Anthology - BIG SKY GROOMS

by DAVIDSON, Carolyn. MALLERY, Susan. WILLIAMS, Bronwyn (in) Montana Mavericks

  James smiled swiftly. “And you oughta know, if anyone does, Harry. Reckon you’ve seen me at my best, and worst, too, come to think of it.” Harry’s back room held a bathtub big enough to soak away a man’s troubles, and deep enough to bury a hangover.

  Bag clasped in one fist, James took the young woman’s elbow with his other hand and steered her from the circle of townsfolk. “So you’re the new schoolmarm,” he said staunchly, noting with pride that his feet trod a straight line.

  Behind him Will grinned widely, waving at Cam who watched from the doorway of the Double Deuce Saloon. “Might’s well get ready to pay up,” he said smugly.

  Cam shrugged. “We’ll see.”

  The new schoolmarm trudged along beside James, then glanced up at him from beneath lowered brows. “It is you that smells like the bottom of a whiskey barrel, isn’t it?” Her steps were short and mincing next to his long strides, and she inhaled sharply as his grip tightened. “I wondered which of those men had been imbibing so early in the day.”

  “Never too early for some things, ma’am,” he murmured, repeating his dictum spoken in the saloon. And only fifteen minutes or so ago, he realized. So rapidly had events taken place, he’d barely scanned one woman and deemed her unappetizing in the daylight, when another had come under his scrutiny. Now, he reflected with a quick glance at the flowered hat that was the only scrap of color in her entire getup, this one might warrant a second look. Even the dowdy clothing could not conceal her trim lines.

  He’d probably never get another gander at those legs though, he decided glumly as they paced the length of Main Street, but he could savor the memory of those pink knees while he considered the idea.

  She’d determined to be silent, it seemed, trotting along beside him, one hand lifting to anchor the hat, the other holding her skirt from the dust that spurted behind her every step. The schoolhouse was dead ahead, right on the edge of town.

  “They tacked on a room behind for the new schoolteacher,” James volunteered as he led her around to the back door. “They were looking for a man, I believe.” His eyes cut swiftly in her direction. “I don’t think you qualify.”

  “Indeed not,” she said stiffly, stepping onto the small, square porch. “Is the door locked?”

  “Doubt it,” James answered. “Nobody locks their doors in town, except the business places.”

  “I’ll need a lock put on,” she said primly. “A woman alone can’t be too careful.”

  His head was pounding double time as he ducked to enter the single room. They’d been expecting a short teacher it seemed, with the lintel only a few inches more than six feet from the floor. His hat would have brushed against the new wood, and he reached to lift it from his head. Her valise was deposited by the door and he shrugged his shoulder, relieved from the weight of her leather case.

  “That thing weighs a ton,” he said. “You carrying bricks in it?”

  She shook her head. “No, just books.”

  “Books.” He bent to peer at her more closely. “You mean schoolbooks for the children? I thought the town provided those.”

  “These are some from my own personal library,” she told him, blinking at him above her glasses.

  Her eyes were green, with little sunbursts surrounding the soft, lustrous color. A bit unfocused, he thought, perhaps because she tried so hard to meet his gaze, frowning at him intently. “I read a lot,” she said. And then stepped back, as if she’d just realized that she was alone in a room with a strange man, and there was a narrow, unmade bed just six feet distant from her location.

  “Do you read, sir?” she asked, her fingers knotting together at her waistline.

  “Ever since I was six years old,” James answered, wishing he could spread himself across that narrow cot and hold the thin pillow across his aching eyes.

  “I imagined you could read, sir. I just wondered if you enjoy the habit.”

  The grin was automatic, and his skin felt stretched by it, sending throbbing tendrils of pain into his scalp. “There’s other habits I enjoy more,” he admitted. His eyes closed abruptly and he rubbed one hand over his forehead. A bed to hold his considerable length in a prone position seemed to be essential right now, and he turned to the door.

  “I’ll take my leave, ma’am,” he said abruptly. “Someone will be along with your trunk.” Maybe he’d take Cam up on his offer of a bed. Heading for the boardinghouse he graced with his presence on occasion wasn’t a good bet. Old lady Harroun would likely peel a strip off his hide if he came in looking like he was nursing a hangover.

  He stepped to the ground and trudged a return path toward the center of town.

  “Sir?” Behind him a flustered voice beckoned, and he turned, patience vying with pain as he waited for her to speak.

  “Your name?” she asked, standing on the square porch, her brow furrowed. “I need to know who you are.”

  “James Kincaid,” he answered.

  “I’m Kate Elliott,” she offered. Then waited.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said politely, turning away slowly so as not to lose his balance.

  “Thank you, Mr. Kincaid,” she said swiftly. “I appreciate your escort, and especially your quick action. Shooting—” Her pause was sudden and he looked back at her. “You killed a man, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I guess I did.” She looked pale, downright pasty, in fact.

  She crumpled, as if her bones dissolved beneath the dark dress, allowing her to settle in a pile of brown serge smack-dab in the middle of the porch. Her eyes were damp again and James stifled a groan.

  “I just realized I’ve seen a shooting, and watched a man die, right before my eyes,” she murmured. “I’ve only just arrived, and already I’ve seen the frontier at its worst.”

  “Ma’am, I’m sure sorry you were exposed to such a thing on your first day here,” James said, walking slowly back to the porch. He squatted in front of her, balancing on his toes, wondering if he would be capable of rising again. “I didn’t mean to kill the man,” he reminded her. “I don’t generally shoot to kill.”

  Her eyes were solemn. “Are you a gunfighter?”

  He shook his head. “No, ma’am. I’m a gambler, a drinking man and pretty much the black sheep of my family. I just happen to have a talent for shooting a gun.”

  “Will you be the new sheriff?” He thought she looked hopeful, and he shook his head, deliberately dousing that idea.

  “No, ma’am. There’s no way in hell I’m about to do that.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  KATE STRIPPED from her clothing, yearning for a long soak in the big bathtub that graced the second-floor bathroom in her girlhood home. She recalled stretching out in it, her toes pointing and still unable to reach the far end. Of course that had been years ago. Nowadays it would still hold her in a generous way, but no longer could she duck under the water and lie prone beneath its surface. She’d grown up, and wasn’t that the truth.

  Her laugh rang hollow in the room she occupied. And that’s all it was, just a room. No curtains graced the two double-sash windows, no pictures hung on bare walls. A pair of her best towels covered the window glass, protecting her from the view of those who might pass by. And in that relative amount of privacy she undressed rapidly, washing as thoroughly as a small basin of warm water would allow, then dried her goose bumps with a rough towel.

  The air was cool, and she hurried the process, slipping into her nightgown for warmth. Lace trimmed the sleeves and neckline, and, as she buttoned the row of tiny buttons, she peered in the oval mirror over her dry sink.

  Dark hair surrounded her face, with waves falling to her waist. It wasn’t an altogether homely face, she thought, her index finger rubbing the end of her nose, as though she might shorten it a bit if she applied enough pressure. And then there were her eyes. Why she couldn’t have inherited her mother’s soft brown orbs was something she’d never understood. Instead hers were strange, green, with streaks in them. She made a face at hers
elf, then grinned at her foolishness.

  Lifting her brush, she pulled it through the heavy length of her hair, and sighed with pleasure. It was a relief to free its weight from the tight bun she wore at her nape. Maybe someday, she thought, she might plait it in some sort of intricate way, and wrap it around her head, perhaps create an elegant style that would give her an illusion of height. As quickly as the thought intruded into her mind, she frowned, vanquishing it with a firm shake of her head.

  Kate Elliott was far beyond the fancy fixings of a young girl. At twenty-three years of age, she was firmly on the shelf, and not likely to be snatched from her position any time soon. For tonight she would allow her hair the freedom to flow freely. Tomorrow was soon enough to twist and pin it into place.

  She blew out her lamp, then crossed to the window where the pale glow of moonlight penetrated the towel hanging there. One hand pushed the cotton fabric aside and she watched, holding her breath as a star fell across the sky. An omen? Probably not. She’d long since given up on signs and portents. Wishing on a star, even a falling star, was childish. Her life was set into a mold she would be content with. Teaching held the promise of filling young minds with knowledge, gaining satisfaction for herself.

  A man walked down the middle of Main Street and she bent closer to the windowpane, intent on the broad shoulders and long legs. Perhaps…no, probably not. If she knew anything at all about such things, James Kincaid was out like a light and sleeping off a massive hangover. The man had absolutely reeked of alcohol.

  The towel fell into place and Kate turned toward the dark corner where her bed awaited her presence. She fumbled in the dark, seeking the thin mattress, and settled on it with a sigh. Drunk he may have been, but he did have the most beautiful eyes she’d ever seen on a man. His hair was black, wavy and inviting, and her fingers had ached to slide into its dark splendor. Black Irish. She’d lay money on it if she was a gambler.

  And maybe she was. Leaving Ohio, traveling across the country by herself, taking a position in Montana was a gamble. Life itself was a gamble.

  THE MORNING SKY was breathtaking. Kate stood on her tiny porch and surveyed the town, a decent-size community, yet diminutive beneath the Montana sky. Mountains in the west stretched in a dark chain across the horizon, and above them rose a blue eternity, cloudless and shimmering with promise. She resisted the temptation to join the parade of women moving down the sidewalk, and turned her head aside when a man glanced in her direction. And, as always, felt the separation that existed between housewives and a woman who found she must work to support herself in whatever way she could.

  Those ladies who nodded and smiled at each other, carrying their parcels and shepherding their children from one place to the next had no concept of what Kate lived with every day of her life. An emotion she could only call envy washed through her as she thought of the joys inherent in cleaning, mending and cooking for a family. For her own family.

  Instead she would teach those children, be looked upon as a threat by some of those women, with their watchful eyes ever on her, lest she cast her gaze on one of their husbands.

  She turned away from the morning activities in town and trudged around the schoolhouse to the front door. It swung open at her touch and she stepped inside, keenly aware of the scent of unpainted pine. But here another aroma met her discerning nose; that of schoolbooks. Stacked neatly on her desk, they beckoned her and she moved quickly to the plain wooden table around which her life would revolve.

  Here she would sit, listening to children read, hearing their spelling words, correcting their papers and noting their grades in a record book. She sat down in the chair and scooted it beneath the table. The books were varied, a stack of readers, a large atlas of maps and charts, and a pile of dog-eared arithmetic books.

  She riffled through one of the new primers, inhaling the scent of paper and ink, reading familiar words that would initiate her pupils into the joy of stories come alive from these pages.

  “Looks like you’re all settled in, Miss Elliott.” The voice was low, with a hint of gravel in its depths. James Kincaid stood in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame, the other tucked into his pocket. “I knocked on your door, and then figured I’d find you here.” His gaze rested on her hair and she resisted the urge to smooth back the wispy strands that brushed her forehead.

  “You figured right, sir,” she said smoothly, removing her glasses for a moment, and watched as his mouth curled in a faint smile. He’d recovered, it seemed. Smoothly shaven and dressed in the garb of a dandy, he bore little likeness to the man who’d dragged her upright from the dusty road, then escorted her home.

  “Just wanted to see if you were all right,” he said genially, taking a quick survey of the room. “Looks like you only need a bunch of young’uns here and you’ll be in business.”

  “Will they come of their own volition on Monday, do you think?” she asked. “Or must I somehow send out announcements that school will be in session?”

  “How’d they do it where you taught last?” He pulled a small chair from against the back wall and sat down on it, his long legs awkwardly bent.

  “I only taught for three years in Ohio, and it was a large school, with separate grades for the students. Everyone in town knew to send their children on the first day of school.” She polished the lenses of her glasses on a fold of her dress, pleased to find something to occupy her hands.

  “You taught one grade?” he asked, his eyebrow lifting in silent disbelief as if such a thing could not be.

  “I had over twenty children in my second-grade class, Mr. Kincaid,” she said sharply, sliding her glasses back in place. And more books to work with than what she was expected to teach from here, she wanted to say.

  “You’d do well to go to church in the morning, get acquainted with folks. Some of the country families come in on Sunday. They’ll pass the word along.”

  Kate watched him, noting the elegance of his gestures, the length of his fingers as he drew his hat from his head and held it against one knee. His eyes were penetrating, as if he looked beneath the plain dress she wore, seeking out her length and breadth, and she felt a moment’s disquiet at his survey. Surely he was not interested in…

  “Stand up, Kate,” he said abruptly.

  She jolted and rose quickly. “What’s the problem?” Her gaze swept the room, and she turned to look behind her.

  “Just walk over here,” he murmured, tilting his head to one side.

  She brushed ineffectively at her skirt, lifted a hand to her hair and patted the neat, tightly wound bun at her nape, then brushed back the loose strands curling at her temple as she stepped from behind the desk. “I’m not sure what you want me to do, Mr. Kincaid.” She rested one palm against the tabletop and hesitated.

  He grinned, transforming his face into a tempting vision of male beauty. She inhaled sharply, then covered the instinctive reaction with a cough. He was beyond handsome, she decided. Beyond well-favored. James Kincaid was likely the best-looking specimen of manhood she’d ever laid eyes on.

  “I just want to see you walk,” he told her softly, beckoning with one long index finger. His eyes glittered like sunlight on lake water, blue and brilliant between dark lashes. It wasn’t fair, she decided, that he should be such a tempting rascal.

  He should look downright foolish, all hunkered down on that small chair, his knees higher than his bottom. But somehow… Kate tilted her head, the better to focus on him. His grin widened, and white teeth showed between the edge of his moustache and his bottom lip. She stepped toward him, aware for the first time in her adult life of the manner in which she placed one foot ahead of the other.

  And he watched her, his mouth twisting just a bit, his eyes narrowing a shade as she neared him. And then he stood, his hands holding the brim of his hat, his cheeks wearing a slash of ruddy color. He cleared his throat and allowed his scrutiny to include the plain lines of her serviceable brown dress.

  “Ma’am,” he murmured
. “You’re too well put together to be all wrapped up in clothes that look more like my maiden aunt should be wearing them.”

  She gawked, her mouth opening abruptly, her eyes widening, and her hands rising to cover the blush that crept up to cover her cheeks. “I’m sure my mode of dress has nothing to do with you,” she said, despising the quaver in her voice. “I’m decent and presentable. That, sir, is all that is required of a lady schoolteacher.”

  He moved to the doorway, and she rued every nice thought she’d had about him. Handsome is as handsome does, her mother had said, more than once. And somehow, that particular saying seemed to be applicable to James Kincaid. He was rude and crude, no matter how well put together both face and form happened to be, and if she didn’t need this job so badly, she’d spit those words in his face. Although, she decided, he probably didn’t have an awful lot of influence with the folks who would be judging her performance.

  “You’re a good-looking woman,” he repeated. “I’ll bet you’ll be married off in no time, once you fix yourself up a little.”

  “And who said I wanted to be married?” she asked. Her cheeks felt hot, and her breath was short. “I’m a woman with a career, Mr. Kincaid. I don’t have time to cater to a man.”

  Eyes like blue marbles raked over her again. “You need to be having children of your own, ma’am. If I was a marrying sort of man I’d be knocking at your door on a regular basis.” His grin flashed and she swallowed a retort as he spent his charm in her direction.

  “As it is, I’d do well to stay away from you, I suspect. I’m just the man who could ruin your reputation before you know it.”

  “Why are you here, Mr. Kincaid?” she asked stiffly, unsure whether or not she’d been insulted by his palavering.

  He rocked back on his heels. “Just to see if you were in need of anything, ma’am. Thought I’d steer you in the right direction toward the Mercantile, maybe carry your parcels home for you.” He shrugged those wide shoulders then. “’Course, I don’t want you to feel obligated in any way. I’m only the man who saved your hide yesterday.”