He could see her point.
“But in the end, everyone compromised. Mama and I lived with Opa and Oma, who fussed over me. As much as I loved them and enjoyed school, when summer came, I’d wait anxiously for my other grandparents to arrive, which they usually did within a day or two. Then we’d be off traveling. I loved the freedom and seeing new places. The summers always sped by too fast.”
“Sounds like an adventurous childhood. Not unlike my own between Boston and the West.”
“I wouldn’t trade it. Yet. . . .”
“What?”
“I don’t fit in,” she confessed. “I’m neither fish nor fowl. Not completely Gypsy, yet not the same as my father’s family.”
Maggie’s Gypsy blood should bother him. If fact, if he’d met her under other circumstances, he’d have given her short shrift. But the emotion behind her words resonated with him. Caleb knew what it was like to be neither fish nor fowl—too much of an uncouth Westerner to fit in with the Boston bluebloods and too aristocratic for Sweetwater Springs.
“I don’t want to leave the vardo behind, Caleb.”
The wistfulness in her tone made him resolve to find a way to save her home. I’ll send Phineas O’Reilly back for her caravan. He’s a good carpenter and can maybe fix it up enough to travel. But I don’t want to give her false hope. “I’m sorry, Maggie. There’s no way we can salvage it today.”
She looked down and nodded, and then took a bite, her gaze on her food.
He let her be, knowing she needed to come to terms with her situation.
Maggie finished eating and set the bowl and spoon on the ground. “If you could help me. . . .” She waved toward the clump of bushes and rocks they’d used as a privy.
“Let me tuck Charlotte in my bedroll.” He rose and moved to his sleeping spot, making a nest for her. He lightly brushed the baby’s cheek with his finger. “We’ll be right back, little one. You behave yourself, hear?”
Caleb returned to Maggie. He stooped to lift her in his arms. After so much practice, he’d become an expert Maggie-carrier, and he liked the way she smiled and how comfortably she slipped an arm around his neck.
In the daylight, without the bulk of her pregnant belly, she seemed much smaller. Perhaps I hadn’t noticed her height because Maggie has the spirit of an Amazon.
Maggie did not speak a single word of complaint about how painful it was for her to ride on the seat of Caleb’s surrey. She tried to distract her mind from the pain by telling herself it could have been worse. After all, she was wrapped in a blanket—having refused Caleb’s coat—with a second one over her legs. The leather seat cushion was far more comfortable than the wooden seat of the vardo. The driver wasn’t Oswald. Caleb had managed to stuff the surrey with as many of her belongings as the vehicle could hold, and miracle of miracles, her baby was safe in her arms.
If only one of those arms and shoulders, and, indeed, her whole right side didn’t ache and throb from landing on the hard ground yesterday. Add to that the birth soreness from her back and abdomen to her thighs and the headache from where she’d hit her forehead. . . . She glanced down at her baby. Yes, I have too much to be thankful for to complain to the kind man who’d saved us.
She took a deep breath, inhaling the loamy smell of the forest. Thank goodness Caleb was there to help me through it. Maggie cast a glance at him, admiring his profile. Even with a few days’ growth of a beard and his clothing in far more of a disheveled state than when she’d first met him, the banker was definitely a fine-looking man.
Caleb didn’t notice her stare. His attention was focused on driving. He held his team to a slow walk to accommodate Pete’s injury.
Maggie looked behind her to check on her horses, even though she had to shift her body because her neck was too stiff. The rest of her muscles protested the movement.
Tied to the back of the surrey, Pete shuffled along next to Patty. Only the slightest favoring of his foreleg told of his injury. You can do it, boy, she silently urged the gelding. Tomorrow we’ll arrive in Sweetwater Springs, and Caleb has promised you fine treatment, including apple slices and carrots.
Feeling guilty, she turned to face the front. When was the last time I was able to offer such a treat to my horses? She hadn’t been the only one to suffer from her decision to marry Oswald. How could I have been so foolish—so taken in?
Not for the first time, her thoughts lingered on their courtship. She searched for clues to Oswald’s true personality. In hindsight, she could see them. He’d hidden his real self behind an almost animal magnetism. What had seemed like a wish to take care of her had really been a need to possess her, to control her every thought and move. I held out my wrists for his shackles.
She glanced down at Charlotte, sweetly sleeping in her arms. The horror of what her daughter’s life would have been with such a father—if her baby would even have survived her birth—made her feel sick.
Never again. Maggie knew she could not afford to make such a grave mistake in choosing a husband, because she wouldn’t be the only one to suffer from a poor choice. Watching harm come to her child, perhaps the other children she would bear, as well as her animals, would torture her.
Maggie shifted Charlotte deeper into the crook of her arm, so she could free a hand and touch one hooped earring. If she sold the gold, she could pay to have the vardo fixed. That would take care of a home for them. But she’d need to feed and clothe them, as well as provide food and shelter for the horses, so she had to find work as soon as possible.
Maybe I can take in laundry. Without Oswald’s knowledge, she’d earned a little money by secretly helping Mrs. Rivera, who did the laundry for Morgan’s Crossing. Sometimes the woman had more washing than she could handle, especially during the rush times when Father Fredrick, the Catholic priest, or Reverend Joshua Norton came to town to hold a Sunday service, or the times the Morgans threw a party. Their last shindig had been to celebrate the birth of their latest daughter, Darcy Angelina.
She sighed, thinking about baby Darcy’s pretty clothing, some edged with lace. Although the clothes were handed down from her older sister, Mary May, they were in almost pristine condition compared with the faded garments Maggie had made for Charlotte, even if every stitch was set with love. She’d laundered those tiny pretty dresses and dreamed of her own baby wearing them.
Charlotte and baby Darcy would have grown up to be friends. With another sigh, Maggie thought of the friends she’d made in Morgan’s Crossing and how much she’d miss them.
Frowning, Caleb glanced at her. A wrinkle furrowed between his brows. “Are you in pain? Do you need me to stop?”
She gave him a reassuring smile. “Just thinking.”
He obviously didn’t believe her, for his eyes narrowed, making his handsome features look intimidating. Despite her pain and melancholy thoughts, his attempts to pry more information made her chuckle. “Does that work with other people?”
His expression changed to puzzlement. “What?”
“That narrow-eyed, studying-you-until-you-confess-all-and-do-what-I-say look.”
Caleb laughed. He seemed about to answer, then shook his head and laughed again. “Apparently not with you, Magdalena Petra.”
Maggie shifted in her seat and lifted her chin. With a smile of mock condescension, she agreed. “Not with me.”
Their teasing exchange lifted her spirits, and Maggie realized that if she chose to make a home in Sweetwater Springs, she could make new friends. She’d already developed a deep bond with this man, and maybe her next friend would be the sister he’d spoken of. Or perhaps I can return to live in Morgan’s Crossing. The thought captivated her. How wonderful to have choices!
From under her eyelashes, again she glanced at Caleb’s handsome profile. Yet living in Sweetwater Springs also possesses definite appeal.
CHAPTER FIVE
They plodded toward Sweetwater Springs at a snail’s pace, the top of the surrey blocking the strong morning sunlight from shining into the
ir faces. Caleb had never driven so slowly in his life. If it weren’t for Maggie, whether they were riding in companionable silence or engaging in teasing conversation, he would have gone out of his mind with boredom. Between the bank, the hotel, and the civic concerns and activities he was involved in, he seldom was without mental and physical occupation.
Luckily, he found Maggie’s presence both soothing and stimulating, although he wasn’t sure how she’d managed to make him feel both. Maybe because in the two days he’d known her, she hadn’t once complained, although she certainly had reason to. Even during her labor, her talk of charley horses and stabbing knives held no hint of a whine or self-pity. If his sister had been through a tenth of what Maggie had endured, she would have peppered him with her august opinion and a litany of complaints. He’d long since learned to close his ears to her, while nodding as if listening—something that tended to infuriate Edith when she caught on to his inattention.
Speaking of Edith, should I warn Maggie about my sister? How she can be difficult?
Maybe ease into the topic.
He glanced at her. “Have I mentioned my widowed sister Edith Grayson lives with me?”
“That must be nice,” Maggie said, her tone wistful.
“It has its moments.” A true statement, for there was affection between Caleb and his sister, even if he often had to delve for the feeling. “We grew up in Boston and in some areas of the West. My father was a. . .wanderer.”
“A Gypsy like me,” she said, her eyes teasing.
“Something akin to that. Black Jack was a gambler with cards and business investments that inevitably paid off, adding to the family coffers—although that often upset the townsfolk, making another move imperative.” Even as he said the words, Caleb marveled that he’d just shared something so private.
Maggie listened with wide eyes, her mouth slightly parted.
“Edith married Nathaniel Grayson and settled in Boston—a life that suited her. She was happy in her marriage, in her role in society, with her son, Ben. But her husband’s family wasn’t pleased with his choice of wife and made trouble. They were most particular in regard to their two sons and had already picked out wives for them.”
“Go on. . . .”
He slanted her a look of wry amusement. “Very well.”
“My father’s family is quite distinguished, but he was the black sheep, running away to the West when he was barely more than a boy and marrying the daughter of a schoolmaster. So even with my father’s greater wealth, Edith wasn’t good enough for the Graysons. Our blue blood was tainted.” He said the words lightly, but old pain still stung.
Sometimes, when he was most frustrated with Edith, he tried to remember the circumstances that had changed her from the carefree girl of his youth to the difficult woman she was today. The change had begun in those times they’d lived in Boston, when they’d struggled with the strictures that ruled society, learning they could fit in, but only if they narrowed their behavior to accommodate the standards of polite society—something they’d both learned to do, until that way of life became second nature.
“After Nathaniel’s death, the Graysons didn’t soften toward Edith and Ben. In fact, they blamed her for the illness that led to his demise, implying if he hadn’t married her, he wouldn’t have gotten sick. Boston became too painful for my sister, and she and Ben moved out here to live with me. Unfortunately, Sweetwater Springs doesn’t suit her. Nor does the town offer the type of men who’d persuade her to remarry. We don’t speak of Nathaniel much. I sometimes suspect she mourns him still.”
Maggie’s expression softened with obvious compassion. “How horrible for her!” She shook her head and glanced down at Charlotte. “I can’t imagine treating my child that way. My grandchild, either.” She took a breath. “Although I do envy your sister having a happy marriage. I wish I could grieve Oswald’s death instead of feel only relief.”
Caleb glanced at Maggie, struck by the wisdom in her statement. He doubted Edith ever considered gratitude when she thought about the death of her husband. The words of Alfred Lord Tennyson came to him. ’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
The poet’s words certainly apply to my sister. “Perhaps when you two become further acquainted and the time seems right, you can tell Edith so.”
“Oh, I couldn’t presume. . . .”
Amused, he cocked an eyebrow at her. “Oh, I doubt that, Magdalena Petra. I doubt that very much.”
“Wretch.” She smacked him playfully on the leg.
With his chin, Caleb pointed to the left to a rough-built outpost. “Well, this wretch is about to get you and Charlotte to shelter. And just in time. I don’t like the look of those clouds moving in from the east. I think we’ll have rain soon.”
Maggie lifted her hand to shade her eyes from the sun and gazed at the sky.
“I’m afraid the cabin is about the size of your caravan, but the horses will be comfortable. El Davis, the teamster, built a big enough stable to house his six-mule team.”
“I know Mr. Davis. He seems a kind man. Quiet. Shy. Doesn’t frequent the saloon.”
Caleb glanced at Maggie, curious about her observation. He’d never given Davis much thought, although the man deposited his considerable savings at the bank. “I suppose you’re right. He’s the same in Sweetwater Springs. Not at all what you’d think of a mule-skinner.”
He guided the team, driving to the left into the cleared-out place in front of the cabin. He reined in, set the brake, and tied off the reins. “Don’t even try to move on your own,” he ordered. “I’ll come around to hand you both down.”
“I’m not so foolish,” Maggie chided. “I know I can’t put any weight on my ankle, and I wouldn’t want to risk falling with the baby.”
Caleb hurried to the cabin and pushed open the door. The interior hadn’t changed since he’d left yesterday morning—a cot on each wall with bare mattresses and two sawed-off ends of logs for seating near the fireplace that also could be used as firewood if a blizzard stranded a traveler and the woodpile ran out. An empty crate was nailed to the wall and held a pot and a tomato can. Two spoons sprouted from the rusty tin. With no windows, only the doorway provided light and air, except where both seeped through the places where the chinking in the walls had fallen out.
As was the custom, when he’d left the cabin, Caleb had stacked firewood and kindling neatly in the corner—replacing what he’d used. He’d had the forethought to bring the right length of wood from home, so he wouldn’t have to search for logs and chop them into usable pieces. He quickly built a fire.
Satisfied that everything was in order, he backed out and walked to the surrey, rubbing a hand over each horse’s head as he passed around the front. When he reached Maggie’s side, he slid one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, hefting her to his chest.
She held the baby in the curl between her legs and stomach. “We must be so heavy.”
“Yes,” he admitted with a cheerful grin. “But how often do I have a chance to hold not one but two beauties?”
Maggie chuckled and rolled her eyes.
What has gotten into me? Caleb Livingston, a flatterer. Careful of the footing, Caleb carried her to the cabin, turning sideways so they could fit through the door. He deposited mother and child on the nearest bed.
She glanced around. “This is cozy.”
“An improvement from yesterday.” He moved to the door. “I’ll start unloading.” He walked to the surrey and began with the bedding, so Maggie could lie down if she wanted, for she should probably sleep when the baby did. He glanced at the graying sky. For that matter, with no activities to do all day, he could use a nap, too.
After everything was out of the surrey, he tended to the horses, watering and currying them, rubbing liniment on Pete’s injury. He staked out both teams to graze for a while before he moved them into the stable. When Caleb was finished, he washed up in the small stream, then stood and stared at the
bubbling water thinking.
He walked into the cabin to see Maggie nursing the baby. “I think you should soak your sprained ankle in the cold water. Maybe, ah. . .clean yourself a bit. I think we’ll have an hour or so before the storm hits.”
“That sounds heavenly. But what about Charlotte?”
He glanced at the baby. “I’ll watch her for you.”
Maggie gave him a skeptical look.
“Why Charlotte and I, we’re ole friends,” he drawled. “We spent the early morning together before you woke up.”
“You did? I mean, I know you had her, but I thought you’d taken her up just the moment I awoke.”
“Nope.” Even as he spoke, Caleb marveled at how he sounded. He couldn’t ever recall using a Western drawl. Does that mean Maggie is a good influence on me or a bad one? He knew what his Eastern relatives would believe. That thought was enough to banish the drawl for proper clipped Bostonian speech. He jerked his head toward the door. “I’ll be outside. Call me when you’re ready.”
“I will after I change Charlotte. I’m sure you don’t want to cope with a wet diaper.”
Fist to chest, he struck a mock heroic pose. “Madame, I am here to attend to your every need, including those of your delightful daughter.”
Maggie giggled and waved him off. “Be gone with you.”
Once outside, Caleb wandered to the stream, searching for the best place for Maggie’s ablutions. In front of a tangle of budding bushes, he found the perfect spot—with a flat stone on the bank where she could sit and dangle her feet in the babbling water, which formed a tiny pool surrounded by slimed green rocks. She could also bend to wet a cloth to clean her face and body.
Mystic Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series Book 6) Page 6