The Shepherd's Betrothal (12 page)

Hope cleared her throat. “Sure.”

“Thank ye,” he said, pulling up a chair. “Me ram and ewes arrived earlier today.”

“When will the breeding begin?”

“Soon.” Ian cleared his throat and leaned in closer. “I feel terrible about the other day.”

“Mr. McGrae, I'm afraid we are a bit like oil and water.” Hope looked down at her lap. “We don't mix well.”

Ian sat back. “Perhaps ye are right.”

Sandra marched over with a bolt of fabric in her arm. “What do you think of… Oh, forgive me, Mr. McGrae. What can I help you with?”

“I'm in need of some red ochre and vegetable oil.”

“Sure, I'll see what I have.” Sandra handed the bolt of fabric to Hope.

Hope fingered the cotton fabric with a painted design of pink rose petals on a sea of blue-gray. It would make a beautiful skirt and vest for Sandra. She'd even put in a pocket like Grace had shown her when working as a laundress.

“Ye sew? Of course, ye sew. I saw ye at the house-raising party.”

Hope stood up, counted to three and calmed herself.
How is it he can be so oblivious to how much his words hurt?
“Mr. McGrae, if you'll excuse me I have some errands to run. Would you please let Mrs. Allen know that the material would be perfect and that I'll see her in a couple of days?”

* * *

Ian stood and grabbed her arm before she could flee. “I'm sorry. I can't seem to say the right words with ye.” Tears filled her vibrant green eyes. His gut twisted. “I'm so sorry, Hope,” he whispered. He wanted to wrap her in his arms, to push all the distance between them away.

“You are forgiven, Mr. McGrae.” She pulled away.

“I want more,” he whispered.

She froze for a moment, and then continued out the door.

Had she heard him? Ian drew in a deep breath and sat back down at the small tea table. He'd never had much need for a fancy table. The teacups were finely made porcelain. He lifted a cup. It was English Derby porcelain, some of the best. He placed the teacup back in its saucer. These were the items that Hope Lang was used to in her life. These were the very items he could not provide for a wife. He closed his eyes and tried to remind himself that he was not the kind of man Hope Lang would need. She was meant for the finer things in life.

And yet, he couldn't seem to stop himself from pursuing her.

“Mr. McGrae,” Mrs. Allen called from the counter. “I have the items you requested. Where's Miss Lang?”

Ian slid the cherrywood chair back and walked to the counter. “Miss Lang said the fabric ye picked out would be perfect.”

“Good, thank you for telling me. I take it you know Miss Lang?”

“Yes, her family helped with the building of me house.”

“Ah yes, I heard about that. The Langs are good people. They're from Ireland, too. Did your families know one another?”

“Me parents are friends with Mr. and Mrs. Lang. But the Langs have not been back to Ireland for many years.”

Sandra added up the cost and he handed her the money. “Pleasure doin' business with you, Mr. McGrae.”

“Same here, Mrs. Allen. God bless ye.”

“And you, sir.”

Ian grabbed his items in the sack Mrs. Allen provided. “Forgive me for saying so,” she said. “But Miss Lang is a good woman.”

Ian smiled. “Yes, I know she is.” He placed his hat upon his head and exited the building. He didn't need to be reminded about the kind of woman Hope was. He'd seen with his own eyes. He knew the warmth of her embrace, her kiss…

He caught a glimpse of Hope rounding the corner a couple of blocks down. Perhaps he should apologize again. He started toward her.
No.
He'd apologized. Clearly he just needed to stay away from her because it would be best for both of them.

He swung around in the opposite direction and headed home. He had a lot of work ahead of him and he couldn't be distracted with the beguiling features of Hope Lang.

H
ope ignored Ian's insulting comments about her social standing and calmed herself before entering the city clerk's office.

There were two locations in particular she was curious about. One was owned by a business corporation. The other had been in the family for many years but the grandchildren were planning on selling it. Of the two, the building on the second lot needed more work but it also provided a second level where she could live. She didn't have a huge desire to move out of her family home but if she purchased the property she could rent the upstairs and help pay the mortgage off faster. Did she have the equity to do so? In truth, she didn't. But her father did. Did she want to go into business with her father?

Hope worried her lower lip. Her musings were interrupted by a conversation loud enough for others to hear.

“I'm tellin' ya, H.W., you're askin' for trouble. You can't pull this off. The judge has already asked for proof.”

Hope's ears perked up. She scanned the office but saw no one. There were several smaller offices and storage spaces out of view of the public area. She glanced back down at the ledger she had open before her.

“But the guy said he's got proof.”

“Have ya seen it?”

“No, but he says…”

“Hey, look, it's your life. But I wouldn't mess with it. I'm just sayin', it don't seem right. Where'd you meet this guy anyway?”

“Six months back. He's in and out of town on business all the time.”

Hope tried to pull her focus back to the paperwork in front of her. The more she thought about it, the more practical it seemed to start her business from home. That meant no overhead…but also not much room, either.

Hope closed the ledgers. “Thank you,” she called out to the Billy Newman, the assistant clerk who was still in the back room talking with H.W., whoever he was.

On her way home, she couldn't help but wonder what the two men were referring to. Naturally, her mind shifted to Ian and his land troubles, although that was being taken care of by his attorney. Then again, this H.W. seemed to be trying to cut corners, perhaps even skirt the law. Hope shook off the conversation. It wasn't her place to deal with the issue, nor did she know what the two men were actually referring to.
Stop trying to come up with another reason to see Ian. He's made it clear that you aren't the kind of woman he wants as a shepherd's wife.

At home she found her mother in the kitchen canning some pumpkin and making watermelon-rind pickles. The watermelon would be a refreshing treat after walking around the dusty streets of St. Augustine. “Hello, Mum. You've been busy.”

“That I have, darlin', that I have. Come, sit and tell me what has you running to and fro. You're done working at the inn, aren't ye?”

“Yes. Grace is healthy enough to work now. I'm still going to lend her a hand on the weekends when they have a lot of guests. But she's past the worst and out of danger. She and Richard are sending a letter to his family and they're looking into hiring a chambermaid.”

“They will be so pleased to hear about the baby.” Her mother grabbed a towel and wiped her hands. Then she set two oyster dishes on the table and filled them with chunks of watermelon. “I do love watermelon.”

“Me, too.” Hope forked a cool chunk of the sweet red cubes.

“You still haven't told me what you've been up to the past few days.”

“Oh, well, I'm looking into the possibility of starting my own dressmaking business. I'm thinking I have to start small and work from the house but I don't know that I have the room to spread out enough. I certainly can't cover the dining room table with fabric every day.”

Sally Lang laughed and said, “Ye are right about that.”

“I can't afford to rent space in town without first building some equity. I'm between that proverbial rock and a hard place.”

Her mother put down her fork. “Hope, ye do know yer father might be willing to invest…”

“I know, Mum. I'm trying to do this on my own. I'm not above asking father for help but I'd like to have all the facts and figures in front of me. I did however gain a client today. Sandra Allen would like me to design a dress similar to that business outfit I designed and made last year.”

Her mother chuckled. “It was practical, but it sure wasn't the latest style.”

Hope grinned. “That's why I'm leaning toward the design aspect of the dressmaking. Many women I know want practical clothing. Perhaps I can hire some gals to do the sewing.”

“My, my, ye do have big dreams.” Sally put her arm around Hope. “Now. Tell me what's happening between ye and Ian.”

* * *

Ian scanned the barn to determine how much grain and hay he'd need for the winter months. Next season he would plant some hay and grasses for his livestock but this year he'd be dependent on what they could eat from the land and what limited grain he could provide for them. Sheep, unlike cattle, would eat the grasses right down to the soil, which meant a longer time for the grasses to return.

He walked up to the pen he'd put the ram in. “How ye doing, boy?” The ram ignored him and continued munching on the fresh hay. “Looks like ye are adjustin'.”

Ian glanced up at the pound of red ochre and vegetable oil he'd purchased at the mercantile, then remembered his encounter with Hope. Was she right that they were like oil and water?

He grabbed the gallon of oil and marched over to the house. Inside he found an empty mason jar that had contained canned vegetables. He poured some water in the bottom of the jar, then stopped and went back to the barn. He opened the red ochre and dipped his finger into it. Again, he went to the cottage, placed his finger in the water, instantly turning the water red. Ian smiled. It reminded him of Hope and her red hair. Then he poured the same amount of oil into the jar. Placing the lid on tight, he shook it. Bubbles of water and oil mingled. Then he put the jar on the table. As it settled, the oil and water separated. Ian sighed. Perhaps she was right.

Tara was lying on the floor with her six puppies crawling around her. Some were nursing, others were playing. He pulled Clare up from the lot. “How ye doin', girl?” She yawned, her pink tongue stretching out and curling back into her mouth. Ian cradled the pup close to his chest. “Ye are a cutie.” He couldn't help but wonder if Clare was taking a special place in his heart because she was Hope's favorite.
Hope. She just doesn't understand the real problem with our different social classes.
He'd love if that wasn't an issue between them, but he knew better. He'd seen it more than once back home in Ireland. It just didn't work. After a few minutes of snuggling and petting the pup he returned her to her mother.

He glanced back at the jar. Most of the bubbles were gone. The red water sat on the bottom and the oil lay on the top. He took the jar and shook it again, harder this time, even though he knew the two would never completely blend.

Ian put the jar back on the table. He would use it as a reminder not to get lost in unrealistic hopes and dreams. Hope was right—they would never blend.

So why had he been unable to stop himself from saying “I want more”?

* * *

“Mum, I don't know what to say. There isn't a relationship developing between us. At least not a pleasant one.” Hope stood up and started to pace. “We seem to bring out the worst in each other. We can't share more than a couple of sentences without the other saying some thing to offend, even when trying to be careful.” Hope sat down again.

Her mother paused for a moment. Her gaze seemed to penetrate deep into Hope's soul. Hope glanced away. Her mother grabbed her hand. “Ye have forgiven yourself. I can tell.”

Hope grabbed her mother's hand with the other. The warmth and strength she felt in her mother's grasp surprised her for a moment. “Yes, I've forgiven myself. I didn't fail Hamilton Scott's business. And while it was wrong for me to go behind your backs in writing to Ian to cancel our betrothal, I have forgiven myself for that, as well.”

Her mother nodded and smiled. “And yet, there is something between you two.”

The color in Hope's cheeks brightened when she realized how much her mother knew. “He's behaving in such a confusing manner. One moment he's…” Hope trailed off, not ready to tell her mother about the kiss.

Her mother squeezed her hand. “Come, let's go to the parlor. There's something I'd like to share with you.”

Hope allowed her mother to take her by the hand and bring her to the front parlor. They sat together on the small settee, with its high, curved back and arms, which gave the impression of an intimate embrace. Many deeply personal conversations between them had been had on this couch.

“When my mum informed me that I was to marry your father, I was quite upset, in much the same way that ye were.”

Hope narrowed her gaze.

“Your father and I both felt the obligation to go through with the marriage but it took a month after we were married before we truly started to open up with one another. Getting to know your father, allowing him to be the man he was meant to be, allowed me to open me eyes. I would read the passage from 1 Corinthians 13 over and over again, and I would see how each day I was not loving my husband as I should.”

“But you didn't know him.”

“And that be my point. I don't know for certain if Ian is the man for ye. I do know that there is a spark of interest between ye. He cares about ye, even if he can't express it. I've watched him look at ye when he thinks no one else is looking. He cares deeply how ye feel about him, too.”

Hope shook her head. “I don't know, Mum.”

“No, ye do not. Tell me, darlin', when was the last time ye prayed for your spouse?”

Hope sat back. When was the last time? When she was sixteen and was told about her betrothal? For years she had prayed for him, not knowing who he was but trusting him to God's care and protection. “I hate to admit it, Mum, but it has been many years.”