Ella: an Everland Ever After Tale (4 page)

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.

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 before, 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?

Ella had convinced herself that it didn’t matter; she was unlikely to ever see him again, and he could just remain in her imagination and her dreams. Because in her dreams, he was very definitely
not
married, and he’d ride out here to the Miller Ranch and carry her off someplace, and then kiss her. And
hooooooboy
were the kisses nice ones. That first night, when his toe-curling, spine-tingling kiss had woken her from the most delicious dream, she’d laid there on her pallet, panting, and wondering where she’d gotten such an imagination.

Ian Crowne could
kiss
, even if it was only in her dreams.

Maybe she was distracted by the oh-so-real memory of his lips on hers, or maybe she just wasn’t paying attention, but the next thing she realized, Eunice was standing at the edge of the garden, one hand on her hip and a smug look on her round face. “Daddy said that you have to come to his study right now.”

And so, ten minutes later, a resigned Ella stood in her stepfather’s study, staring at the bound books behind his desk that she didn’t think had ever been read, but that she dusted every day, watching him listen to Mabel list her faults. They started with “lazy” and “incompetent”, and Ella pretty much tuned them out after that. Mr. Heyward stood in his usual position behind her stepfather, practicing his glower and taking his job as his employer’s enforcer seriously.

“So,” Papa’s deep rumble began, and Ella paid attention once more, “You’re saying that your stepsister has done an inadequate job of following the pattern?”

Mabel was smirking when she nodded, and Ella managed not to show her irritation when she turned to her sister. “How have I not followed the pattern?”

Brandishing the fashion magazine in one hand and the pink dress in the other, Mabel gestured with both. “Look at this piece of trash. There isn’t
nearly
enough lace on it!”

Ella
knew
that she should’ve locked the door to the sewing room—the only room in the house beside the kitchen that she felt any real ownership over—but then her sisters would’ve gotten even more suspicious. So she just tamped down on her sigh. “You told me, last month, that the sketch looked like—and I quote—‘some kind of wedding cake with all those ridiculous frills’. So I cut the amount of lace in half.”

“I would
never
say that. I
love
wedding cake!” It was true. Ella had been surprised at her sister’s good taste at the time.

“I only bought enough lace to edge the three flounces, Mabel, because that’s what we agreed to.” Actually, she’d purchased enough for Sibyl’s curtains too, but since those were complete, there was no need to confuse the issue.

Her stepsister gasped. “You’re
lying
! You’re lying to Daddy, to cover up your own incompetence. The picture has more lace, and I want
more lace
.”

“Of course, baby. You want more lace, you can have more lace.” As always, her stepfather’s acquiesce to his spoiled daughter was enough to turn her stomach. But she hid her grimace when Edmund Miller turned his attention back to her. As always, he wasn’t really
seeing
her, but his hard glare was certainly convincing. “I should’ve known that you were too thoughtless for this responsibility, Ella.  You really should have more care for your stepsister’s needs.”

Needs.
What about my needs
? But she’d long ago given up on mama’s second husband being a real father to her, caring about what made her happy. So she swallowed, and hoped that her bland voice didn’t betray her bitterness—having been slapped more than once for that fault—when she said “I’m sorry, Papa.” The words twisted her stomach, but she forced herself to push through. “I can add more lace, with no problem.”

Papa nodded, and she saw Mabel preen out of the corner of her eye. “Good. You can get started immediately.”

“I don’t have any more lace. I’m sorry.” Apologizing, like it was her fault for only buying what they’d agreed to.

“Well,
go get some more
.” Mabel’s shrillness was very unattractive, but in that moment, Ella’s heart lurched a bit. To get more lace, she’d have to go into Everland. And Pedlar Dry Goods was all out of lace; she’d purchased the last of it. But Crowne’s Mercantile… Ian had a bolt of lovely lace that matched this one very well.