Mystic Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series Book 6)

by Debra Holland

  Maggie lowered her arms. One of her hands clutched a fold of her skirt.

  “I must warn you that neither Mrs. Graves, who is my housekeeper, or my sister are very. . .hospitable women. Please don’t let their disapproving attitude concern you. They are that way with everyone.” He leaned closer, as if to tell her a secret. “They are the price I pay for a well-run home.”

  Maggie gave him a slight nod and held out her arms for the baby.

  Caleb handed Charlotte back to her and firmly cupped Maggie’s elbow to brace her, for he was convinced she wouldn’t be able to walk.

  Sure enough, she took one step and hopped, wincing.

  Without waiting for an argument, he swung her into his arms and carried her and the baby toward the side door. He figured if they went through the kitchen, Mrs. Graves could feed them right away. He was famished, and he was sure Maggie was, too.

  Before he could figure out how to turn the knob with his hands full, the door opened.

  Mrs. Graves stepped out of his way, and he carried the Baxters inside.

  Maggie looked around with obvious interest.

  The kitchen was redolent with the smell of stew and gingerbread. His stomach grumbled. He gave a quick glance around the familiar room. Everything was in its proper place. Ruffled blue-checked curtains framed the back and side windows. A rectangular white table in the middle took up much of the space. A rocking chair sat next to the big black stove.

  He knew the pie safe and icebox were stocked with food. White cabinets with gray counters lined the walls and a butler’s pantry. But somehow the room seemed different. A minute passed before Caleb realized that he was the one who’d changed and had a new appreciation for the comforts of home.

  Mrs. Graves pulled a pan of gingerbread from the oven. “Mr. Livingston, we did not expect you back for several more days.” She wore an apron over a gray dress. Her hair was tightly pulled into the usual knob at the back of her head.

  “There was an accident to Mrs. Baxter’s vehicle. She was injured, and I returned with her.” He moved toward the rocking chair.

  Mrs. Graves nodded, her customary sour expression not changing to one of welcome.

  Edith, wearing a rose-colored shirtwaist and skirt, sailed into the room. “I heard the horses.” She stopped and gaped at him holding Maggie. “Well, I never!”

  Caleb couldn’t help grinning at Edith. “Never is right. Been feeling that way a time or two myself lately.” He set Maggie into the rocker. Once he’d assured himself she was settled, he turned back to his sister. “Edith, this is Magdalena—Mrs. Oswald Baxter—and her daughter, Charlotte. Maggie, my sister, Edith—Mrs. Nathaniel Grayson.”

  Maggie smiled a greeting.

  His sister’s brows pulled together in a familiar critical look, as if assessing Maggie’s crumpled and dirty attire, which hadn’t been fashionable in the first place.

  Edith gave a cold nod in return.

  Caleb frowned a warning, hoping that would be enough to keep her quiet. He couldn’t always control his sister if she insisted on venting her opinion. Maybe if I speak fast enough first. “Edith, Mrs. Baxter has had an exceedingly trying time. An accident, which I caused—”

  “No, he is mistaken, Mrs. Grayson,” Maggie interjected. “My husband was driving entirely too erratically. Our crash, and Oswald’s death, were entirely his own fault. Mr. Livingston is not to blame.”

  “We will not argue.” Caleb shot a quelling glare at his sister just in case she pestered them for more information. “I’ve sent for Dr. Cameron to examine Mrs. Baxter and Charlotte.”

  Edith’s expression pinched.

  “I’m sure if Dr. Cameron gives Mrs. Baxter permission, she will want a bath.” He glanced at Mrs. Graves. “If you would prepare the guest room. . . .”

  Her vinegary expression conveyed her disapproval. “I will see to it.”

  The ring of the front doorbell stopped their conversation.

  Mrs. Graves hurried away.

  Through the doorway from the kitchen, he heard the sounds of the doctor talking to Mrs. Graves in his Scottish brogue. They seemed to be discussing the weather. The monotone reply of his housekeeper was in keeping with her character.

  Caleb shook his head. The only reason he kept the woman on was because she was such an excellent cook, and he’d be hard-pressed to replace her.

  Redheaded Angus Cameron moved into the kitchen. He was dressed in a black frock coat with sagging pockets and carried a battered leather doctor’s satchel in one hand and what looked to be a scale in the other. He glanced from Maggie to Caleb, a twinkle in his eyes. “Oh, ho, what have we here?” he asked in a jovial Scottish brogue. “Yer home too soon and with such fair company besides.”

  In spite of his annoyance with his sister and his concern for Maggie, Caleb couldn’t help but chuckle.

  Only Angus Cameron could get away with such levity. The popular doctor had never displayed the pompous composure common to his colleagues. His easy manner, good humor, and pockets full of candy for the children made him popular with most of his patients. Only those of Edith’s critical ilk complained of the man’s lack of professional dignity.

  Dr. Cameron’s swift glance from Caleb to Edith took in his sister’s stiff-necked huff. He nodded an acknowledgment before shifting his attention to Maggie and giving her a wink.

  Caleb followed the man’s gaze.

  The anxious expression on Maggie’s face vanished, and she responded with a wide, dimpled grin.

  Jealousy stabbed Caleb. Maggie had never smiled like that at him. He hadn’t known she had dimples. Granted, she hasn’t had much to smile about. He looked at his sister. “If you will give Mrs. Baxter some privacy.”

  Edith’s chest swelled in apparent indignation. “Entirely unseemly, Caleb. Therefore, I must remain, and you must go.”

  “There are some things I want to say to the doctor.” Caleb shot Edith a commanding look and jerked his head to hurry her out of the kitchen.

  Dr. Cameron didn’t miss the by-play. But he remained silent until Edith left the room, and the door closed behind them.

  Caleb looked at the scale. “What’s that for?”

  “To weigh the wee one.” Dr. Cameron touched the hook on the bottom of the scale. “I’ll wrap her in a blanket with a strong knot. I’ll attach the hook in the knot. She’ll be quite safe, I promise.”

  With a quirk of his eyebrow, he glanced from Maggie to the baby. “Whom shall I examine first?”

  “My baby,” Maggie said.

  “Charlotte is perfectly fine, Mrs. Baxter,” Caleb chided. “You, however, are not. Allow the doctor to see to you first.” He leaned over her. “Let me take Charlotte.”

  She handed the infant to Caleb.

  Dr. Cameron watched this transfer and crooked an eyebrow. “Uncommon turn of events,” he said, his brogue thickening.

  Caleb shot the doctor a warning look.

  Dr. Cameron’s mouth turned down in an apparent effort to suppress laughter, but he couldn’t hide the gleam of amusement in his eyes. “Perhaps one of you should fill me in on what has occurred, starting with introductions.”

  After Dr. Cameron gave permission for her to bathe, Maggie stepped into the white-tiled bathtub that was large enough for her to stretch out in—bigger even than the claw-footed tub in the bathroom of the Morgans’ house. She groaned at the luxurious feel of the hot water, scented with Edith’s rose soap. She’d never bathed in anything but a small, wooden half barrel—unless her family took advantage of the hot springs that riddled the area and the rivers and lakes in the summer.

  The room, clad in white beadboard, awed her with its toilet, sink and mirror, and snowy cabinets; the small, white octagonal tiles covering the floor; the coiled radiator sending pleasant warmth into the room, and the rose-patterned rug lying in front of the tub. Immersing her stiff and sore body felt like the most wonderful luxury imaginable. If part of her mind didn’t linger with concern on her baby, she’d have gladly soaked until the water
cooled and her skin shriveled like a prune.

  Maggie couldn’t imagine a life where you could take a hot soak anytime you wanted. In this house, Saturday night baths in the winter wouldn’t be a grit-your-teeth chore where, even though the tub was close to the stove, goose bumps popped out on the body parts facing away from the fire. More than the huge space and the fancy furnishings, this bathtub was the best part of Caleb’s home.

  I want a bathing room like this in my house. The longing surprised her, for to wish for such extravagance was so unlike her. No, she scolded. You want the vardo fixed and livable again. She touched her earrings, praying that they’d fetch enough to repair her home.

  She allowed herself a few minutes to relax and enjoy the warmth seeping into her sore muscles before she reached for the soap. The bar was obviously unused—smooth, white, and perfectly shaped. When she brought the soap to her nose, she inhaled the heavenly scent of roses and some kind of sweet spice.

  Edith smells like this.

  The woman had shown Maggie how to work the toilet, sink, and bathtub, her disapproval evident from her stiff posture and stilted tone. She’d also brought one of her own nightgowns and dressing gowns for Maggie to wear after her bath—both made of creamy pink flannel with soft lace around the neck and wrists.

  Maggie picked up a thick square of terry cloth that matched the towels, with a curly L on the front. Although reluctant to deface the surface of the soap, she ducked the bar and the washcloth into the water and scrubbed herself from face to toes. Then she closed her eyes, slid all the way under to wet her hair, soaped the long strands, and ducked under again. She finished by rinsing with clean water from the faucet. Her hand hovered over the drain plug. Should I leave the water for Caleb?

  Then she realized he wouldn’t want to smell like flowers and spice, and the hot water was so plentiful that there was no need to share. With a shake of her head at the realization, she pulled the plug. Fascinated, she watched the water gurgle down the drain.

  With her hand on each side of the tub, Maggie stood, muscles protesting the movement, although not as badly as before the soak. Even though she tried to keep her weight on her left foot, the surface was slippery, forcing her to shift for balance. A stab of pain shot through her ankle. She bit her lip to keep from crying out and took some quick breaths until the agony eased.

  She twisted her long rope of hair to wring out as much water as possible before grabbing up a thick towel and drying herself. She marveled at how the tiny loops of the material easily absorbed water. When she wrapped the towel around her body, the length enveloped her from the top of her breasts to her calves.

  There was no way she could just step out of the tub, so Maggie sat on the edge and shifted her legs over one at a time. Her feet rested on the rug. She paused for a minute, bracing herself to stand. As she pushed up, the rug provided a secure purchase for her feet, and she was able to keep most of her weight on her good leg. But still, the effort hurt.

  Maggie hated being in pain, hated that her injured ankle made her dependent on Caleb. How long before I can walk? Dr. Cameron had prescribed five days of bed rest for her body to recover from her injuries and childbirth and another five of careful movement and continuing repose. The amount of time seemed endless. She resisted the idea of being beholden.

  She donned Edith’s flannel nightgown. The matching quilted dressing gown went on next. Satin ribbons along the bodice tied the front securely. Both garments were too long, the hems pooling on the floor.

  Using the towel, Maggie rubbed her hair as dry as possible and then finger-combed out the snarls, wishing she’d brought along her brush. The thought made her heart ache. The loss of a brush was small compared with the destruction of the vardo, and Caleb had promised to send Jed to pack up the remainder of her possessions.

  I’ll have to borrow Caleb’s comb again. She sighed, wishing for the wayfarer’s cabin where it had seemed simple to share their scarce food and possessions. Already she missed the privacy and intimacy. . . .

  With one hand, Maggie gathered up the extra material of her garments, and with the other, she gripped the edge of the sink to brace herself. She hopped to the door and cracked it open, hoping to see Caleb and avoid Edith. The less I have to deal with that woman, the better.

  Through the opening in the doorway, she spotted Caleb holding Charlotte. He stood in front of his sister, and she could see his face.

  Edith shifted to the side, giving Maggie a clear view of her expression.

  The woman possessed the same striking good looks as her brother, characterized by large, dark eyes and patrician features. Her skin was fine and pale, with only a few lines around her eyes and the corners of her mouth, now turned down in disapproval.

  Edith narrowed her eyes at her brother in obvious suspicion. “Is Mrs. Baxter a new acquaintance? You didn’t know her before?”

  Caleb apparently caught her drift. Obvious anger made his eyes narrow. His icy gaze sent a chill down Maggie’s spine.

  “You malign Mrs. Baxter’s character, Edith,” Caleb said coldly. “And mine.”

  Maggie didn’t know whether she should confront the woman, grab her baby, and leave, or step back and shut the door, pretending she hadn’t heard this conversation.

  Caleb gazed down at the baby. “It is impossible to explain, even to myself. Charlotte is not my daughter by blood, but my feelings for this child are familial, indeed.”

  With a bittersweet feeling of sadness, Maggie wished Charlotte had a father who loved her in the way this man did.

  Edith fisted her hands on her hips. “What has come over you?” she snapped. “You never held Ben when he was a baby.”

  “That was sixteen years ago, Edith. Allow me to have acquired some life experience since then.” He dropped a kiss on Charlotte’s forehead. “I wish I had held Ben when he was a baby. I didn’t know what I was missing.”

  “I think that woman—” Edith’s voice trembled “—has bewitched you.”

  “Perhaps she has. Or her daughter is magic. Or both.”

  Was that amusement in his tone?

  “But I’ll tell you this. I saved Charlotte’s life, but somehow. . . .” Here, he paused, his voice dropping low. “Edith, somehow she has changed mine.”

  Edith opened her mouth, as if to scoff. She frowned and glanced at the baby.

  Thinking what? Maggie wondered. It was true her baby had marked him. She had glimpsed genuine warmth when Caleb held or even looked at Charlotte.

  Caleb gave his sister a beseeching look. “Can I call upon you to support Mrs. Baxter during her convalescence?”

  “For the convalescence, certainly. But, you can’t allow an unknown lower-class woman and baby to stay here for longer.”

  “Would it have made a difference if she were fashionably dressed, Edith? You were quite eager to accept the Bellaires.”

  “Yes, and look what came of that.” Edith’s words dripped disdain.

  “This is my house.” Caleb obviously strove to keep his tone reasonable. “I will do whatever I wish.”

  “Now you’re being autocratic. Being selfish, foisting strangers upon me. You have no idea who this woman is, and what she will demand of us?”

  “I do have an idea of who she is, and I think if you give her a chance, you will like her.”

  The woman pressed her lips together in a stubborn line.

  “Have you no compassion, Edith? No Christian charity?”

  “Of course I do. Did we not have Andre Bellaire and his daughter staying with us for months? I’ve learned not to be so trusting of strangers, taking them into your home so they can betray you.”

  Maggie couldn’t help a sudden sharp intake of breath.

  Both of them turned in her direction.

  Edith’s eyes narrowed in censure. “Mrs. Baxter, you are in dishabille. That is not appropriate before my brother.”

  Maggie didn’t know what dishabille meant, but the woman’s condemning up-and-down glance at the dressing gown was enough
of an answer.

  “Edith!” Caleb reprimanded. “Mrs. Baxter is our guest. She has been through a horribly painful experience. My seeing Mrs. Baxter in a dressing gown will do no harm. Especially if you don’t go squawking the news all over town.”

  “Do not accuse me of gossip, brother,” Edith snapped, matching Caleb’s tone. “I have no idea of Mrs. Baxter’s circumstances, and I’m giving her a hint about what is and isn’t done.”

  “More than a hint—a harangue.”

  A wave of fatigue washed over Maggie, and she drooped. Oh, for my dear vardo. I could crawl into bed with Charlotte and close out the world. Suddenly the guest room seemed too far away to hobble to with her lame ankle.

  “Hold the baby.” Caleb thrust Charlotte at his sister.

  Eyebrows high, Edith took the infant.

  Maggie was relieved to see the woman didn’t immediately drop her daughter on the floor, and she supported the baby’s head. Well, Edith should know what to do, for she’s a mother.

  Caleb took swift strides to Maggie’s side and scooped her into his arms. “We have the guest room ready for you, and I brought Ben’s cradle down from the attic for Charlotte. Do you think she’ll mind blue bedding?”

  “How kind you are,” Maggie murmured in a low voice so Edith couldn’t hear. In the vardo, Charlotte would have slept with her for there wasn’t room for a cradle. Suddenly tired, she wished she could lay her head on his shoulder like she had a few times before when in his arms. We can no longer indulge in such intimacies. The thought made her heart pang, but she refused to question why.

  Caleb carried her into the bedroom, dominated by a spindle four-poster bed. A puffy blue satin cover was pulled back to expose crisp white sheets.

  She looked around. Blue velvet curtains were drawn back from a window to let in light. A cradle sat next to a blue velvet wing chair. A washstand ensured she wouldn’t have to use the bathing room to keep her hands and face clean. Her single dress would be lost in the big wardrobe, and the bureau was another unnecessary piece of furniture, for she had nothing to put inside. A small table held what looked like a game.