And the Bride Wore Plaid by Karen Hawkins Page B

“My thoughts exactly.” She was fortunate that she’d left society’s frivolous expectations behind and now had complete freedom to be and wear what she wanted. She took a deep breath, the cool, fresh air sending a grin all the way to her feet.
    They rounded a sharp turn in the pathway and came out into a clearing. The trees and foliage had been cut back, then kept at bay with a meticulous hand so that the sun shone freely here, bright and warm, bathing all in a golden light.
    The cottage, if one could call a twelve room structure thusly, sat in the heart of the forest. It was a tall, two-story house with a steep roof and large, square windows. The building was of hand-thrown brick, covered with mud wattle, the walls a foot thick to protect the inhabitants from the extreme weather that graced this portion of the country.
    But despite a severity of design, the house was ringed with welcome. The thickly thatched roof was braided into an intricate, cheery design. Every window sported a window box filled with lavender and St. John’s wort, while a bright red door beckoned one to enter. Most days, the shutters were thrown wide and singing could be heard, often a set of deep baritones, though more likely than not, Kat’s own fine feminine alto.
    Kat loved the place with a fierce passion. Not because of its beauty, though that was part of it. But because it was hers. Every last blooming inch. A fact she made known to any who dared say nay about her or her chosen way of life. For some reason, for as long as she could remember, there had always been people telling her what to do, how to look, which way to act, and who to be. But not here. Here she was just Kat.
    She smiled in satisfaction. “It’s a lovely place, isn’t it, Merriweather?”
    The horse jangled her bridle bells in agreement.
    It was a sad truth of life that those who were born on the wrong side of the sheets spent the rest of their lives in a state of “almost.” Almost an accepted part of the community. Almost a member of a real family. Almost, but never quite anything.
    So it had been for Kat until she discovered her “gift,” as Malcolm called it. Then things had changed forever.
    She’d found her gift by chance. She’d been searching for something useful to do with her time. One day, while sitting in church and admiring the beautiful colors that filled the windows, she began to wonder if perhaps ... just perhaps, she could find a pastime more significant than embroidery or water-colors, neither of which was bold enough to hold Kat’s interest. What she needed was a pastime that would produce something glorious and beautiful. Something like the stained glass windows that cast such gorgeous shadows of red and blue and gold across the floor of the church.
    The thought took hold and grew. She began to make inquiries, and to her delight, she found that one of the groomsmen in Malcolm’s stable—a large, ruddy giant of a man by the name of Simon—had once apprenticed doing glasswork. Soon Kat was visiting that very glass shop and learning the craft herself. Though it took time, Kat had a natural instinct for color and design, and she found that she loved every painstaking minute.
    The glasswork quickly became more than a pastime. It became a goal. With it, she would carve her own niche in the world.
    The cottage had been a natural choice. Kat had grown up there, and though it needed some work after sitting empty after her mother’s death, it was basically sturdy. Though Malcolm had protested loud and long, Kat had moved into the cottage a scant month later, taking Simon with her. His sister, Annie, came along soon after that.
    Kat guided Merriweather across the clearing to the barn. Sensing a carrot was waiting, the mare kicked up her feet and attempted to trot.
    Kat laughed. “Easy now! You’ll get your carrot in good time.”
    A large, red-haired man came out of the barn door, a plank of wood resting easily on his shoulder. He paused when he saw