The Bad Luck Wedding Dress Read Free Page B

of the line for the railroad and the collection point for a number of stage lines. The Chisholm Trail ran one street west of Main. Here men outnumbered women at least ten to one, and as they passed through town, their needs were basic.
    In the Acre, those needs were well met. A bath, a haircut, food, drink, and female companionship were readily available for the price of a coin. Hell’s Half Acre was heaven to the men who rode into town with coins scorching the bottoms of their pockets.
    Money—fast and plentiful—was the reason Trace had chosen to remain in Fort Worth to raise his girls. Money and the fact that the railroad didn’t go any farther.
    It was difficult for a man to continue running when he tagged three little girls along with him.
    Wanting to get Katrina home as quickly as possible, Trace hailed the mule-drawn streetcar that hauled passengers up and down Main. As he settled into a seat, he asked his daughter, “Do your sisters know where you went?”
    The girl shook her head.
    “Where do they think you are?”
    Katrina mulishly set her mouth and shrugged in reply.
    Trace wasn’t surprised by her lack of cooperation. Although the girls constantly bickered among themselves, they consistently presented a united front when facing any foe. A father bent upon discipline definitely counted as the enemy.
    As the streetcar headed south away from the Acre, Trace’s thoughts turned to Miss Jenny Fortune. Bawling like a baby, was she? Good Lord, he hoped she wasn’t ill. The girls certainly didn’t need that.
    He reached over and tucked a stray auburn curl behind his daughter’s ear. Chances were the dressmaker wasn’t sick. She’d probably heard of the nonsense Big Jack Bailey was spreading around town. He had wandered through the End of the Line just last night spouting some nasty sentiments about Miss Fortune, going on and on about how his daughters had been brought low by The Bad Luck Wedding Dress. Then he’d shared his ideas on how to deal with the woman who’d created the gown.
    At that point Trace had heard enough and suggested the wealthy rancher might be happier at the Red Light Saloon.
    All in all, Trace wasn’t overly concerned about what Big Jack had said. While the man was unpredictable, full of talk and superstitious nonsense, he’d never taken any of his threats farther than his tongue. Which looked to be a good thing for Jenny Fortune.
    At the corner of Main and Eleventh, Trace and Katrina left the streetcar to walk the remaining two blocks to their home. He’d acquired the three-story brick structure from a liquored-up banker within months of arriving in town. It wasn’t the best place for the girls to live, but it wasn’t all that bad.
    Heaven knew they’d lived in worse places before settling in Fort Worth. Much worse. He’d had just over two hundred dollars in his pocket the night they snuck out of Charleston and that hadn’t lasted long.
    The Rankin Building stood directly across from the Catholic church, and he waved a hello to one of the priests as he opened the door that bypassed the shops and led directly upstairs. Despite Katrina’s protests, he’d see to his children before he dealt with Miss Fortune.
    Once inside he sent Katrina to wait for him in the parlor, then he headed for the stairway. He expected to find the girls in their bedroom on the third floor. But before he reached the steps, he was stopped by the murmur of voices floating down the hallway. From his own bedroom.
    “What are those hellions up to this time?” he muttered, following the sound.
    At the doorway, he abruptly stopped. Both girls were on their hands and knees. Maribeth, his nine-year-old, had her face pressed against the floor. Her eleven-year-old sister, Emma, was nudging her shoulder and saying, “Well, what is it? What do you see now?”
    Trace folded his arms. Summoning his most fatherly glare, he cleared his throat.
    A pair of heads snapped up; two guilt-ridden faces lifted toward