Ione's Dilemma: Dorado, Texas Book 6 (Grandma's Wedding Quilt 8)

  Ione’s Dilemma, Grandma’s Wedding Quilts #8

  By Linda Carroll-Bradd

  Book #6 of the Dorado, Texas series

  This is a work of fiction. Names, place, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright ©Linda Carroll-Bradd All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute or transmit in any form or by any means without express permission from author or publisher.

  Published by Inked Figments

  Cover artist: Tamra Westberry (writing as Tara West)

  Edited by: Shenoa, Lustre Editing www.lustreediting.com

  Manufactured in the United States

  ISBN: 978-1-940546-10-0

  First printing January 2017

  This book is copyrighted intellectual property. Purchasing this e-book gives you the right to one copy for your reading enjoyment. The purchase does not grant resale rights, sharing rights (either individual file sharing or sharing through peer-to-peer programs) auction or contest prize rights, or rights of any kind to sell or give away a copy of this book.

  Doing so is considered piracy and criminal copyright infringement—an illegal act in violation of U.S. Copyright Law and can be investigated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation and is punishable by a maximum of five years in federal prison in addition to a $250,000 fine.

  Please respect Linda Carroll-Bradd’s right to earn a living from her creative endeavors. If you have knowledge of misuse of this e-book, do not hesitate to contact Inked Figments at inkedfigments@gmail.com.

  Ione’s Dilemma

  When Ione Forrester calls off her wedding, she becomes the social pariah of Des Moines. Much to her society parents’ chagrin. To escape the gossip, Ione accepts a teaching job in Dorado, Texas, vowing to avoid scandal at all costs. Relocating from a doctor’s household with cook and maids to a room in a boardinghouse is quite an adjustment. Then she has to face her biggest challenge—a schoolhouse full of students.

  Carpenter Morgan Shipley has been working hard to build his business and now he’s looking for companionship in his life. An ad for a mail-order bride brings a deluge of letters, and Morgan adopts the role of matchmaker to share the wealth among other Dorado bachelors. To his surprise, an intriguing woman from a big city arrives in his small Texas town. Correspondence is nothing like interacting with a flesh-and-blood woman every day. But Ione wants nothing to do with Morgan’s attempts at courting, which makes him try even harder.

  Previous books in the Dorado, Texas series

  Although each book can be read as a stand-alone story, the world is richer if you meet all the characters (and experience their love stories) who might walk through the pages of the current story.

  Wandering Home, Book #1

  Widow Vevina Bernhard sees mysterious lights at night and believes her Texas ranch Shady Oaks is haunted. She needs protection for herself and her 4-year old son but the town’s sheriff offers no help. On hiatus from his Texas Ranger duties, Kell Hawksen hires on as a farrier at the ranch while keeping an eye out for clues to a stagecoach robber in hopes of collecting the bounty. On Samhain, fire erupts and Vevina and Kell battle both the danger and the depth of their feelings.

  AMAZON

  Storybook Hero, Book #2

  Relocating to Texas has lessened Clari Rochester’s health problems, and she yearns for adventure. And she spots it outside her family’s mercantile when a quiet, but compelling, cowboy rescues a small child. Trevor Driscoll is the type of hero she’s come to admire through her love of books, and the type of man she secretly pens in her dime novels. But they’ve never had a real conversation. Trevor knows the logging accident that left him with only eight fingers limits his options, but he’s learned to manage. Until he rescues a fine lady from a runaway horse, spends the afternoon transporting her to safety, and gets a glimpse of what he’s always wanted. How will he respond to the unique present this special woman bestows?

  AMAZON

  My Heart Knew, Book #3

  From the moment tomboy Maisie Treadwell meets cowboy Dylan MacInnes, the sparks and words fly. To rectify causing his ankle sprain, Maisie is at the mercy of meeting Dylan’s demands. A shared interest in adventure stories draws them closer. Soon, Maisie can’t wait to spend time reading aloud to the recuperating virile man. Until the afternoon she overhears him explaining that his demands were meant to teach her a lesson. Can Dylan find a way to again win her trust?

  AMAZON

  Sparked by Fire, Book #4

  Ivey Treadwell, cook at her family’s boardinghouse, wants to accomplish something big. For now, she satisfies herself with improving on the traditional recipes for the boarders by adding herbs and spices she gathers. An incident with a broken pan causes her to see Berg Spengler, the town’s blacksmith, in a new light.

  Stigmatized for his huge size and blamed for his brother’s injury, Berg has discovered being alone is safer for his heart. But when he sees interest spark in Ivey’s eyes, he decides to take a chance and approach her. The pair discovers an attraction that heats up each time they are alone together. Will Ivey convince Berg his wandering days are over and home is here with her in Dorado?

  AMAZON

  Mail-Order Haven, Book #5

  Fitz Saunders is proud of the Texas ranch he’s spent five years building…until he is visited by his father’s accountant and reminded that to receive his inheritance, he must be married by his thirtieth birthday. Which is less than a month away. A mail-order bride seems like the logical solution. But when Tavia arrives—seeking a haven from a childhood raised in Army forts—she has an orphaned baby in tow, and Fitz is unsure if he’s made the right decision.

  Coming soon

  1878

  Chapter One

  A stiff breeze tugged on Ione Forrester’s silk double-brimmed hat. She clamped a hand on her head to keep the hat from blowing off and stepped away from Miss Lenora’s Dressmaker Shop. The frigid air nipped at her cheeks, and she shivered. Yet again, she wished she’d ignored Mother’s advice about wearing the lightweight jacket simply because the fit complimented her figure. January in Des Moines, Iowa was wintery cold, and she didn’t see anything wrong with dressing appropriately. That was what sensible people did. Who cared if she ran into someone Mother knew from her Women’s Hospital Auxiliary or one of Father’s patients? I bet they’d be wearing warm thick coats.

  A steady stream of pedestrians moved through her line of sight.

  Edging her scarf higher on the back of her neck, Ione glanced around before stepping to the curb. The last fitting for her wedding dress had been completed. The gown of silky white fabric highlighted her curves, and the shaped pink roses provided an accent to the sweetheart neckline. The image reflected in a full-length mirror, with the long train edged with shiny beads, made her look like a princess. For a moment, she’d forgotten to breath.

  Next stop was Hargrove Printing to verify the engraved place cards would be delivered to the house by Friday afternoon. If she’d had her way, the wedding would be much less elaborate. All she and Bradford needed was a small gathering of family and friends to witness their vows—although her side of the church would definitely be less populated than his. She wished her extended family didn’t live in so many far-flung states and territories. Both of her younger siblings had already vacated the family home and set out on their lives’ journeys—Josie attending medical college an
d Chase working on a ranch in Missouri.

  Odd for the oldest not to have gone first.

  The clomping of horses’ hooves and the tinkling of a bell announced the approach of the next trolley at Sixth and Sycamore Streets. For a moment, she debated about taking this ride to complete her task or waiting for one that switched to a cross-town trolley. Another gust of wind ruffled her skirts, chilling her stocking-clad legs, and nudged her decision. While searching the bottom of her reticule for her coin purse, she waited at the curb. Several days of meager sunshine had melted last week’s snowfall. The bricks leading to the mid-street trolley tracks were clear of slush, so her hems should stay dry.

  Once inside the trolley, she breathed a sigh in appreciation of the warmer air. Although not perfect, the leather window covers blocked the worst of the wind’s chill. Seeing several open spaces toward the back, she walked along the center aisle, resting a hand on each seat she passed. Her steps were wide to compensate for the trolley’s movement. She dropped into the first bench with an aisle space and settled her skirts.

  The passenger to her left rested an elbow on the window ledge and had her eyes closed.

  By the looks of the woman’s hands, she worked as a washer woman. Ione thanked her lucky stars none of Viola and Charles Forrester’s children had been forced to perform manual labor. Her father’s career as a leading Des Moines surgeon provided them with a wider selection of choices.

  That fact was probably the main reason Father never understood Chase’s desire to be a cowhand on a ranch. Their bitter arguments drove Chase to escape and find his own way in Missouri. Thankfully, Ione had learned where he now lived and had the letter confirming his welfare tucked into her journal.

  The trolley slowed for the next stop. “Ninth Street,” the driver called.

  Shuffling feet signaled the departure of those arriving at their destination. Moments later, high-pitched laughter drew her attention forward. A couple stood at the front of the car waiting to pay their fares. The red-haired woman clung to the arm of a man wearing a derby hat and full-length wool coat. His silhouette looked similar to Bradford’s, as most young doctors must appear. The woman rose on her toes to plant a kiss on the man’s cheek, and he leaned close to receive it.

  Ione sucked in a breath at the presumptive behavior. Her intended never permitted her such liberties in public, and Ione had never pressed the point. Although, after a year-long engagement and with the wedding in less than a week, she yearned for more than a perfunctory kiss at the end of a courting date.

  The couple turned in her direction to locate their seats.

  Ione took one look at the man, and her blood ran as cold as the wind outside. Her heart threatened to jump out of her chest. She scooted low on the bench seat, her bustle pushing hard against her bottom, so she could barely see over the man who sat in front of her. This can’t be. Her stomach roiled.

  Bradford scanned the front seats before guiding the redhead to the fourth row. After he sat, he encircled her shoulders with his arm. Ensconced in their private tête-à-tête, the pair whispered and laughed. Then he leaned over and kissed the hussy. Right. On. The. Lips.

  In the next instant, Ione shot upright and clamped a hand on the wooden slat in front of her. Blood pounded in her ears, and she thought she might faint. Last night, Bradford told her he had to attend a lecture series and couldn’t accompany her to the opera house performance of Das Rheingold. So why was he canoodling with another woman on a trolley at eleven in the morning?

  A glance around told her the rear exit was only three rows away, and that the other passengers within arm’s length gave no reaction to what had happened. They read the newspaper, chatted with their seat neighbor, or eased back an edge of a leather flap enough to see out the window opening. Their lives hadn’t just crumbled like the proverbial house of cards. Through the vee at the neck of her jacket, she fingered the small rose-colored cameo pendant she always wore. Her betrothal gift. Bradford said the piece belonged to his grandmother, and Ione should cherish the necklace for the connection alone. After what she’d seen, she doubted the family provenance. The man who she’d pledged her life to, the man who was slated to join her father’s medical practice, the man who’d bestowed her first-ever kiss turned out to be nothing more than a philanderer.

  Her breaths whooshed out in short rasps. She couldn’t say anything about the tryst on a downtown trolley. Mother would fly into a tizzy if word got out that Ione’d made a public spectacle of a private situation. Father would give her one of those long frowning looks that scrunched his patrician face before disappearing into his study. Then she’d be forced to tiptoe around the house until they started talking to her again. She’d already served up enough disappointment when she wasn’t smart enough to follow in her father’s footsteps. Now, Josie was the one who’d stepped into those big shoes.

  “Are you all right, miss?” A thick Slavic accent filled the washerwoman’s words.

  Ione pressed a hand to her stomach and nodded. “A bit of indigestion, I fear.” Turning to glance at the woman, she forced a smile. “I’ll be fine. The remedy will just take time.” By keeping her head down for the next three stops, Ione regained control and felt she could stand and exit without stumbling. At the Thirteenth Street stop, she dashed out the back door, cut into the first alley she found, and snuck down the path. Like one of those Pinkerton agents she read about in the newspaper, she kept out of sight of the trolley as she walked parallel to the route toward home. Ten minutes later, she stomped up the back wooden steps to the kitchen.

  “Lordy be, Miss Ione.” The cook, Mrs. Bishop, dropped the knife on the board where she sliced lemons. “You nearly took a year off my life.” She frowned and jerked her head toward the door. “Why are you coming in through the back?”

  Ione stopped and patted a hand against her chest, as if the action would pump in more air. She hadn’t done that much swift walking since her first days at Illinois Female College, where she’d earned her teacher’s certificate. “Sorry, Cook.” The woman who had worked for the family for as long as Ione could remember would learn about today’s event at some point. But the scandalous news should really be delivered to her parents first. Although, she didn’t think she could keep her heartache inside until this evening when her father returned from the hospital. She glanced at the plate of lemon slices on the counter. Mother must be entertaining. “Auxiliary meeting?” Discussion of table arrangements and who to seat where would be bandied around, but the final layout would be an almost perfect replica of the previous one.

  “No, just a few of her friends in for a chat.”

  As she unbuttoned her jacket, Ione bit back a groan. These friends gathering for a chat meant they vied for which one had the most special item of news to share about her child. Viola’s daughter’s wedding would top the morning’s agenda. She laid the coat on the back of the closest chair and pulled the long pin from her hat. Once all her outer garments were set in a neat pile, she squared her shoulders. No situation ever improved by pretending it didn’t exist. “I’ll take in the lemons.” The muffled steps she walked from the back of the house to the front, down the hallway rug, felt equally as decisive as the ones she would have taken down the church aisle.

  A board in the entryway squeaked, announcing her arrival at the parlor door.

  Mother looked up from the Wedgwood teacup and saucer balanced in her raised hand and gave a brief smile. “Speak of the blushing bride, here she is. Come inside and join us.”

  Was she ready to expose the truth about the situation? Could she stand to see disappointment weight her mother’s movements or dim the faint glimmer in her eyes? She’d borne up admirably a year ago last September when Josie left to attend Keokuk Medical School. But, after the final argument sent Chase packing last year, Mother faded. No other word described the change in her behavior.

  Only the rush of activities and details needed for the wedding kept up her spirits. Maybe Ione could bow out of any discussion and tell Mother
later, after her friends departed. “My cheeks are red from the cold. The temperature must be only forty-five degrees.” Ione walked to the rolling tray that held the silver tea service. She set the lemon slices next to a stack of china plates painted with a floral pattern. Knowing what her mother expected next, she glanced around the seated women and nodded. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

  Tessie Gibson reached out a bejeweled hand for the small tongs to serve herself a slice. “Ione, you must sit and tell us all about the dress. Your mother informed us you had an appointment for the last fitting.”

  “Such a lucky girl you are.” Mabel Pinchon sipped her tea before continuing. “In my day, we walked down the aisle in our Sunday best. Never heard of having a dress sewn with special fittings.” She tsked-tsked.

  No, don’t shake your head. Ione preferred not to see Mabel’s double chins wobble back and forth like a turkey wat—Too late. Ione averted her gaze to keep a straight face. “Yes, ma’am. I know how lucky I am.” She almost choked on the mealy-mouthed words.

  “You did go to the shop I suggested, right?” Leslie Winnett cocked an arched eyebrow and reached for a small sandwich triangle. “Mademoiselle Philomena has absolutely all the best laces imported from France. I heard tell her brother owns the mill that makes them.” She glanced around the group until all the ladies responded with an answering nod.

  Ione sidled backward toward the door, hoping against hope she could escape to her bedroom. “Please, excuse me. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “Didn’t the fitting go well?” Frowning, Mother sat forward before flashing a quick smile toward her friends. “I’ve been telling Ione that a woman only gets married once, and she’ll want everything to go perfectly on her most important day.” She tilted her head and gazed at her daughter. “Remember, how I suggested you eat nothing more than half portions?”

  At the insinuation that she’d gained weight, Ione stifled a gasp, stopping herself from pressing a hand to her stomach. “My size is not the issue. The fitting went well, and the dressmaker has to make only one or two very small adjustments.” She stepped closer to the doorway. “But, I don’t—”