Montana Sky_A May Bride

by Kari Trumbo

  Text copyright ©2018 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Debra Holland. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Montana Sky remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Debra Holland, or their affiliates or licensors.

  For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds

  Dear Reader,

  Welcome to the Montana Sky Kindle World, where authors write books set in the fictional world of Sweetwater Springs or Morgan’s Crossing. While the world and foundational characters are mine, each author develops their own characters, stories, and sometimes whole series, based in my world.

  A May Bride is a sweet historical romance by author Kari Trumbo. I haven't had the opportunity to meet Kari in person, but I know her through Pioneer Hearts, an online group of authors and readers. Kari writes mostly historical and Christian novels. She writes with a lot of attention to history and tends to make her location like another character in her books. Like me, she has a love of Montana, and also has another series set there. I hope you'll enjoy Kari's little contribution to my world.

  Debra Holland

  A May

  Bride

  A cutter’s creek novella

  Kari Trumbo

  Dear Reader,

  Chapter One

  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 One

  Sweetwater Springs, April 1896

  May Rockford bit her lip and cringed at the tang of blood. It was something she’d been doing since leaving Cutter's Creek, Montana. She'd worried over this meeting and now the poor thing was raw. When her newest friend, Angel, and one of her oldest friends, Fin, were married just a few months before, she'd decided enough was enough. She'd finally agreed to write to Mr. Montague, her friend Ronda's, cousin. Life was too short to be alone.

  Her stomach tightened as the train slowed and pulled to a stop in front of the station on the outskirts of Sweetwater Springs. It was a hard-looking two story building with chipped brown paint and yellow trim and sign. People ignored the noise as they went along with their lives. The train was nothing new.

  Tension coiled in her belly and spread. The rest of her life was waiting somewhere within the wide, packed dirt streets of Sweetwater, at the Livingston Hotel. She shivered and closed her eyes, recalling the brief letters exchanged between herself and Mr. Montague. With a little luck, and if she could find her spunk again, Mr. Montague would find her more appealing than Emerson Caruso, the lawyer formerly of Cutter's Creek. The man who she'd hoped would be her husband ... but he’d had other plans.

  The train had been full and noisy as they'd ridden along and now she waited while the other passengers piled out. With a sigh of determination, and a desire for a smidgeon of silence to calm her nerves, she could make a go of it. Once the last of the passengers filed out, she slid along the seat, walked down the aisle, then climbed down onto the wooden platform. Sweetwater Springs bustled around her, not all that different from Cutter's Creek. False front and brick buildings lined the main street, hedged with a tilting boardwalk. Just out of sight, beyond the facade of the depot, she could just make out the upper stories of the Livingston Hotel. It was reputed to be the tallest building in town.

  The tallest man she'd ever seen jostled her as he walked by, his gaze intent on the same building. He wore his long blond hair pulled into an old-fashioned leather thong queue. His pinstriped suit, though tailored to fit his frame, was incongruous with his ruggedness and the shadow of beard on his chin. He slowed, turned, and cast deep hazel eyes on her that begged for her forgiveness.

  "Begging your pardon, ma'am. I was in far too much of a rush." He nodded slightly and continued on his way.

  Just like in Cutter's Creek, May was invisible. She'd become that way after she'd stopped speaking her mind. She was now forever getting jostled or forgotten. Her brother was the quietest man in history, but he'd managed to get married years before. Yet, she remained alone. May had always tried to be louder, spoken her mind, at least until Caruso left without even so much as a goodbye. It had been easy to be outgoing with her silent brother, but now that he was gone...

  It didn't matter. She wasn't important. People forgot her the moment they turned their back. And they all eventually turned their backs.

  A porter, smartly dressed in a railroad uniform, with a well-fitting high collar, dark suit, and a flat-topped hat, strode toward her, and she held up her hand to get his attention. He would've ignored her completely except that she stepped right in his way and he came up short to avoid tripping over her.

  "Sorry, ma'am. What can I do for you?" He glanced into her eyes for a moment, then looked around her, toward where he'd been headed in the first place.

  She pressed her hand to her belly to stop the nerves. How she hated new places. "I need to have my trunk delivered to the Livingston Hotel. Whom do I speak to?"

  He flashed a quick smile and pointed to the end of the building. "Through those doors and to the back is where they move all the luggage off the train, near the boxes of mail. You can arrange to have it sent to the hotel with the man there." He tipped his hat and was gone quicker than she could turn back to thank him. So far, everyone in Sweetwater Springs seemed to be in quite a hurry.

  Mr. Montague had asked that she only bring enough clothes to spend one week at the hotel. If they weren't suited to one another—and he'd seemed rather concerned about that—she could return to her life. He would return to his. No harm done. But if they did appeal to one another, he would return with her to Cutter's Creek and help her sell her father's home and collect her things. But she had no intention of returning. Cutter's Creek held nothing for her after her father died.

  May squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. Now that a few minutes had passed, the area had thinned out to only a handful of remaining people, looking rather lost. She pushed her way through the doors and halted just inside as the stale, dry air choked her. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light, and she approached a man with dark hair and a strong build.

  "Good afternoon, sir. My name is May Rockford and my trunk should've been taken off the train from Cutter's Creek. Could I arrange to have it sent over to the Livingston Hotel and charge it to Mr. Montague, please?"

  The man glanced up then slid a wooden board toward her with a pencil tied to it. On it was a sheet of paper with names and addresses.

  "I don't know the address. It's the hotel, just down the street." If they lost her trunk, she'd have no clothes for the whole week, save the ones on her back. Her one traveling outfit would not be her first choice for wooing a husband, and she refused to go back to Cutter's Creek without one.

  He didn't look up from his work. "Just write your name, destination, and the note about who we should bill. If your name is on the trunk clearly, there should be no trouble."

  It had been written clearly on the paper when she left, so it should still be. The train ride had only encompassed about two hundred miles, not enough time for the ink to wear off. She scribbled the information down quickly then slid the board back to him. "Is that all you need from me, sir?"

  He glanced at the page for a moment. "Yes, ma'am. Good day, welcome to Sweetwater Springs." He didn't bother to glance at her further, and his voice was laced with boredom.

  She prayed the re
mainder of her trip would be warmer and more welcoming than the beginning. May dodged people, bustling to get where they needed to be on the platform. Their train would be leaving the station shortly.

  It was such a new town, yet so busy.

  The street was full of wagons, people, and strange miniature horses, the likes of which she'd never seen before. Many of the buildings were false-front, but a few, like the saloon, were two-story. She made her way down the train platform and to the boardwalk to avoid the muddy street. The scent of damp dirt, horse droppings, and unwashed cowboys, had May picking up her pace and her hems as she rushed to the expansive hotel next door.

  The Livingston was like a castle in the small town, making it easy to spot at a full four stories tall. If they put her in a room on the top two floors, she would be higher off the ground than she'd ever been. Black lampposts with beautiful scroll-work led the way down the street and to the front of the spacious hotel. Polished pink quartz shone back at her. As she pushed her way through large double doors, the lobby reminded her of the hotels in the East, when she'd gone to school in Maine. Back when she'd thought she would change the world by becoming a lawyer's assistant.

  May pinched herself to pull her thoughts back to the present. It didn't matter what she'd done in the past. Her life wasn't there, it was right now, and she had to remain focused. Those old plans had done nothing but cut her to the quick. She'd been full of dreams and ideas before Beau had warned her she was too loud, too forward. He'd also warned her that Caruso wasn't the man she wanted to spend her life with. She'd never respected her brother's words, until he was right. Drat him.

  Blue velvet wing-backed chairs sat in comfortable clusters around marble topped tables scattered throughout the lobby. The large carpets dampened all the noise, though there were people talking all around her. May tried not to gawk at the small groups of people milling about as if they had nothing better to do on a Tuesday afternoon than sit and chat. Their fine tailored suits and sparkling silk day dresses spoke of a life she'd never have. She'd worked hard the last two years, hadn't taken a day off when the Sweet Shoppe, her only job, wasn't closed. Wasting time was firmly outside of her nature.

  The front desk was large and a little intimidating. She'd never stayed at a hotel before, not even in Maine. Though she'd been to many parties in hotel ballrooms, she'd never traveled enough to stay in a hotel room.

  "May I help you, miss?" The front desk clerk, in his smart blue uniform, tilted his head with a slight smile.

  Most people had resorted to calling her ma'am lately, probably assuming she was married. It was refreshing that someone still thought she was young enough to be unwed.

  "Yes. My name is May Rockford and Mr. Montague was to have rented a room for me?" Now that she said it aloud, it seemed so forward, but it wasn't as if they were sharing a room. Heat clawed up her cheeks as the man smiled at her and flipped open his book.

  "Yes, he only just checked in. You're in room 345. He left this note for you." The man slid a key and a folded sheet of notepaper across the desk. "We'll send up your luggage as soon as it arrives. The stairs are over there. Feel free to use the conservatory at your leisure. Enjoy your stay at the Livingston."

  As May collected the key and note, her heart buzzed like a bumblebee. Mr. Montague was somewhere in this very building, and her life was about to begin.

  #

  A liar. His boss was making him into a liar. Randolph Cade shrugged out of his suit coat and loosened his tie. His boss, Desmond Montague, had been writing to a woman in Cutter's Creek, like a mail order bride. Then, he'd gotten cold feet, but didn't want to hurt her feelings.

  Now, Randolph had to meet with her and convince her that Montague wasn't the man she wanted so they could both go home without incident. For the last month, Montague had been training him on what to say, how to dress, and perfect his act. To be Montague. This moment would mean he got to keep his job. Montague was somehow related to one of Miss Rockford's friends and Montague didn't want to hurt his cousin, Ronda, who had set up the acquaintance.

  So, Montague had hired a tailor to make Randolph some suits, had a barber trim him down—though he wouldn't let the barber cut off all he'd like—and he'd bought a ticket to Sweetwater Springs. He was itching to meet this Miss Rockford so he could make her hate him, and then get back to the ranch where he belonged. It shouldn't be difficult. Women tended to avoid him. His size and the deep scars on his hand tended to scare them off.

  His home, his stretch of Heaven, was at the base of the Ruby Ridge, similar to Cutter's Creek but closer to the Idaho border. Montague had offered to meet May in Sweetwater Springs because it was the only town between them that had a large hotel where no one would notice them. It would be far enough away that they wouldn't know anyone.

  This was good fortune, since Randolph looked nothing like Montague and he didn't need to be recognized as a fraud before he had the chance to send May back to her quiet life, so he could return to his own.

  Montague had given Randolph May's letters so that he would know everything about her and could converse with her just as if he really were Montague. Her humor had drawn him at first, and he felt bad for what he had to do. She had an energy in her letters that made him wish he didn't have to be cruel and send her home alone. She was sorely lonely, though she’d tried to hide it behind her wit.

  His boss had purposely avoided sending a picture and not asked for hers. If he had, it would've ruined everything. While he was tall and work-hewn, his boss was short and bookish, with a monocle, and a mustache that ate his top lip.

  May and his act had taken up so much of his thoughts, it had turned him absentminded at the train station. He’d been considering what he would say to Miss Rockford, and almost ran over a poor woman. She'd given him a quick glance of pure fire before he'd apologized. She'd been pretty, with slender features and dark hair, pulled up in a neat bun for traveling. Her suit had been impeccable, in a pretty emerald color that made her blue eyes bright, which meant she was probably on her way somewhere, not arriving. And that was just fine, if Miss Rockford was half that attractive, it would be difficult to do what he had to. He just prayed that she was as unattractive as the other spinsters he'd known. She probably had odd hairs growing from her top lip and chin, or an overly fleshy neck, like his friend Klondike's sister, Ollie.

  He slid the key into his door in room 329. Pushing his way inside, he found the room to be large, with a bed that might just fit his huge frame, and even a rug to keep the floor warm. It was on the third floor, and he glanced out at the conservatory that stretched out beneath his window, the glass ceiling bright in the afternoon sun. He could meet with Miss Rockford in there and they could talk in the warmth, yet it would feel like they were walking in a garden. It was possible no one would ever see them. He'd rather not be cooped up inside for the whole week, but the conservatory would do for now. He slid Miss Rockford's last letter from his vest, trying to memorize it as a real lover might.

  Dear Mr. Montague,

  I am intrigued by your offer. It seems like only a few weeks have passed since your cousin sent me your address, yet I know it has been almost six months. I both fear that I'm rushing out in haste, yet terrified that if I don't, I might miss my only chance at life! Your letters have been a constant enjoyment for me. I find I look forward to them more and more. I count the days after I've sent one, as I now know just how long it will take for one to return.

  I must take care of a few things here in Cutter's Creek before I can join you, though if you send me a ticket, I will hurry to meet you. I confess that I went down to the depot and asked where we could meet. The man at the depot suggested a little town named Sweetwater Springs, and specifically the Livingston Hotel. It is quite new and according to him, rather opulent. I will have all of my needs arranged by the time I hear from you again, in seventeen days.

  Sincerely,

  May Rockford

  She counted the days. As had he, but for the completely opposite reason
. His stomach clenched. No boss should ask a man to do this. Montague should've written her a letter and told her the truth. Now, this poor woman had packed a trunk, upended her life for a week, all to come and meet a fraud.

  Her letters had brought laughter and warmth to his chest when he had no right to feel anything. They weren't meant for him.

  Randolph had worked hard, moved up in the ranks on the ranch, all the way up to foreman. He watched Montague making a profit, building a bigger spread. Now, Randolph was in his mid-thirties, and he and his boss were still alone.

  Montague's cousin lived in the small Montana town of Cutter's Creek and had offered to share Desmond's address with May Rockford, who was alone, though not quite as old, or so the cousin said. He'd hastily agreed to meet, never figuring it would amount to anything. Then, she'd actually agreed and he was stuck. The only part of the puzzle Randolph was missing were the letters Montague had sent. He couldn't remember everything. If Miss Rockford brought up his letters, Randolph would have to lie to cover it up.

  He'd taken the time when he arrived, even though he'd been late and there was the chance that May could walk through the door as he'd been checking in, to leave her a note. They would meet for supper that night at the table in the farthest left corner of the hotel restaurant. He'd felt less trepidation about chasing down spooked cattle then he did meeting one woman. If she didn't chase away easy, he wasn't sure what he'd do.

  It also seemed unfair. He wanted someone to make him a home. The bunkhouse never had appeal, but at his age, he wanted a woman to curl up to him at night. Someone who would want to help him fill a house with noisy children. In his twenties, he'd been happy with the quiet of his life, now he ached for noise.

  He and Miss Rockford would meet in a few hours and, after talking for a little while, he'd hopefully have her packing her trunk. Unless, he took the opportunity to enjoy a little womanly company for a few days first. What could it hurt? Montague would never know, and he'd been the one to task him with the job. Assuming she wasn't repulsed by him as women usually were. He lifted his hand up and turned it, the dark scar an angry purple in the chilly room.