Ella: an Everland Ever After Tale Page 3

  It was a smart idea, to buy it all so that she wouldn’t run out; after all, when the train left tomorrow morning she’d be unable to return to buy more. But the businessman in him was pleased to hear the amount. “Excellent.” He began to wrap the small bolt of fringe in brown paper. “Whatever you’re making will certainly be lovely. I’m glad that I had enough for you.”

  She glanced up at him, and when she saw that he was smiling, relaxed a little. That same callused finger tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear as she shifted her weight from one hip to the other. “Honestly, you were my last stop, Mr. Crowne. Mrs. Pedlar told me that since this shop was run by a man, you were unlikely to have the right fripperies.” Ian wasn’t surprised; he had very few female customers, and assumed it was because of gossip. Pedlar Dry Goods was run by a husband and wife, with almost-grown children, so they had no end of help, and apparently most of the customers too. It was galling.

  Ella continued airily, obviously not realizing the importance of her little confession. “But she must tell all the women that, because her fabrics were well-picked over.”

  “Not mine, though.” He felt a little silly, defending his store to this stranger who was passing through, but it was instinctive. He wanted her to think well of him.

  “Not yours.” A smile, and Ian’s breath caught. Had she been pretty when she was staring at him in awe, or when she blushed? When she smiled brightly like this, she was downright beautiful.

  He felt the thickness climb up his throat again—the way it always did when he was attracted to a woman who would only pity him—and build in his trousers, and this time he didn’t tamp it down. He was too busy looking, admiring, wondering at Ella’s bright smile.

  It was like a ray of sunshine had sneaked in through the door and wound its way around to the back of the store. Ian’s heart felt lighter, somehow, staring at her. She was stunning.

  And then something did sneak in through the door. Manny had been out on the porch with Shiloh and Vick, but he tended to not stay in any one place too long. Now he did his little hop-shuffle towards the counter, and caught Ella’s attention. And she smiled again, when she saw the scrawny crippled dog. “Hello there. Who’re you?”

  She squatted down, right there in the middle of his store, and put her hand out for Manny to smell. The dog whined, and if he’d still had a tail, would’ve tucked in between his legs. Ian whistled quietly, and Manny’s haunches lowered trustingly. As he lifted himself around the edge of the counter, Ian spoke to Ella. “This is Manny.” The dog’s tongue lolled out when he heard his name. “He’s not fond of strangers.”

  Still with her hand out, Ella patiently smiled. “Hello Manny, I’m Ella.” The dog took a cautious shuffle forward on its three legs, until he could sniff at Ella’s hand. “See? Now we’re not strangers, are we? Good boy, Manny.” By the end of her soothing chatter, the dog let her scratch under his chin.

  Ian, who’d been in the process of lowering himself down to assure Manny that Ella wouldn’t hurt him, was surprised. Manny didn’t often tolerate anyone’s touch besides Ian, and Ella hadn’t hesitated to make friends with the crippled animal.

  And he’d been watching her face the whole time… there’d been no pity there. Just friendship.

  So maybe he was a little confused, trying to second-guess himself, as he wrapped up the rest of her purchases. Manny sat on the opposite side of the counter with her, and she occasionally reached down to absentmindedly scratch behind the dog’s ears. He’d never seen a woman do that with a dog as ugly as Manny.

  “Manny doesn’t usually let people touch him.” He’d found the bloody and beaten dog tied near the DeVille ranch last summer, so it was understandable that Manny didn’t trust anyone besides Ian himself, and that trust had taken months to build. “He’s shy.”

  She was still smiling when she glanced down at the dog, but this time it was tinged with sadness. “Maybe I’m special.”

  Maybe she was special. But Ian didn’t say anything more; just bundled up her wrapped purchases, took her money and handed back her change. It wasn’t until she was walking out the door, those out-of-place boots clunking against the floor with each step, that he realized he wasn’t going to see her again.

  “Miss Ella?” She turned expectantly, and he lifted himself to his foot. “If you need anything else, I’d be happy to help you.” He meant if you need anything else to buy but when her lips curled up again, he realized he’d help her with anything else she needed, too.

  “Thank you, Mr. Crowne.”

  “Ian.” He adjusted his glasses, more for something to do with his hands than a real need.

  A slight nod, and those turquoise-blue eyes raked his shoulders and his forearms again. He watched her tongue dart out and swipe her upper lip, and knew that the sight was going to haunt him tonight. “Ian.” His name was low and delicious on her lips, and he figured he wasn’t going to get any sleep at all, imagining her saying his name over and over again.

  And then she was gone, and Manny barked once. Ian sank down on his stool again, and dropped his hand to the dog’s head to scratch. “You and me both, lad,” he muttered.

  Maybe she was special.

  He didn’t think of her again for the rest of the day; not while cross-checking his ledgers, not while waiting on his customers, and not even when he put the trimmings basket back under the fabric table. He didn’t think of her while he fed the dogs some meat from the ice box in the back room, or when he gave them each a pat and locked up the store. He definitely didn’t think of her during his quiet meal at Spratt’s Eatery—the daily indulgence he allowed himself—or when he lifted himself up the back stairs behind his mercantile, using the double railing he’d had installed.

  But after he pulled back the curtains of his lonely little apartment, allowing the slight breeze to cool the place; after he removed his vest and sank down to the single soft chair; after he felt Manny’s head under his dangling fingers; then he let himself think of her. Think of her smile, of the way she’d been so patient. Think of her callused fingers and how she’d looked at him admiringly, before she’d seen his leg. Think of her, and imagine what it would feel like to caress her dark hair the way she’d been caressing that velvet.

  Ian sighed, wondering if the ache in his chest was bad enough to justify the trip over to the whiskey in the little kitchen. Nah. He’d learned ten years ago that using liquor to dull pain was a bad path to start down. Instead, he whistled, and Shiloh lifted her head from the mat in the corner. When Ian jerked his chin, the big dog bounded over happily, giving a deep rumble of contentment as Ian’s fingers dug into the thick fur at the base of her neck.

  Just him and his dogs. Like he was used to. Like he’d done every evening since Doc Bennett had told him that the fever had broken and it was time to go home to Philadelphia. Home. Home to a dead father and a mother struggling to maintain her share of the business. Home to learn how to walk with only one foot. Home to push himself to get out of bed every morning, to keep his parents’ dream afloat.

  Alone.

  He’d always liked dogs, for their company and loyalty. When he’d found a giant hairy mutt freezing in the square that first winter home, he’d named him Culp, after the Hill where he’d lost his foot. After that came Getty, named for the larger battle. Shiloh and Vicksburg were next, and now little Manassas was the latest in his collection of strays and lost souls. They were his family, now.

  With a groan, Ian hooked the ottoman with his foot, and propped his legs up on it. He peeled off his shoe—losing a foot meant he saved on shoes, at least—pushed up his trouser leg, and dug his fingers into the cramped muscle of his calf. Another groan, and Shiloh echoed it with a rumble. It felt good. Good to rest his leg, good to rub it.

  His stump itched, but at least he didn’t often feel the phantom pains from his missing foot that’d plagued him in the first few years after the War. It was his left leg that ached fiercely, most nights, from supporting all of his weight. He’d ordered
the best crutch available—and with so many crippled veterans, there were plenty of them available—but he only used it outside of the store. In his little domain, his castle, he preferred to rely on his arm strength to navigate the counter, tables, railings and ropes carefully arranged so that he was never out of arms’ reach of a surface to balance against. All of that, however, meant that his left leg did the work of two, and the muscle knotted accordingly.

  And as he ran his palm over his calf, digging his toes into the cushion while he flexed the muscle, he wondered what it would feel like to have someone else do this for him. A woman. A wife. Ella.

  His fingers stilled. Where had that thought come from? But now that it was in his head, he couldn’t ignore it. Could imagine her bustling—she looked like the kind of woman who bustled—around the apartment, getting biscuits ready for tomorrow’s breakfast, sitting beside him and discussing the day’s business while sewing one of her dresses. Rubbing his leg until he groaned in pleasure.

  The thought made his chest tight again, and he dropped his head back against the chair, ignoring Manny’s whine of confusion. She wasn’t here. No woman was, and no woman would be.

  He knew that they looked at him admirably. Mother had been a beautiful woman, before responsibility and hard work had beaten her down, and Ian inherited her coloring. Oh yes; he’d seen the looks women sent his way, at church and on the street. But he’d also heard the things they whispered behind their hands. Such a shame and If only and He’ll never be able to. And he had too much pride to court a woman who pitied him.

  No, he wasn’t getting married. Wasn’t going to have a helpmate and companion and family. He’d gotten used to rubbing his own leg, and doing everything else for himself, and it was a good thing. Because he was going to remain alone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ella was in the vegetable garden when the screeching started. She exchanged looks with Maisie, and then bent back over her summer squash, returning to her private daydream of reliving every moment of that special day two weeks ago when she’d met Mr. Ian Crowne. Fights between Mabel and Eunice were common enough that she’d learned to ignore them, no matter if they were loud enough to be heard outside.

  But this time, the screeching was getting closer and closer. Ella stood, pressing her hands against her lower back and stretching, glad for the big straw hat that protected her skin and eyes from the sun. Her toes flexed inside the old pair of cowboy boots she wore whenever she left the house, and Ella wondered if she could take them off and stand barefoot in the dirt like Maisie. It would be much more enjoyable, but she probably shouldn’t risk it; the last time Sibyl caught her doing it, she’d tattled to Papa, who’d ranted about propriety and appearances and sent her to bed without supper.

  Since she’d made the dinner, of course, the punishment was less effective than he might’ve thought.

  Ella sighed. Her sister’s complaint was still unintelligible, but it almost certainly had to do with something Ella had done, or hadn’t done well enough. Mabel and Eunice’s entire life seemed to revolve around coming up with more work for Ella. Sibyl was only fifteen, and had been such a sweet little girl when Ella met her twelve years ago… but her sisters were training her well, and she was becoming a snide and demanding young woman.

  But it was Mabel who burst around the edge of the house, one arm full of pink silk. Her face was blotchy and her pale eyes sparked as she shook the dress on which Ella had worked so hard. “Look at this! Just look at this!” Her shriek could clean glass.

  Ella, used to her stepsister’s rages, just put her hands on her hips and waited for the complaints to start. Her calmness infuriated Mabel, as always. “Just what do you think you’re doing with this thing?” She punctuated her diatribe by waving the dress around, and Ella considered moving closer, just so Mabel would stop screaming at her. But it probably wouldn’t matter; she’d scream anyhow.

  “What’s wrong, Mabel?”

  “You know good and well what’s wrong! This doesn’t look a thing like the fashion magazine! Did you follow the pattern at all? Where’s all the lace? Where’s all the…” Apparently not able to handle the stress of her tantrum, Mabel sputtered to a stop. With an inarticulate scream, she turned on her heel and marched back towards the front porch. Ella winced, to see the beautiful silk dragging behind her in the dust.

  When she heard the front door slam again, she turned back to the garden, and caught Maisie’s disapproving frown. “Why do you let them girls talk to you like that? You ain’t their slave, you’re their sister.”

  Ella shrugged, and squatted back down in the dirt, pulling up the weeds that were threatening her careful rows. “Papa gave us a home. He let me stay here after Mama died.” A death he probably caused, with the way he worked her so hard.

  She heard Maisie’s scoff, and secretly agreed. “Don’t be acting like that was charity, girl. He didn’t ‘let you stay’, he put you to work. You slave every day for that man and his spoiled girls.”

  “So do you.”

  “Yeah, but I get paid for it, now. No more slavery, Mr. Lincoln said. You don’t get anything from your family ‘cept more work and less appreciation.”

  Ella resisted the urge to swipe her forearm across her brow. Her hands were covered in dirt, and she’d just get messier… but Lord it was hot today. “I know, Maisie.” Her admission was quiet. They’d had this discussion time and again. “But they need me.”

  A snort. “That’s a load of trash, girl. They don’t ‘need’ you, they just too cheap to pay someone to do the work you do for free. And until you stand up for yourself—”

  “They’re my family. I’m never going to find a better place.” The lie sat heavy on her tongue.

  Maisie didn’t respond, and after a long moment, Ella glanced up to see her friend staring at her, a mixture of sadness and incredulity in her expression. Softly, so softly that Ella almost didn’t hear, Maisie said, “You don’t honestly believe that, do you?”

  Ella swallowed, and tried for a grin. “No. But it’s what I tell myself.” She sighed, and tried not to think of the threats Papa had made over the years. “I’ve got to stay here, Maisie. I’ve got nowhere else.”

  She held Maisie’s stare, willing her friend to believe that’s why she stayed. Willed her to not glance over her shoulder, and see how every once in a while one of Papa’s cowboys would stop his work and glance over, just checking to see that she was where she was supposed to be. Willed her to believe that Ella didn’t lay awake at night, wondering if she should try to escape again, or if she’d be dragged back by her hair by Mr. Heyward, like that ill-fated attempt years ago.

  “You could get married, move away.” Maisie’s suggestion surprised her.

  “Married?” Ella snorted and turned away. “To who? Where would I find a man who’d marry me and take me away from all this?” She swept her arms wide, gesturing to the ranch lands that swept for miles in all directions, refusing to think of a pair of pale green eyes behind neat spectacles. “Papa made it clear that his daughters were off-limits to his workers, and Mabel doesn’t let me join in on any of the teas or dinners she hosts.” Although Ella made all the food for the events, and cleaned the house for them, and sewed the dresses her sisters wore to them. “And I can’t go to town, because Papa is afraid I’ll do just that—find a man and marry him and leave him and my sisters to fend for themselves.” She sighed and propped her hands on her hips once more. “Maisie, I’m stuck here. There’s not going to be a prince who’ll ride up here in a golden coach and sweep me away. No princes know I’m here! Besides, I’m too old to believe in fairy tales. I’ve just got to make the best of things, and that means getting Mabel and Eunice married. We’ll all be able to breathe easier then.”

  Her friend just frowned and shrugged, saying without words that she didn’t agree, but there was nothing she could counter with. Ella’s shoulders sagged as the tension eased, and she sighed. Every single thing she’d just said—not too politely, either—had been said be
fore, often to herself. Ella had no other options, no way to leave. Papa had made it clear that she was going to spend her life here on the Miller Ranch, and made sure all of his men knew to keep her here. There’d been a few times, after Mama’s death, when she’d attempted to go into town herself… the beatings Papa ordered Mr. Heyward to dole out as punishment had been enough to make her rethink escape.

  Maisie’s answer had always been to find a husband, and it was a good solution. Being married to some man—any man—would mean that she’d only have to cook and clean and slave for one person. No matter her friend’s claims that it wasn’t like that if you loved your husband, Ella had seen the truth of her mother’s second marriage; chaining yourself to a man could be a living hell. But it was a hell she was willing to accept, if it meant getting away from this one.

  Unfortunately, there was no way to. She hadn’t been lying; Papa didn’t let her meet eligible men, and she wasn’t allowed to go into town to meet them on her own.

  Except… except she had. Once. While her gaze roamed over the rolling hills and distant mountains, Ella was seeing Ian’s easy smile and gentle way with the crippled dog. For the last two weeks he’d filled her thoughts, so much so that Eunice had noticed and taunted her. But Ella couldn’t help it; he’d just been so… so compelling. She wanted to know all about him; how he ended up in Everland with his own store, and where he’d come from, and what he wanted in the future.

  There’d been a horrifying moment, on the trip back from town two weeks before, when Ella had realized that she didn’t even know if Ian was married. Maybe he was! Maybe his wife had been upstairs, tending their little ones and fixing a meal, while she’d been downstairs positively mooning over the gorgeous shopkeeper. But if he’d been married, would he have invited her to call him “Ian”, and smiled the way he did at her?