Mystic Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series Book 6)

by Debra Holland

  Books by Debra Holland

  Montana Sky Series

  1892

  Beneath Montana’s Sky

  1886

  Mail-Order Brides of the West: Trudy

  Mail-Order Brides of the West: Lina

  Mail-Order Brides of the West: Darcy

  Mail-Order Brides of the West: Prudence

  Mail-Order Brides of the West: Bertha

  1890s

  Grace: Bride of Montana

  Wild Montana Sky

  Starry Montana Sky

  Stormy Montana Sky

  Montana Sky Christmas

  A Valentine’s Choice

  Irish Blessing

  Painted Montana Sky

  Glorious Montana Sky

  Healing Montana Sky

  Sweetwater Springs Scrooge

  Sweetwater Springs Christmas

  Mystic Montana Sky

  2015

  Angel in Paradise

  The Gods’ Dream Trilogy

  Fantasy Romance

  Sower of Dreams

  Reaper of Dreams

  Harvest of Dreams

  Season of Renewal

  Twinborne Trilogy

  Lywin’s Quest

  Nonfiction

  The Essential Guide to Grief and Grieving

  Surmounting Shame: A Ten Minute Ebook

  Cultivating an Attitude of Gratitude: A Ten Minute Ebook

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2016 Debra Holland

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503936751

  ISBN-10: 1503936759

  Cover design by Delle Jacobs

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Dear Reader

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  Between Sweetwater Springs and Morgan’s Crossing Spring 1896

  Maggie Baxter braced her feet against the floorboard of the rocking vardo. With a death grip, she clutched the smooth edge of the wooden seat of the Gypsy wagon that was her home. In spite of the chilly morning, sweat gleamed on the sides of the piebald black-and-white draught horses pulling the caravan. Urged on by the heavy hands of her husband, Oswald, they moved at a pace too fast for comfort. . .for safety. Dread churned in her stomach, and she fought the nausea rising in her throat.

  The team is too old to be pushed this hard. Maggie had protested their speed, but Oswald’s glare scared her into silence. The tree-covered hills flashed by. She looked up at the pure blue sky, clear after yesterday’s rain, and prayed for their safety.

  Maggie glanced at her husband, noting his clenched jaw and the tense set of his shoulders. Dare I ask him to slow down?

  Familiar fear shivered through her, and she held her tongue, pulling the wool blanket tighter around her shoulders. The wind tugged at the red scarf she wore to contain her hair. Before she could tighten the knot at her nape, the material loosened and fluttered away. With a squeak of protest, she grabbed for the scarf but missed. Her hair whipped across her face.

  Oswald noticed, narrowing his cold blue eyes. But he didn’t stop to retrieve the scarf. He’d been in a foul mood since his argument yesterday with Michael Morgan, the owner of the mine where Oswald worked. It was one fight too many. The boss had fired Oswald and ordered him out of Morgan’s Crossing. And, since the man owned the whole town, he had the power to enforce the eviction edict.

  This morning as they packed up their camp, Maggie had tiptoed around her husband, trying to remain small and silent lest she trigger his temper, for she had to protect the child growing within her. She released one hand from the death grip on the seat to curl her arm protectively around the great arc of her belly.

  A cramp made her back ache, causing cold fingers of dread to touch her spine. Inwardly, Maggie cursed, wishing she’d chosen to stay in Morgan’s Crossing.

  Yesterday, before they left, Mrs. Morgan had marched over to where they’d camped. Prudence Morgan was a force to be reckoned with. The wife of the mine owner had a long history of not tolerating bullies, and she wasn’t the least afraid of Oswald. The woman had pulled Maggie aside, suggesting she remain in town without her husband.

  I should have listened to my intuition.

  Maggie had wanted desperately to agree. She’d been reluctant to leave the comfort of the female friendships she’d formed in Morgan’s Crossing, as well as the security of a doctor to deliver the baby in a few weeks. But she had no way to support herself, much less a child, and was too proud to take charity. Selling her earrings—the real gold hidden under a coating of brass—would provide no more than a few months of sustenance, a year at the most.

  Although whatever love she’d felt for her husband in the beginning of their marriage had withered from his drunkenness and his abuse, after she became pregnant Maggie foolishly held on to some remnants of hope for their future. He was a strong man, and during her pregnancy, Oswald had strutted around in obvious masculine pride and treated her with heavy-handed kindness. She’d thought the idea of fatherhood had changed him.

  I’ve made a grave mistake.

  Her second error was to argue with him this morning, requesting they remain at their campsite for a few more days before traveling on to Sweetwater Springs. She’d experienced contractions throughout the night like the ones she’d had off and on for the last ten days or so. The thought of more travel had been too much for her. Thank goodness the baby’s not due for a few more weeks.

  The result of her request was to make Oswald do the opposite, hurriedly breaking camp and driving far too fast. I wish I’d told him I wanted to reach Sweetwater Springs as soon as possible. He would have insisted on camping in that spot for a week.

  The wheels hit another pothole, jolting the vardo, which squeaked and groaned.

  Maggie winced at the sound. Oswald had neglected the green Gypsy wagon that had once been the pride of her grandparents, built when her forebears first immigrated to America. Not only was the paint faded, but the gilding on the carvings around the door and roofline had worn thin. Although the shabby exterior of their home bothered her, Maggie was far more concerned about damaging the wheels or the structure of the caravan.

  Oswald gathered the reins in one hand, picked up the coiled whip that lay on the seat between them, and snapped the lash over the team’s heads.

  The horses picked up their pace.

  A wave of damp heat flushed her body. Queasiness roiled her stomach. I’m going to be sick. Muscles tense, Maggie slanted a cautious glanc
e at her husband, need warring with fear. “Oswald, can you please slow down?” She had to raise her voice to be heard over the clattering of the wagon wheels.

  The corners of his mouth tightened. He shot her a dark look, his eyes feral, teeth bared in a grimace.

  That expression—one of rabid insanity—had contorted his face the two times he’d almost beaten her to death. Only the intervention of the neighbors, who’d heard her screams, had saved her. Maggie shrank back into the corner, pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve, and dabbed at her damp face. Nausea drove her to speak. “Oswald?”

  Again he flicked the reins.

  The swaying of the vardo jolted her back and forth. Illness built in her stomach like a poison. “Please. I think the baby’s coming.” She made the mistake of leaning toward him in supplication.

  Oswald’s arm snaked out. He backhanded her across the face and knocked her into the corner of the seat.

  The sting of the blow proved too much. Maggie leaned over the side of the wagon, losing her meager breakfast.

  Banker Caleb Livingston drove his surrey along the dirt road to Morgan’s Crossing for his annual meeting with Michael Morgan concerning the financial business of the mine. He always dreaded the trip—a duty he would have enjoyed if only the mining town were two hours away from Sweetwater Springs instead of a two-day journey.

  He’d spent an unpleasant night in a rough hut built for wayfarers, which was nestled in the midst of hills. He’d tossed and turned on the uncomfortable, narrow bed for what seemed like hours, only to oversleep, waking well after dawn. The late morning was still chilly, and Caleb had bundled up in his wool coat and muffler, tugging his hat low over his ears and slipping on fur-lined leather gloves to keep his hands warm.

  His team of matched brown horses was fresh. They took the isolated downhill grade at a fast clip, their hooves kicking up dirt to splatter the once-shiny black surrey.

  Deep in thought, Caleb relaxed his attention from his driving to focus on a topic that usually bedeviled most men—women. “Time to find a wife,” he said, reiterating a vow he’d made at the Christmas party celebrating the grand opening of his hotel. On that triumphant night, he’d keenly felt the lack of a wife by his side who would support his ambition and admire his accomplishments, who’d shine as a social hostess and help civilize the town and warm his bed.

  His mouth firmed. In the past few years, he’d given his particular attention to several worthy candidates, but they’d chosen other men—ones lacking his wealth, social status, and even, if he could be so vain, his well-formed appearance.

  Caleb’s pride, not his heart, had been hurt, at least in the cases of Samantha Rodriguez, now Mrs. Wyatt Thompson; Lily Maxwell, now Mrs. Tyler Dunn; and Delia Bellaire, soon to be Mrs. Joshua Norton. One twinge of loss he would admit to—he’d invested more emotion in the pursuit of beautiful Elizabeth Hamilton. Everyone in Sweetwater Springs had known of Caleb’s courtship and his humiliating defeat to a cowboy.

  He continued down the list. His interest in Sophia Maxwell, the Songbird of Chicago, had taken place more in his imagination than in reality. Before he could declare his interest, Sophia had made it clear her role as a professional opera singer was more important than settling down in a small frontier town—no matter how grand the hotel or appealing the owner.

  But really, in spite of the list, in the last few years, Caleb had been so focused on the completion and establishment of his hotel he hadn’t paid serious attention to the search for a wife. After all, he did have his sister to oversee his home. And frankly, he didn’t look forward to the battles that were sure to ensue when Edith was forced to relinquish her role as mistress of the household. But a man had needs—ones I’ve suppressed for too long.

  Caleb’s thoughts remained fixed on his ideal woman—upper-class, beautiful, elegant, educated; yet, in the privacy of their bedroom, his paragon would cast constraints to the wind and turn into a passionate lover. Isn’t that what most men wish for?

  Once I return home from Morgan’s Crossing, I’ll prepare for a trip to Boston to visit my family. The hotel and bank can manage without my presence long enough for me to court and wed the right woman.

  The horses swept around the curve of a hill. His mind on the intimate relations he hoped to have in the near future, Caleb didn’t hear the muffled drum of hoofbeats and clatter of wagon wheels until a team of piebald horses appeared as if conjured out of nowhere. They pulled some sort of outlandish green caravan that careened over the whole road.

  The driver snapped a whip.

  What in the—?

  The loud curses of the driver echoed the ones blasting in Caleb’s brain, but his jaw was too tight to utter them. He wrenched the reins to the left, forcing his team to hug the curve of the mountain, praying the man didn’t steer his horses in the same direction.

  The black-and-white horses swerved to the right of Caleb’s surrey. The vehicles passed within inches of each other, almost close enough to scrape paint, the bulky green sides of the wagon blurring from the speed.

  From the corner of his eye, Caleb saw the driver veer too wide. His gut leaped into his throat. But they’d swept around the hill, out of sight, and he didn’t dare take his attention away from his team. From behind, he heard a woman’s scream, followed by the sounds of a crash and then ominous silence.

  Praying harder than he ever had in his life, Caleb steered the horses to a patch of ground on the side of the road and reined in. In front of him, the land steeply dropped to a wide valley. Hands shaking, he set the brake and tied off the reins. He glanced behind. The caravan was out of his line of sight.

  Caleb jumped to the ground and raced back the way he’d come. He ran to the edge of the road; the Colt he wore in a holster bumped against his leg. He followed the imprint of wheels and hooves, hoping against hope not to see people, horses, and the wagon smashed at the bottom of the cliff.

  When he rounded the turn, Caleb skidded to a stop. Instead of the cliff he’d expected, the land gradually slanted away from the road to the tree line, leaving an open area of about forty feet. The caravan lay canted to the left, held up only by a mighty pine. The collision had smashed the side. The horses seemed to be fine, only shaken, the harness holding them captive.

  Halfway between him and the ruined wagon, a female body lay like a rag doll on her side.

  Caleb’s heart stuttered, and he slipped and slid on the slick new grass to reach her, grabbing a blanket that was strewn on the ground as he passed.

  The woman’s long, dark hair was unbound and covered her face. Her shabby, wine-colored dress was bunched above her knees, exposing limbs covered in darned black stockings.

  Caleb knelt and tugged down the hem for decency’s sake. Dreading what he’d see, he gently turned the woman, hoping he wasn’t exacerbating her injuries, and brushed the hair off her face. She looked young, pretty, with sooty lashes and eyebrows. Her high cheekbones and wide mouth, now compressed with pain, gave her features a Slavic appearance. Brass hoop earrings hung from her ears. Her olive skin had a pasty tinge. She must have hit her head on a rock, for blood seeped from a gash in her forehead. A welt marred her cheek.

  Have I killed her? Sickened, Caleb heard only the sound of his harsh breathing and the rush of blood in his ears. He stripped off his gloves and thrust them into a coat pocket. With a shaky hand, he reached out to touch her throat. The leap of her pulse under his fingertips kicked his heart into a gallop.

  She’s alive! He jumped to his feet, intending to run for help. Frantically, he looked around the clearing as if he could magically summon a doctor. He caught himself and shook his head at the foolishness of the fruitless search.

  Caleb mentally cast about the surrounding area, trying to remember if he knew of any settlers in the region, but could think of no one. He sank back down to his knees, wondering if he dared check to see if the woman had broken any limbs. Gingerly, he touched her arm.

  She stirred, her lips parting. Her eyelids rose. Big, brown ey
es flecked with gold and dazed with pain stared up at him. “My baby?”

  His rib cage constricted. Please tell me I didn’t kill a child!

  Her hand moved to her round stomach. A thin gold ring showed she was married.

  Caleb gasped, realizing she was pregnant.

  She moaned.

  Fear coursed through him. What if the baby’s hurt?

  “You’ve hit your head,” he said with a gentleness aimed at reassuring her. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

  “Everywhere.” She reached to touch her forehead.

  Caleb caught her hand. “You’re bleeding.” His voice trembled, and he forced himself to sound confident. “Head wounds are often nasty but not serious.” He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out his handkerchief. “I’m going to see to your injury.” Carefully he dabbed at the blood on her forehead. A lump was rising, but the cut didn’t look bad, the blood slowly oozing. “I don’t think you’ll need stitches.” He folded the cloth and left the pad in place. “If I may touch you. . .?” He glanced at her for permission. “I’m sorry for the familiarity, but I must see if you’ve broken any bones before we move you to safety.” What scant safety there is, here in the wilds.

  The woman nodded, wincing as the movement jarred her head. “Yes,” she whispered.

  Tentatively, he ran a hand over her shoulder and down her arm, and then leaned over to check her other side. As far as he could tell, nothing seemed broken. “Let me check your, uh, ribs.”

  She closed her eyes. “Go ahead.”

  Caleb started with her side. Is there a way to even ascertain if the babe is unharmed? He didn’t know the least thing about pregnancy. He splayed his hand over her stomach, moving to the top and imagining the child within. Please, baby, be alive.

  As if in response to his plea, he felt a movement under his palm. His gaze jerked to the woman’s. “Is that right?” His voice sounded shaky.

  The woman opened her eyes. Her hand shifted to touch his. “Very right.”

  The sense of relief went all the way to his bones.

  “I think that’s a kick.” She pushed his hand lower. “The head. I don’t think he liked the ride.”