out of the End of the Line? A saloon is no place for a kid.”

“Yes sir, Mr. McBride,” the boy answered with a freckled-faced grin. “But then, neither is a whorehouse. Miss Rachel is wanting to fix a fancy drink for a visitor of hers, and we ran out of gin about an hour ago.”

“Did she send any money with you?”

Casey shook his head. “She said to put it on her tab.”

Standing, Trace said, “Excuse me, Marshal. I’d best see to business.” Rachel’s tab hadn’t been paid in over three months, and Trace had cancelled her credit two weeks ago. As much as he liked the madam, she was dipping into his pocket. He needed every cent he earned to pay for the completion of his children’s new home.

He gestured for the bartender to give him a bottle of gin, then said to the boy, “Tell you what, squirt. I need to visit with Miss Rachel. How about if I deliver this for you.”

Disappointment flickered across Casey Tate’s face. “Hell, Mr. McBride. I didn’t think you diddled the whores.”

Trace shook his head. “I’m not going there to ‘diddle,’ Casey. Not that it’s any of your concern.” His mouth lifted in a rueful smile as he pushed open the End of the Line’s front doors. He did very little “diddling” these days, what between his fatherly duties and his general distaste for whores.

Maybe that’s one reason Jenny Fortune kept popping to mind, he told himself. Maybe he just needed to get diddled.

The wail of a train whistle and the distinct odor of cattle met them as they stepped into the warm September sunshine. Trace led the way across the wide dirt street, carefully dodging a freight wagon going north and a drunked-up cowboy on a spindly legged paint headed mostly south with a few weaving detours east and west.

Miss Rachel’s Social Emporium lay directly opposite the End of the Line, and as they entered the establishment Trace nodded to a pair of trail-dusty cowboys intently debating whether to spend their last bit of coin on a “nooner” or a steak. After telling Casey to grab some lunch, he climbed the stairs to Rachel Warden’s room.

The boy should be in school, Trace thought, watching Casey scamper toward the kitchen. He’d speak with Miss Blackstone about it. Perhaps she had something in the way of scholarships available. People here in the Acre likely would help with the boy’s tuition. Everyone liked Casey Tate. Besides, chances were good assistance wouldn’t be needed for long. It looked like the city was finally ready to get off its butt and finance public schools. Not a moment too soon, to Trace’s way of thinking.

Upon reaching Rachel’s room, he knocked twice and waited. Etta Norris, a raven-haired voluptuous woman considered to be the most talented of Rachel’s girls, answered the door. Trace held up the bottle, winked, and said, “Delivery.”

Etta crooned in a husky, southern voice, “Ah, sugar, remind me to start drinking gin.” She swung the door wide and gestured Trace inside. He pressed a kiss to her cheek as he stepped into the room, surprised to see so many of Rachel’s “ladies” within. “What’s going on? Looks like—“ He broke off midsentence.

His mouth went dry as West Texas in July. The air rushed from his lungs. The bottle of gin slipped from his hand and shattered on the wood floor, the eye-watering vapors rising from his feet in an invisible cloud.

Jenny Fortune. In black-and-scarlet striped satin. With a neckline cut halfway to China, and a hemline hiked damned close to heaven.

Good Lord, look at the legs on that woman
.

Trace had a vague awareness of the fuss and fluster over the broken bottle as he locked gazes with the dressmaker. Myriad emotions flashed through those sapphire depths—surprise and embarrassment uppermost among them.

Glass crunched beneath his boot as he approached her. Almost against his will, his gaze swept her once again. Dressed like this, Miss Fortune showed off womanly charms enough to make every painted lady in the Acre weep with envy.

Jenny Fortune in a whorehouse. Surely she wasn’t— no, he didn’t believe that. But look at all that lace. What the
hell
was she thinking?

From out of his past came the answer, and it ignited a long-buried fury. Almost a full minute passed before he spoke, his words all the more threatening for their soft- spoken tone. “Rachel, I need to speak with Miss Fortune privately.”

The madam took one look at the light in Trace’s eyes and shooed her twittering trollops away. “I’ll be charging you rent for the room, Trace.”

He ignored her, waiting like a panther for his prey, until the door clicked shut and he and Jenny Fortune were left alone. Jenny watched him, her gaze apprehensive but unafraid.

Neither had Constance been afraid all those years ago.

Trace’s hand snaked out and clenched her elbow. He gave it a shake and asked in a low, angry voice, “What do you think you are doing?”

She glanced down at her arm, then glared up at him. “Let me go, McBride.”

His grip clamped tighter and he demanded an answer with a steely gaze.

“Let me go!” Jenny repeated, clawing at him. Only because he allowed it, she wrenched free, scratching his hand in the process. He heard frustration in her voice as she added, “How many times do I have to tell you? Quit manhandling me!”

Trace’s smile was ugly as he held up his hand and wiggled his fingers, calling attention to the scrapes. Manhandling?
She
was the one whose talons had drawn blood. The stinging scratches were nothing; the temper they fed was imposing. “You’re one to talk, Dressmaker.”

Boldly holding his gaze, Jenny didn’t reply.

Trace’s lip curled. “But I guess I understand. You want to set the price first. I can live with that. Hands off until we come to terms.”

“Set the price?” she repeated, her voice rising.

“Keep in mind I’m cash poor, but I reckon I’m willing to pay a little more than the going rate for one of Rachel’s whores.”

Her hand lashed out to slap him, but he caught her wrist scant inches from his cheek. “Hands off, remember?”

Her emotions were written on her face. She fumed. She boiled. She silently raged.