Montana Promise (McCutcheon Family Series Book 10)

by Caroline Fyffe

  At the sound of boots coming quietly up the stairs, Colton rushed to the door. Without even asking who was out there, and before Smokey could stop him, he threw it open and stepped out—right in front of Jed Kasterlee, the hotel clerk.

  “Some reason you’re awake at two o’clock in the morning, son?” the man asked tersely. “I’d think, with all the trouble your family has already, they’d keep you on a shorter leash.”

  Smokey stepped past Colton, meeting the man in the hall.

  Kasterlee lifted his lantern, making the lamplight flicker.

  “Ain’t none of yer business, Kasterlee,” he said. “What’re you doin’ wandering the halls this time of night, yourself? The question works both ways.”

  Smokey’s firm palm on his shoulder felt good. Colton was thankful for his friend.

  “What’s going on?” Faith called from inside the room. “Colton, are you out there?”

  “Ain’t nothing, Faith,” Smokey replied then directed a glare at the clerk. “Get inside, Colton,” he bit out.

  Colton knew better than disobey.

  “You best watch out for the boy,” Kasterlee said. “Keep the doors locked. Once I turn in, I don’t hear nothin’, so to speak. I won’t be responsible if any harm should come to him or anyone else.”

  Smokey didn’t seem intimidated in the least.

  “Is that some sort of lame threat?” Smokey asked. “Because I’ve seen women who looked more dangerous than you, my friend. You’re the one who best watch yourself.” He pulled back his work-hardened shoulders.

  Kasterlee eyed him. “Is that a threat?”

  Smokey laughed then glanced back at Colton, who now watched from inside the room through the open door. “Naw. It’s a promise. One I look forward to keeping. I don’t take kindly to full-grown men scaring a boy.”

  Colton bristled. Boy. That word again. Boy or kid. Well, kids could get things done just as well as some grown fella. He could and he would, maybe even better. He’d show them all.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Getting out of bed the next morning was torture. With the little sleep she’d managed, Ashley’s eyes felt bloodshot and her head woozy. Still, noises and aromas from the kitchen taunted her. Mother was up, working, putting kettles on to boil. Without further ado, Ashley pulled herself from her soft mattress, briskly washed her face, brushed her teeth, and absentmindedly ran a brush through her thick hair, not bothering to do more than plait the mass down her back. Dressed in her overalls and apron, Ashley laced her battered black boots and tromped into the kitchen.

  “Good morning, lazybones,” her mother greeted with a smile. “Ready for your breakfast?”

  She was and then some. She nodded.

  “Good. Everything is ready and warming in the oven. We have a good day’s work ahead of us, and I didn’t want to waste any time with extra cooking. I made yours and Blanche’s when I made mine.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me?” Shame filled her at her mother’s weary countenance. “I could’ve made breakfast.”

  “I didn’t have the heart. I peeked in and you were sound asleep. A summer grippe is going around, and I don’t want you to get sick. The next week of harvesting is crucial. Last year when we lost half our apples to frost was hard enough. I don’t want to suffer through another winter with so little.”

  “I’m teaching now, Mama. Things will never get that bad again.”

  Her mother turned to face her, her eyes serious. “I hope you’re right, God willing.” Her mother went to the oven and, with a thick folded cloth, withdrew a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast.

  The two strips of bacon stacked over the eggs smelled delicious. Blanche’s staying with them was a bit of a hardship, but they didn’t mind. As long as they didn’t run out of supplies, they were both happy to share.

  Ashley ate everything on her plate, knowing hours would pass before she’d get another chance. The day would be exhausting. The early summer apples that had ripened over the week needed to be harvested quickly. Leaving them on the branches for long risked losing them to the birds and squirrels. “There, I’m finished.” She stood, went to the sink, and was just putting down her plate when a knock sounded on the front door. She looked at her mother. “I’m not expecting anyone. Are you?”

  Her mother’s posture tensed. “No, I’m not.”

  “It’s eight in the morning. Who would come calling this early? Maybe Sheriff Jones or his deputy have more questions for Blanche.” She hurried into the living room, trying to get there before whoever was there knocked again. She pulled open the door.

  Francis. His hat dangled in his fingertips. His hair had been combed back, and he held a small bouquet of the tiny yellow buttercups that grew wild along the road. The width of his shoulders made his slim hips and strong legs all the more noticeable. His face brightened when he saw her.

  She gaped down at her overalls, scandalized to be caught wearing men’s clothes. What would he think?

  “Morning,” he said politely. “I hope I’m not stoppin’ by too early. Been up for hours and sort of just forgot about the time.” As he spoke, a red line crept up his face. He held out the flowers.

  She gently took them from his hand. “Thank you for these.” She briefly held them to her nose.

  “They were everywhere. Just thought you might like some.”

  “Who’s there, Ashley?” Her mother came into the room, drying her hands.

  Ashley stepped back, a silent invitation for him to come inside. “Mother, this is Francis. He’s one of the men from the ranch in Y Knot. Francis, this is my mother, Angelia Adair.”

  Her mother’s gaze went from Francis’s face to the flowers in her hand and then back again. “I see. What does he want?”

  Warmth crept up into her face when she realized he hadn’t even said. Surely his motive must have something to do with Blanche. He wouldn’t be here for any other reason. She looked up into his face, seeking answers as the little buttercups bobbed in her hand.

  “I’ve come to see if Mrs. Van Gleek feels strong enough to speak with Mr. Guthrie sometime today. Since the town has no lawyer for Luke to hire, our foreman is taking on that job. He’s real smart and would like to hear from her how the murder happened.”

  “Hasn’t Sheriff Jones spoken with you?” Mrs. Adair asked. “Told you the details?”

  Francis nodded, followed by a long, drawn-out sigh.

  Ashley had the urge to reach up and brush away the stray lock that had fallen forward onto his forehead and flirted with his left eyelashes.

  “He has. Just the barest details. Jack can be stubborn. And Clark is no help.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other while his fingers worked the edge of his hat brim. “When a man is accused of murder, Miss Adair, Mrs. Adair, a good man, a man who is clearly innocent, we”—he placed his palm on his chest, making his brown plaid shirt flatten against his body—“his friends, his family, take the accusation seriously. Luke’s been locked up now for eight days. The longer this draws out, the more people’s minds close down. He’s a convenient solution for Jones. We aim to make things more difficult for whoever actually committed the crime.”

  His tone was sincere and low, and she was glad. After last night, the sight of Blanche standing in the dark still had her agitated. Her friend would be up soon enough. Why begin the day on a stressful note?

  Her mother came closer, her mouth pinched in opposition. “Isn’t your boss an Indian?”

  “Half Cheyenne, ma’am,” Francis replied, squaring his shoulders.

  “A wild, no-good half-breed.” Mrs. Adair’s eyes had narrowed. “Just like the man who scalped my husband. Ashley’s father. But only after he’d had a drink from our well at my invitation. When killing’s in their blood like that and the mood strikes them, they can’t stop themselves. Nature takes over.”

  Francis blinked several times. “That’s foolishness.”

  “The scalping didn’t happen here,” Ashley said quickly, needing to exp
lain. Mother held on to that ten-year-old memory and blamed all Indians for her father’s death. Ashley wished that wasn’t the case, at least for a day or two. Mother was eaten up with hate. Ashley had been so young, the memory had softened over the years. “At the time, we lived much farther north, in Canada. Mother and I moved here to escape the memories.”

  Francis looked at her mother from under a lined forehead. “Luke’s blood don’t have a thing to do with this, ma’am. Not one thing. You can’t lump all men together because of the color of their skin.”

  Her mother’s chin tipped up. “I can. And I do.”

  Mother would be so much happier if she’d let go of the past. It’s sad, really.

  Francis looked down and softly cleared his throat. “I guess we best get back to the reason I’m here. That talk with Mrs. Van Gleek. Is she around?”

  Ashley nodded. “She has yet to awaken.”

  He rubbed his chin and glanced out the still-open door at his horse tied to the front tree. “It’s getting on in the morning, and I’m sure she’ll be up soon. Do you mind if I wait until she is? The men and Roady are waiting on her answer. I hate to go back and disappoint them.”

  Ashley felt her mother bristle without having to see her expression.

  Mrs. Adair returned to the kitchen without another word.

  Francis’s dark, sensitive eyes were on her face again, making her stomach roll in a pleasant way.

  “Yes, you may wait. But I have to warn you.” She gestured to her overalls. “I was just on my way out back to our orchard.”

  His face brightened. “Are you harvesting?”

  “Yes. If you’re willing, I may put you to work.” She felt her lips twitch and then pull up at the corners. “I can’t imagine how fast the chore will go with a man’s help.”

  A full-blown smile grew across his face, revealing a row of straight, white teeth. “It would be my pleasure to help you, Miss Adair. I’m at your service.”

  She clapped her hands together. “Wonderful. I told Christine last week I’d soon have apples, as well as some baked things, for her to sell—and then Benson was murdered, and everything went awry. He was our freighter who took our harvest all over the territory. I’m not quite sure yet what we’ll do now. But one bridge crossed at a time.” She led the way into the kitchen, where her mother was carefully dropping apples into a stewing pot of hot water to make into applesauce and apple butter. “Mother, Francis has agreed to help for a few hours. Isn’t that nice?”

  Her mother nodded but didn’t manage her normal smile. “If you say so. The baskets are out back and waiting to be filled.”

  Ashley preceded him through the back kitchen door, smiling over her shoulder at her tall, handsome visitor. How blessed they were he’d shown up today. A job that normally took days would be cut in half. But that’s not the only reason you feel like you’re walking on air, she scolded herself. You like Francis. You may as well admit the fact. He makes a bevy of butterflies flutter in your stomach each time he glances your way.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  From the top of a tall, wobbly orchard ladder, Francis stretched his arm to grasp the greenish apple with crimson stripes. He was used to seeing plain red, so when they’d first arrived at the small two-acre grove and the first trees they’d picked, he’d thought they were harvesting too soon. The sweet, tangy scent of the fruit tickled his nose, and the warm morning sun already had him sweating. Insects hummed and chirps of birds filled the air. On the walk out, he’d kept an eye out for tracks in the dirt in case the killer who’d left a print in the cabin was prowling around. If the man had been carrying on with Blanche before, reasoning said he’d seek her out again.

  He looked over to the tree next to him as he placed the apple into the satchel he wore around his shoulder. “What did you call these again? Some fancy-pants name, to be sure.” Soon he’d look like a lopsided camel.

  Her laugher gave him a dizzy, light-headed feeling that he’d better cast away if he didn’t want to end up on his head and embarrass himself.

  “Duchess of Oldenburg. They’re one of the oldest breeds in the Montana Territory. They came from Russia and ripen earlier than most. Mother and I were blessed to find this quaint house that came along with the original orchard, all planted and bearing fruit each year. We even have twenty good-sized saplings started. A small stream runs all year, just over that rise.” She pointed. “Can you see?”

  Francis searched through the branches and nodded. “From my bird’s-eye view, quite well.”

  “The harvest helps us get by. And now that I have the teacher’s job in town, we’re humming right along.”

  Francis liked the picture she made in her overalls with a red bandanna wrapped around her pretty chestnut hair and tied at her nape. The majority of her thick waves were woven into a braid that tumbled down her back in an enticing picture. Her face was shiny from the exertion and warmth. When he’d first met her, she seemed so prim and proper he’d felt beneath her. But now her suntanned arms, lean and strong, were perfect in his mind. He liked that she was tough and hardworking and still pretty as a picture. Her smile was as playful as a spring breeze.

  She laughed again. “What’re you thinking, Francis? I can’t figure out that look on your face. I’m just a farmer’s daughter, and nothing more.” With raised brows, she glanced at the ladder beneath his feet. “You better be careful or you’ll fall and hurt yourself.”

  She was more than all the girls he’d ever known wrapped up in one. She was a princess in disguise. He’d once overheard Faith telling Dawn and Holly a bedtime story about a little girl raised by the gypsies who turned out to be a long-lost princess. She was fair to behold and had a musical voice. All the swains fell at her feet each time she was near.

  That’s how Ashley looked today, just like a long-lost princess in her blue jean overalls and short-sleeved shirt. He couldn’t look at her enough.

  Ashley yelped and batted at something in her face.

  “What?”

  “A bee. Won’t leave me alone.”

  Francis was mesmerized by her beauty. Even though she’d never said so, she must have a suitor. They were little more than acquaintances, he reminded himself. He shouldn’t let his imagination run wild. She needed his help, and he was lending a hand while he waited to speak with Mrs. Van Gleek. Who, by now, must be up and dressed.

  He looked once more at the stream. “Do you carry water buckets from over the hill?”

  She flexed her arm while holding a large piece of fruit. “That’s how I’ve gotten so strong. We moved here nine years ago, when I was nine. These apple trees are like my family. The brothers and sisters I never had. I love each and every tree, as does my mother. I get a lot of enjoyment seeing to their needs.”

  Francis took a moment to wipe his arm across his sweaty brow. “Hasn’t anyone ever dug you an outlet to bring some water closer?”

  Her eyes brightened.

  “I can do that. Just like we do at the ranch. Won’t take long, especially if I corral Nick and Pedro to help.”

  “I could never ask that of you. But thank you, anyway.”

  Nonsense. When he got back to town, he’d ask Roady. Maybe the request would be out of line, but he’d ask anyway. If they said no, he’d find time to dig the ditch himself.

  He pulled away his gaze and glanced down at his basket of apples on the ground by the tree trunk. The container would need to be emptied soon. He’d finish this branch and then carry both baskets to the back porch where he’d dump them into several large barrels.

  The very top of the tree had numerous plump pieces of fruit. If he picked those now, this tree would be done. He went up a step, then one more to the second to the top of the ladder. It didn’t feel steady. Sweat broke out on his back, and he gripped a sturdy nearby branch for balance.

  “You needn’t go that high, Francis! We usually leave those at the top. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  He dared to glance her way causing a shiver of apprehe
nsion to run down his spine. He tightened his grip on the tree branch. “What? This isn’t high. You should see me on the bunkhouse ro—”

  Suddenly the ladder quaked violently, forcing him to grasp for the top step, as he swayed back and forth. That hard ground is going to hurt!

  Ashley gasped, and even though she was ten feet away, her arm shot toward him as if she could steady his position.

  Laughter rang out.

  A moment passed before Francis’s footing was steady enough to look down.

  Still holding the ladder, Nick grinned up innocently. His eyes twinkled with mischief causing a hot anger to burn in Francis’s chest.

  Nick planted his fists on his hips, looking much like a swashbuckling pirate. “Francis, we’ve been waiting on you. Roady sent me to make sure you didn’t get lost somewhere along the way.” He turned and eyed Ashley longer than he should.

  Resentment shot through Francis. “Petty! I’m gonna—”

  Ashley beat him to the ground, a scowl planted on her pretty lips. She marched to Nick’s side. “What on earth were you doing!” She pointed an accusing finger at Nick’s chest.

  On the ground, Francis stepped in front of Ashley, happy the time had finally arrived to give Nick his due. A few fists to his own face would be worth punching out his aggravation on Nick.

  Ashley grasped his arm just as he heaved a punch, throwing off his aim and landing her on her backside. Shocked, he reached down, grasped her hand, and pulled her to her feet.

  “Don’t fight him, Francis. Please. It’s not worth it.” She scowled at Nick. “And you can just wipe that smile right off your face. I’ve never seen anything so irresponsible! So stupid! Ladders are not playthings. They’re dangerous! Francis could have broken his neck or his back.”

  Nick laughed. “Or his skull? Naw, the bones are too thick.”

  “You should be ashamed of yourself!”