Mystic Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series Book 6)

by Debra Holland

  The bell in the steeple began to toll.

  Reverend Joshua gestured for them to take their seats and moved away to confer with his father.

  With a tilt of her head at the pew, Edith glanced in question at Caleb.

  He nodded in a gesture for her to make space for him next to Maggie.

  She lifted an eyebrow, but obliged him and moved to the right, so he could slide in between the two women.

  Ben hurried up to join them.

  Reverend Joshua took a seat next to the boy, with Delia beside him, then Micah. Andre brought up the end near the aisle. All of them together were a snug fit, but no one seemed to mind their close proximity.

  As Caleb sat next to Maggie, he realized that his choice to sit beside her might stir up some gossip. But hopefully when people later saw her need for help with walking, they’d dismiss their earlier speculations.

  When “O for a Thousand Tongues to Sing” caused ragged voices to lift in praise, Charlotte startled awake.

  Maggie rocked her.

  Singing by rote, Caleb held out a finger and touched the infant’s palm.

  The baby grasped his finger and turned her head toward him.

  The elder Reverend Norton stood, moved to face the congregation, and began the service. “In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” He made the sign of the cross in the air.

  Unlike his son, who wore new tailored suits, the minister wore shabby black, with a yellowing white shirt under his waistcoat. Word was the man refused to have his son purchase anything new for him except a coat, claiming not to need finer adornment.

  As with the hymn, Caleb knew the order of responses by heart, saying them automatically while concentrating on playing with Charlotte by wiggling his finger, a game he’d discovered the baby seemed to enjoy, for she stayed attentive and held on all the while.

  Maggie shot him a quick smile before turning to face the minister.

  With the service flowing over him like a slow river, Caleb watched the baby and made plans for the next week. Although he knew Peter Rockwell was more than capable of organizing the reception, Caleb had been lax in overseeing his small empire, instead concentrating on Maggie and Charlotte as well as dealing with the bank business, particularly several foreclosures.

  In regard to taking back properties, the worst part of being the only banker in a small town was interacting with his clients—seeing them around town, mingling with them at social gatherings, and worshiping with them on Sundays. A foreclosure wasn’t just a commercial transaction that ultimately usually ended up profiting him. No. He knew the faces of the family members who’d be impacted. Consequently, Caleb was far more lenient when people fell behind than he should have been. His Boston banking relatives would severely criticize him if they knew.

  I’ll make sure to go to the hotel this week. He slid a sideways glance at Maggie, who was listening attentively to Reverend Norton’s sermon. As soon as she can walk freely, I’ll take her for a visit.

  As he sat there between Edith and Maggie, Caleb became aware of the fragrance of rose soap wafting from both women. I’ll have to buy Maggie her own soap. He sorted through various scents, considering which would best suit her. Lavender? Gardenia? Jasmine? Lily of the valley? Lilac? Honeysuckle? He discarded each one.

  Patchouli? That’s a possibility. While he thought the perfume he smelled on most women too overwhelming and tended to move out of their vicinity as soon as possible, he figured the soap wouldn’t be as strong, and the minty fragrance from the Orient seemed to fit Maggie.

  I’ll buy her a bar and see if she likes it.

  Reverend Norton brought the sermon to a close. With a cringe of guilt, Caleb realized he hadn’t heard a word. Not a good start for my role as a godfather. I sure hope in the future Charlotte doesn’t ask me about the sermon on her baptismal day.

  Reverend Norton’s warm smile softened his austere face. His vivid blue eyes glinted when he looked at Maggie and the baby. “A christening is always a joyous occasion, as a baby begins a divine journey that will last a lifetime. Today, we are blessed to have Charlotte Victoria Baxter who will formally become part of the family of Christ.” His gaze moved around the congregation. “Our family. This precious soul survived an accident that could have taken her life and that of her mother. Unfortunately, her father passed away.”

  People murmured.

  “Most of the time, Reverend Joshua and I never debate about which of us will have certain duties. Our responsibilities seem to naturally fall into particular areas, such as his ministry to the smaller towns outlying Sweetwater Springs. But two days ago, my son and I did have a back-and-forth discussion about who would perform this baptism.”

  Reverend Joshua brought his hand to his mouth, as if covering up a laugh.

  Reverend Norton’s eyes twinkled. “I, as your senior minister, naturally have seniority. But Reverend Joshua pointed out that he was the one who married Charlotte’s parents and counseled Mrs. Baxter during her recent loss. Therefore, I have reluctantly stepped aside in this case.” He held up a hand. “But I reserve the right to give her a blessing. So Charlotte Victoria will be doubly blessed.”

  The congregation made sounds of approval.

  Reverend Joshua stood and walked to join his father. “Will the godparents come forth with the baby?”

  Maggie handed Charlotte to Caleb.

  He wanted to keep the infant, but knew traditionally the godmother held the child during the ritual, so with a smile at the baby, he passed her to his sister.

  Edith settled Charlotte into the crook of her arm.

  Caleb held her elbow to help his sister to stand, and together, they moved toward the altar. Unlike with the rest of the service, this time he paid close attention to the words that made him a godfather. He’d heard them many times before, but had never thought of the promises in regards to himself. Now he realized the weight of the solemn vows he and Edith were making to Charlotte. Not only were they supposed to nurture and guide her spiritual welfare, but also if something happened to Maggie, they would have the duty to raise her, for there were no other relatives to do so.

  The words of the ritual bound this baby to God and to them. Spiritually, they’d just become family.

  Caleb looked down at Charlotte. You’re mine.

  Leaning on Caleb’s arm, Maggie walked down the aisle behind Edith, who carried the baby. They couldn’t move more than a few inches before someone would stop and admire Charlotte or be introduced to Maggie, often making a statement of how lucky she was to be rescued by Caleb. If only they knew how much.

  Once outside, Caleb helped her down the steps and a few feet into the yard. He looked down at her. “Will you be all right to stand here while I fetch the surrey?”

  Although Maggie’s ankle ached, she didn’t want to admit the truth. “I’ll be fine.” She released his arm and made a small shooing motion. “Be off with you,” she teased.

  Edith gave her a sharp look. “I still can’t get over you joking with my brother.” She cast Caleb a playful smile of her own. “He’s always too starched up to tease. Although when we were children. . . .”

  Caleb reached up and playfully pulled on his collar. “I’ll speak to Mrs. Graves about using less starch when she irons my shirts.”

  A small man approached, a battered felt hat grasped in both hands. Although his face and hands appeared clean, his clothes looked like they could do with a good scrubbing. Under a ragged brown coat, the front of his once-white shirt sported a colorful green-plaid patch. “Mr. Livingston.” The man twisted his hat. “I need to talk to you about the bathhouse.”

  Caleb frowned. “We have already had several such talks, Mr. Wood, to no avail.”

  “Please, sir.” He grabbed Caleb’s sleeve. “I must speak with you.”

  Up close, Maggie could smell alcohol on the man’s breath. The reminder of Oswald’s drinking made her stomach curdle.

  Caleb twisted his arm out of reach. “This is not the
time to talk business,” he said, his voice clipped. “Now move along.”

  “But, I need an extension on my loan, Mr. Livingston,” Mr. Wood whined.

  “You’ve had three generous extensions already, Mr. Wood, as well as extensive advice about what you need to do to make the place successful.” Caleb gave the man’s attire a pointed up-and-down glare. “Including laying off the alcohol and availing yourself of your own facilities. Now, be off with you.” His jaw clenched with obvious anger, he turned his back on the man.

  A look of pain flashed in the man’s eyes, and his shoulders slumped.

  Maggie squeezed Caleb’s arm.

  He glanced down at her, one eyebrow raised.

  She sent him a glance of appeal.

  With his free hand, Caleb rubbed his forehead. “Oh, very well.” He partly turned. “Wood, you have until the day after Reverend Joshua’s wedding. If you can’t make money from that event. . . .”

  “Thank you, sir.” The man continued to bend his hat.

  Maggie wondered why Mr. Wood sounded resigned rather than relieved. “What was that about?” she asked as Caleb escorted her away.

  “A travesty of a good business is what that was about.” He almost growled the words. “Ever since his wife died last year, the place has gone downhill. The man cannot stay out of the saloon and keep his place spick-and-span like a bathhouse should be. What’s the use of patronizing a place if you don’t emerge cleaner than when you went in?”

  “Spick-and-span?” murmured Maggie who had never heard the term.

  “From Plutarch, I believe, although we’d have to check with the Walkers to be sure.” The angry look left his face. “Either Gideon or Darcy, if not both, are bound to know.” He turned to the Walkers, who came along behind them, both holding hands with their daughter. “I need your expertise.”

  Mr. Walker cocked an eyebrow, his gray eyes amused, but he didn’t question them.

  Up close, Maggie could see he was far younger than his pale hair made him appear, perhaps in his late thirties.

  “Does the phrase spick-and-span come from Plutarch?” Caleb asked Mr. Walker.

  “They were all in goodly gilt armour,” the man quoted, “and brave purple cassocks among them, spicke, and spanne new.”

  “Thomas North translation,” added Mrs. Walker, when it seemed her husband wouldn’t volunteer anything more.

  Caleb laughed and dropped a hand on Mr. Walker’s shoulder. “I knew you two wouldn’t fail me.”

  “We can lend the book to you, if you lack it in your own library, Mr. Livingston,” Mrs. Walker commented with a sly smile, although her intelligent gaze on them was friendly. “Or, you can borrow my Latin version.”

  Caleb lowered his arm. “Perhaps I will take you up on the Latin edition. While Mrs. Gordon has given Ben some basic Latin, he’ll need to know much more for when he goes away to school. Mine is a bit rusty.”

  Edith inclined her head in approval. “We’d be most appreciative.”

  “Do let me know if you need help,” Mrs. Walker said to Caleb in a tone of cool amusement.

  Caleb shook his head. “I should have known you’d be an expert in that tongue, Mrs. Walker. Probably French and Spanish and Italian, as well. How about German?”

  Mrs. Walker laughed. “I don’t do so well with German. I’m far more fluent with the Romance languages.

  Hearing them banter about foreign languages made Maggie feel ignorant. Her schooling hadn’t included such study, and she doubted Romany would count. But she did know about bathhouses. There was one in Morgan’s Crossing, containing a ladies’ room with two bathtubs and a gentlemen’s section that held four in one room and another four in a second. Before the Morgan’s party, when everyone in town wanted to avail themselves of the place, she’d traded work for a bath for her and Oswald, helping the proprietor clean out the tubs between the miners’ eager usage.

  With a sudden burst of enthusiasm, Maggie realized this opportunity might be the answer to her prayers for employment to support herself and her daughter. I can take over the bathhouse and run the place!

  Maggie almost blurted out the request, but she caught herself. This isn’t the right time. He’s already angry about the bathhouse. She glanced at Caleb, immersed in a language discussion with the Walkers.

  I need to figure out a business proposition and present my plan when he’s alone, and I think he’ll be most open to hearing it.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The dinner to celebrate Charlotte’s christening was an overwhelming experience for Maggie, and she could only feel grateful for the abbreviated guest list, which still felt like far too many people for her comfort. Although everyone was kind and friendly, she wasn’t used to being the center of attention, especially in such elevated society, and she felt awkward and out of place.

  If I can only get through this dinner without embarrassing Caleb and Edith.

  Seventeen people, not including Maggie, sat in the dining room around a long table that was bigger than the interior of her vardo. Caleb presided at the head and had seated her to his right.

  Just being in the dining room impressed her. Aside from the first day when Caleb had carried her upstairs to the bedroom, and today, when he’d carried her downstairs for church, she hadn’t seen much of his house or been in any position to notice more than vague details on her journeys to and fro in his arms.

  A snowy damask tablecloth covered the surface of the table, laden with silver place settings and cut-glass goblets. Two silver candelabras flanked a centerpiece of crocuses and greenery in a silver bowl, and saltcellars were placed between every two settings. Maggie had never seen so much silverware, and she wasn’t sure why each person needed three forks of varying sizes and two knives.

  The seven children ate in the kitchen, except for two babies sleeping in cradles near their parents. The Camerons had brought their cradle for Craig, and Caleb had carried Charlotte’s down and set it on the floor between them.

  Maggie checked on Charlotte. Her daughter still wore the christening gown and bonnet and looked like a sleeping angel. A wave of gratitude surged through her. She glanced at Caleb and saw him gaze at the baby, a tender look on his face. Her throat tightened. To avoid focusing on him, she looked away, deliberately taking note of those around the table who’d come to celebrate Charlotte’s christening.

  Sheriff K.C. Granger sat across the table from her. Although Maggie knew the sheriff wore men’s clothes, the sight of the woman in a mannish dark suit aroused Maggie’s curiosity. The sheriff’s dark hair was braided in a long plait down her back, and her watchful gray eyes studied those around her.

  Even in Morgan’s Crossing, Maggie had heard of K.C. Granger: After saving a young girl, the sheriff had arrived in town with a dangerous criminal in custody; the competent manner with which she’d handled the recent thieving of the Indians went a long way toward easing hostilities; and anyone who bet against her in a poker game because she was a woman inevitably ended up pushing a pile of chips across the table. The sheriff was also said to donate much of her winnings to the church.

  The couple she’d seen on the way to church sat next to Miss Granger. Ant Gordon towered over his petite wife Harriet on the other side of him.

  To the left of schoolteacher Mrs. Gordon sat the Salters, who appeared as uncomfortable in the elevated social situation as Maggie did. She’d met Amos Salter in Morgan’s Crossing when he’d worked as a miner before abruptly leaving before Christmas. Their fine apparel—Amos in a suit and Mariah in a rose silk dress—contrasted with their careworn faces and work-roughened hands.

  From time to time, Mariah made quiet conversation with Peter Rockwell, who was seated next to her. The pleasant-faced man with the honey-brown eyes was Mariah’s boss at the hotel.

  Mary and Reverend Norton were on the other side of the Salters. The couple had become familiar and beloved to Maggie.

  From her place at the foot of the table, Edith was the image of the perfect hostess, graciously
guiding the conversation, which must have been heavy going, considering she was situated between the silent Salters and Gideon Walker, who seemed content to let his wife Darcy, on his left, do the talking for both of them.

  Next on Maggie’s side of the table came the Camerons, and then the Bellaires and Reverend Joshua who sat next to Maggie. The two men were both solicitous of her comfort, helping her to relax, although she kept a sharp eye on everyone’s manners, knowing she’d need to figure out which of her many forks and knives to use.

  The conversation lagged as Mrs. Graves and Jed, both wearing their Sunday best, carried in heaping platters until the center of the table disappeared under a feast of food—golden fried chicken, roast beef with all the trimmings, mashed potatoes and gravy, baked sweet potatoes, corn, green beans with pork rinds, glazed carrots, applesauce, sweet and sour pickles, and several types of rolls with butter. Tantalizing smells wafted into the air—no doubt setting stomachs to grumbling.

  Jed set a pitcher of water and another of cold tea at each corner of the table. The desserts were arrayed on the sideboard—pies with decorative crusts of leaves and flowers, several towering cakes, custard, a fruit trifle, and a dish of sugarplums from the sweet shop.

  The food alone was intimidating. Maggie reflected on the plain fare she’d been able to afford after Oswald had purchased his whiskey—beans, corn, flour, potatoes, eggs, and salt pork.

  From where she sat, Maggie had a view of the fireplace on the other side of the room, the coal fire sending warmth around the diners. She couldn’t help but compare the details of this event to her former simple life.

  The mantelpiece and surrounding shelves held decorative plates and other do-dads. A painting of a couple, the woman wearing a wide dress over a hoopskirt, hung over the mantle and reminded her of happy memories from her childhood.

  As a girl, Maggie had loved playing dress-up with the old-fashioned gowns, stored in a trunk in the attic of her grandparents’ home. One afternoon, her grandmother had taken out a hoopskirt from a trunk and demonstrated how to wear one, strapping the contraption around her waist. Then Grandma had donned her pink silk wedding dress, draping the skirt over the hoop and leaving the back unbuttoned, for she no longer had the tiny waist of a bride.