Montana Sky: Dance Toward The Light (Kindle Worlds Novella) (Entertainers of The West Book 3)

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  Text copyright ©2016 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

  Welcome to Montana Sky Series Kindle World, where authors write books set in my 1880s “world” of Sweetwater Springs and Morgan’s Crossing, Montana. Aside from providing the backdrop of setting and townsfolk, I haven’t contributed to the stories in any way. The authors bring their own unique vision and imagination to the KW books, sometimes tying them into their own series.

  Dance Toward The Light, book 3 in the “Entertainers of the West” series, is written by Linda Carroll-Bradd. I first met Linda in June 2012 when she rejoined the Orange County Romance Writers of America chapter after moving back to California. Within a couple of months, she copy edited one of my stories, and soon Linda became my regular copy editor and a friend. She’s always there for me, even if we are working late into the night on a deadline. We are in the same plot group, and I often see her stories build from the barest outline to fleshed-out book. Linda also contributed a story to Sweetwater Springs Christmas: A Montana Sky Short Story Anthology. Her novella in that anthology, Wishes on a Star, features Richelle Quaid (younger sister to Torin Quaid, hero of book 2 who appears in a cameo) all grown up. Laced By Love, book 1 in the “Entertainers of the West” series, features Cinnia York and Nicolai Andrusha. An Unlikely Marriage, book 2 in the “Entertainers of the West” series, features Nola York and Torin Quaid.

  I hope you enjoy reading Dance Toward the Light.

  Debra Holland

  Dance Toward The Light

  Book 3, “Entertainers of the West” series

  By

  Linda Carroll-Bradd

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Titles of Other Historical Stories

  Chapter One

  Early May, 1887

  Dorrie Sullivan brushed the feather duster over the already gleaming surfaces in her friend Cinnia’s dressmaking shop. The bolts of fabric standing upright in the wooden crates didn’t need straightening. And, just yesterday, she’d created a new arrangement of the smaller ready-made items—embroidered collars and cuffs, knitted scarves and mittens, and pre-tied ribbon bows—in the glass display case. On her way to readjust the angle of the dress form in the front window, she paused and looked outside.

  At least the snow that plagued this part of Montana Territory for the past five months had mostly melted away. A sigh escaped. With the Andrushas in San Francisco visiting Nicolai’s family, the shops were too quiet. No one stopped by to visit or browse. Most of the residents of Morgan’s Crossing knew Dorrie’s skills didn’t extend past sewing on a button or the simplest of hemming tasks.

  Only half of Cinnia and Nicolai’s planned six-week vacation had passed, but already Dorrie missed them something fierce. The idea of more cooking lessons from Bertha at the boarding house didn’t hold much interest. Even if she learned a new recipe, she had no one to cook for.

  For the umpteenth time, she wondered if staying was the right decision. Or should she have left with the rest of the vaudeville troupe last October when they headed the wagons south to Denver? When The H.P. Thomas Traveling Entertainment Company was intact, she’d always had someone to talk with, or acrobatic skills to perfect, or dogs to train, or to be an audience as one of the musical performers practiced a new song. Plus her efforts were applauded every night and twice on Saturdays.

  Turning from the window, she tucked the duster into its space on a low shelf and spun away, walking on tiptoes before dropping her boots flat. Could she do a back bend in this dress? Bracing apart her legs, she raised her hands over her head, arched her spine, and then leaned backward. Her muscles protested against the unaccustomed strain, forcing her upright again. Oh, phooey. She was too out of shape to do this simple acrobatic move.

  What is there to do?

  Spotting the black-and-white Springer Spaniel dozing on her blanket near the wood stove, she patted a hand against her thigh. “Come, Sacha. Let’s work on your training.”

  The flop-eared dog raised her head, and her fluffy tail pounded the wooden floor, but the eight-month old pup remained curled.

  “Oh, you’re probably right. Why bother learning tricks you’ll never use?” Dorrie stomped into the rear area of the shop that had been divided into living space. The small kitchen occupied the lower part with a sleeping loft on the upper level. She shook the kettle and heard water slosh, so she set it on a front burner of the stove with a clunk. Then she tossed in a new piece of wood from the box against the wall. While she waited for the water to boil, she moved to the doorway to continue the conversation with her canine companion. “Cinnia vowed she’d never rejoin the troupe, and Nola is hundreds of miles away in Meadowlark, probably looking as big as a barn with her first child.”

  Staring, Sacha tilted her head first one way then the other. The dog’s brown gaze was steady.

  An idle thought about her family’s farm back in Illinois crossed Dorrie’s mind. Had that area been hit by the blizzard, too? Or would the spring plowing have started already? She thought of her brothers, Sean and Conroy, who had probably married in the five years she’d been traveling. Adare would be in his rebellious teen years, and twins, Eveleen and Monya, must be seven or eight years old by now. She shook her head against any wistful thoughts of the parents who cast her aside at her first objection to following their path. They didn’t deserve her worries. Instead, she needed to get outside and interact with people in the here and now. That would snap her out of her restless mood.

  Dorrie decided against making tea and set the kettle on the back corner. Instead, she tied on a straw boater and tossed a crocheted shawl, courtesy of Cinnia’s talented fingers, over her shoulders. Best to go with a task. After glancing around the kitchen, she stepped forward and hefted the almost-empty pottery water jug to balance on her hip. “Come, Sacha. Let’s walk to the well.” At the last minute, she grabbed her reticule, in case she wanted to stop at the mercantile. Even if she just walked the aisles, she was bound to run into one of the town’s ladies and strike up a conversation. Her shoulders drooped. Thinking up enough errands to fill her time each day was exhausting. She definitely needed to find a new purpose for her life.

  After stepping onto the porch, she turned to lock the door. She circled her arm around the jug, walked across the porch, and down the three steps to the ground. “Heel, Sacha.” Without looking, she knew the dog would stay close. Since the pup’s arrival following Cinnia and Nicolai’s wedding last October, Dorrie had worked to make their bond strong. Eager for affection, tiny Sacha had loved playing the games Dorrie used to gain a dog’s trust—tugging on a knotted rag, engaging in her version of human/canine tag, and fetching sticks.

  Up ahead, a woman and young child sauntered along
the town’s dirt street. The matching heads of curly blonde hair provided the pair’s identity.

  “Cecilia, good morning.” Dorrie scurried to catch up, the jug thumping against her side.

  Cecilia Garr turned with a smile and gave a little wave. “Mornin’ y’all, Dorrie.”

  Grinning, she nodded and then set down the jug. “Don’t you just love seeing the sky so clear? I believe I spotted a hint of purple out on the prairie. Maybe the clematis or blue violets have bloomed.” The sighting had been on her long walk around the perimeter of town yesterday.

  “That’s good to know. I’ll be watching for the blooms to develop.”

  Giggling, the little girl held out a hand and patted the black-and-white fur on Sacha’s back.

  “Good girl, Sacha.” Dorrie watched for just a moment longer then looked over to meet her friend’s blue-eyed gaze. “What brings you out this morning?”

  Cecilia released her hold on the girl’s hand. “I’m headed to the mercantile for supplies. I’m developin’ a new batch of face soap and will be experimenting with different scents. During the winter, I had time to work all the way down to the bottom of the trunk I brought from back home. I was pleased as punch to discover a new formula in a book Mama bought me as a weddin’ gift.”

  Although she’d lived away from the South for several years, Cecilia never lost her southern drawl, and Dorrie enjoyed hearing how she lengthened the sounds. “I’ve almost finished the last bar I bought.” She raised a hand to her cheek and rubbed her fingertips across her skin. “Never used a soap like the honeysuckle one that leaves my skin feeling so smooth.”

  “I am always happy to hear from a satisfied customer.” A grin lit up Cecilia’s heart-shaped face then she reached out a hand to squeeze Dorrie’s. “Oh, and I found a photograph Mama had me pose for in my sixteenth year.” Frowning, she pressed a hand to her plump stomach. “I was a mite thinner then—before giving birth to two children. But seeing it brought back such memories of the dances I attended during that time. Of long ballrooms with drapery swags on the windows and buffed oaken floors. Big sparkling chandeliers highlighted the glowing candles. All who attended wore their fanciest clothes, and the orchestra played until everyone was too tired to move.” Letting out a long breath, Cecilia shook her head. “Well, that was a long time ago.”

  Dorrie couldn’t hold in a wistful sigh. The farming community where she grew up didn’t have buildings outfitted with such splendor. “I miss going to dances, even if the only ones I’ve attended were held in a barn or the grange hall.”

  “But really, does anyone care about the surroundings? Why, last year Michael Morgan had a welcomin’ party when his mail-order bride, Prudence, arrived. The townspeople squeezed into his house to meet her, and lots of us danced.” She gestured toward the two-story house up the rise. “Fun can be had anywhere, as long as the music’s good, and your partner doesn’t step on your toes.” Blue eyes sparkling, she let out a laugh. “I amend that to ‘step on your toes too often.’ My dear Leviticus has stomped on mine more than once, but that doesn’t put me off. If someone decided to put on a dance, I’d be first in line when the doors opened.”

  “You would, really?” A dance for the whole town? Ideas buzzed in Dorrie’s head.

  “Say goodbye to the nice doggie, sweet girl.” Cecilia held out her hand, wiggling her fingers. “Come along. We have shopping to do.”

  “Bye.” Dorrie lifted the jug and ambled down the dirt street, glancing once to make sure Sacha followed. How hard could putting together a dance be? In the showman’s wagon she’d claimed following the promoter’s desertion, she’d found a phonograph and several wax cylinders. That solved the problem of the music. The previous fall, the vaudeville troupe had rented the town’s big meeting hall from Mayor Michael Morgan for their performances. She could make the same arrangements. A small entry fee from each attendee would cover the rental price—and maybe provide a little extra for buying apple cider or lemonade. The townspeople needed an activity that brought them together in a fun atmosphere. Especially after surviving the hardest winter anyone living in the area could remember.

  As she passed by the boarding house on her way to the water pump, Dorrie thought of the bachelor miners who made up the majority of the Morgan’s Crossing population. “That’s it.” She clapped her hands then straightened and looked around to see if anyone heard her inspired outburst. She’d offer dancing lessons to the miners so they’d feel accomplished enough to want to attend.

  *

  The sun rising high in a clear sky made Valerik squint as Levka, his black gelding, picked a path down the mountainside toward the valley floor below. From behind, the pack horse Nesha scrabbled to find her footing on the rocky soil. He’d have to stop at the bottom of the trail and check the load to make sure the weight of the hides remained evenly distributed. He didn’t want the straps to rub on the white mare’s coat.

  Lower on the slope, his Siberian husky, Maks, chased a moth or a butterfly, bounding amidst the new-growth of prairie grass. Happy barks floated back on the breeze.

  Valerik loosened the leather thong holding the bearskin cape and let if fall off his shoulders to drape on the back of the saddle. Since traveling south past the snowline, his little pack had shed the darkness and the dread of the past months. Times when survival presented a daily battle from the isolation in his trapper’s hut. A wooden shack bolstered with mud and twigs that proved inadequate shelter from the months-long blizzard howling through the Castle Mountains from the Arctic. If not for his beloved animals, he’d have lost more than two toes to frostbite.

  Pushing away the gloom threatening to consume him…again, Valerik straightened and looked around. He had much to be grateful for. On his return to civilization, he’d had to let out his belt by a notch following the winter’s tight cinching caused by rationing his food supply. Strength developed in his arms with each day of his journey. After the weather broke and trappers staggered their way back to Kamloops, two of his friends had failed to appear. One of several factors that prompted his decision to ride south to Montana Territory and visit his kid brother, Nicolai.

  The slight breeze shifted and moved from the east. A too-familiar foul stench assaulted his nostrils. He gave an immediate two-note whistle.

  Maks’s head jerked up, and the dog focused his attention. He wheeled and bounded back to where his owner waited, pink tongue lolling from the side of his mouth.

  “Good boy, Maks. I hate to do this, buddy, but no more freedom until we get out of this valley of death.” Unwinding the lead from his saddle horn, Valerik leaned to his left and settled the loop over his pet’s head.

  Silently and with a heavy heart, he guided the gelding around the rotting animals that had perished in last winter’s great blizzard. So many times, he’d encountered a similar scene in his journey from British Columbia. The waste of what lay stretched across the plains ate at his hunter’s soul. All the unsalvageable hides that could not be tanned and the rotting meat that could have fed many hungry mouths.

  A mile or so to the south, movement caught his attention, and he pulled out his spyglass from a saddlebag. Lifting it to his eye, he moved the metal cylinder in a sweeping motion until he spotted the action and watched.

  A pack of wolves had broken from the cover of the tree line and now grouped around a black carcass, gorging themselves.

  He settled his right hand on his thigh—just to be ready. Misfortune would not befall his animal family so close to end of their trek. If he wasn’t mistaken, a few rods past the animals stood a barn and outbuildings of a ranch. He hoped it marked the northern boundary of his destination, Morgan’s Crossing.

  Thirty minutes later, he’d crossed a meandering river a couple of times and now the hollow sounds of his horses’ hooves echoed over a wooden bridge. Ahead, he spotted canvas tents, pigpens to the south, rows of similar small cabins on both sides of the road, and a big building to his right. He could stop at Rigsby’s Saloon on the left and ask direction
s. But, he’d rather not. In a town this small—looked to be a quarter of the size of the one he used to home—he felt confident he’d locate Nicolai’s shop on his own.

  Riding a few more feet down the hard-packed path, he saw a woman snatch a young boy back into the yard of a small cabin. The townspeople must not see many strangers. When a second person moved off the path and gave him a wide-eyed look, Valerik ran a hand over his face and felt the wild, wiry beard he hadn’t groomed since the previous fall. Maybe he wasn’t as ready to be around other folks as he assumed.

  Past an open area tinged with light green grass stood two shops sharing a common wall. Parked next to the building was a strange wagon painted black with gold accents and big enough for someone to live in. As he rode closer, he spotted the signs on the windows proclaiming Cinnia’s Dressmaking and Andrews Saddlery. Andrews—the alias last name he and his two brothers had been forced to live under for more than two years. Now that he had arrived in an area that probably had regular mail service and possibly a telegraph, he could get an update on where his father stood with the leather tanning patent.

  Leaning low in the saddle, he peered under the porch overhang but spotted no lamplight at the edges of the blinds covering the windows. Nicolai wasn’t here. Disappointment flickered. He gave one last glance around and spotted a fine-looking, two-story gray house on a small rise. Beyond that, the road wound up a small hill. Probably to the gold mine that kept this town employed. Across the way stood a mercantile and a two-story building big enough to be a boarding house.

  With a roll of his hand to the left, he guided Levka along the length of the clapboard shop building to a small stable nestled under the trees. “Get comfortable, Maks.” He tied a hitch knot and looped it over a peg on the wall. “Can’t let you roam free until I get a sense of the town.” As he worked to settle the horses in the empty stable, he realized his youngest brother must not be in Morgan’s Crossing. Could be he was transporting a load of hides to the town where Valerik had always sent the telegrams—Sweetwater Springs.