Free Gingham Bride by Jillian Hart Page B

gleamed dully, the heart shape intricately etched with rosebuds and petals.
    The instant her fingers closed around it, she heard Ian’s words. It was your grandmother’s. A promise was made long ago that it would be given to you. The richness, the meter, the lilting kindness of his words rolled through her, one sweet wave at a time, and reminded her of his caring. Of how he had swept a lock of hair behind her ear, how he had stepped out of the darkness to save her from being punished, how his concern for her was as true as an old friend.
    She closed her hand around the delicate piece of jewelry and felt the cold metal warm against her palm. Why did the man affect her so much? Why did she remember the richness of his timbre and the character in his voice? She hardly knew him. She would never see him again. He was nothing to her, not really. He was only a story her parents told, a man she had always dreaded meeting, and yet it was as if he had taken something of her she could not replace, something she would always miss. It made no sense, not at all.
    What else had he left her? A note? She slid the locket in her pocket and leaned across Mally, who bumped up into her hand. The paper rattled as she drew it out of the straw. Not a note, she realized, squinting at the dark slash of lines and fragile curves. She turned the page around and her pulse skidded to a full stop. Everything within her stilled and she feared it would never start up again. She stared at the exquisite drawing. Airy delicate snowflakes swirled across the snowy white paper, crowning a defiant runaway and a girl with her hand reaching toward the horse. She recognized her own full black curls and the gingham ruffle showing beneath her coat.
    His initials were in the right-hand corner, etched next to a snowbound fence post. Captivated, he had written below like a title. She closed her eyes, but the image remained as if burned on the back of her lids. Captivated? She had almost felt that way with him, when she had held his hand and tended his wound, when he had kept secrets and shadows had darkened his eyes, and when he told her she could turn to him for help. And why did the emptiness he left behind seem so vast?
    Mally’s meow broke through her thoughts. She opened her eyes to see the cat glaring up at her and yowling again in reprimand.
    “Yes, I’m right here and so why am I not petting you?” Fiona ran her fingertips through the cat’s long, thick fur. “You are perfectly right. I should never ignore such a good friend.”
    The feline purred rustily, rubbing her skirts with his cheek. She spent a few moments with Mally before tucking the picture carefully in her sewing basket, and tucking her sewing piecework into her book bag. The locket jingled in her pocket as she went to fetch the milk bucket by the door. It was gone. He must have taken it with him when he left the barn, but she hadn’t even noticed. No, she had been far too busy noticing the man.
    More proof it was a good thing he was gone. If there was one man who could ruin her plans for the future, it would be Ian McPherson.
    Since the work was done, she had no reason to linger in the barn. Her ma needed help with breakfast. She squared her shoulders, drew her muffler around her neck and faced the dying storm.

Chapter Six
    “’M ornin’, Fiona.” Lorenzo Davis sauntered down the aisle, his boots ringing on the wooden schoolhouse floor. “You’re here bright and early today.”
    Great. Why was he coming in her direction? If she didn’t acknowledge him, would he change direction and decide to go somewhere else? Why didn’t he try to charm another girl? She poked her needle through the fabric, the click of the needle point against her thimble holding more of her attention than poor Lorenzo ever would. When the toes of his boots came into sight beside her desk, she could no longer ignore him. “Good morning, Lorenzo.”
    “What are you working on?”
    She peered up at him through her