The Bad Luck Wedding Dress by Geralyn Dawson Read Free Book Online Page B

hundred yards to the Fort Worth City Jail.
    Deputy Rufus Scott sat at one desk, cleaning his fingernails with a knife. He looked up as Trace burst through the door, saying, “I want my girls now.”
    The deputy laid down his blade. “They ain’t here.”
    “What?” Trace’s gut clenched.
    “That dressmaker came and got ‘em. Said she was taking them to your place. Talked me up one side and down the other, she did. Hell, wasn’t my doin’s putting them here. Marshal Courtright decided that all on his lonesome.”
    Jenny Fortune. Trace breathed a long sigh of relief. How she had found out about these latest shenanigans, he didn’t really care. She had taken care of his girls for him and that was all that mattered. Without another word to the deputy, he turned and left the jailhouse, headed for home.
    He made quick work of getting there. When he turned the corner of Throckmorton and Eleventh, he spied the trio of nuns lying in wait along the garden fence of Saint Stanislaus. Well, hell. Trace slowed his steps, knowing the time to demonstrate repentance was at hand.
    “Mr. McBride!” Sister Gonzaga called, blue eyes glaring beneath her wimple, her round cheeks flushed with heat or maybe anger. Probably both. “Mr. McBride, we have serious trouble here.”
    Trace cleared his throat, but before he could speak, Sister Janette Louise asked, “We trust you have heard the news?”
    “Yes, ma’am. I’m real sorry about—”
    “Sorry isn’t good enough, Mr. McBride.” Sister Agnes sniffed with disdain. “Those girls of yours are completely out of control!”
    Trace set his teeth. He’d about had enough of other folks criticizing his children. It was one thing for him to do it, but quite another for someone else to open their mouth—nun or not. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Listen, Sister, I’ll make a nice donation to the church. That should—”
    Sister Gonzaga swiped the money from his hand and deposited it in her pocket even as Sister Janette Louise said, “It’s the girls we are concerned about, Mr. McBride. These pranks are a cry for help.”
    “They’re crying for something, all right,” he grumbled.
    “Those girls need female influence in their lives. They need a mother, Mr. McBride.”
    “They had a mother,” Trace snapped. “She’s dead.”
    Sister Janette Louise smiled beatifically. “Dear Maribeth has told us that their mother died some years ago. You need to put your grieving aside and provide for those sweet little angels.”
    Grieving? Not likely. “Those sweet little angels stole your horses, Sisters. You have my apologies, and as soon as I’m through with them, you’ll have theirs also. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He turned to go.
    Sister Agnes snorted. “Angels, hah! I wouldn’t be surprised to see horns and a tail on any of them. Especially that Maribeth. A dervish in petticoats, that girl is.”
    Trace shot a look over his shoulder but forced himself to keep his mouth closed. Damn, but he’d like to tell those women off. His daughters were doing fine without a mother. Just fine. He could take care of his own, by God. He could—
    Reaching for the door to his home, Trace stopped. Hell. The worst lies were the ones a man told himself.
    The girls weren’t doing fine. Like a springtime Texas twister, they had cut a swath of mischief a mile wide through the center of town. Even the mayor had stopped by the End of the Line to complain.
    Trace heaved a weary sigh. What was he going to do?
    You could send them home. Grandmother would teach them to be ladies .
    Trace closed his eyes as his mouth flattened into a grim line. It’s what he should do. It’d be the best thing for them. He could hire someone to take them east, and within a year, his grandmother would have drummed the devilment out of them. Perhaps in time and with her help, his girls could overcome the stigma of being Trace McBride’s daughters. Except for that to happen, he’d have to give