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

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  As he stared into the brownish liquid, he figured that a second meeting probably wouldn’t happen…ever. After only half an hour spent across the table from an open, upbeat person like Dorrie, Valerik didn’t imagine he’d be seeking the company of a saloon girl with her rehearsed remarks and practiced poses anytime soon.

  Somewhere between the six and seventh shot—or was it the eighth?—he realized he’d disappointed yet another woman tonight just by being himself. Maybe a beast of a man like him only belonged in the wilds of Canada. Melancholy threatened, and if he succumbed, he’d buy another bottle and end up face down on the floor. Instead, Valerik shoved away from the bar, staggered until he got his balance then leaned forward and stepped across the floor. He bumped a hip against only two tables on his swaying walk to the door.

  Once outside, he breathed in the chilly night air and his thoughts cleared. A waxing half moon illuminated the road well enough to prevent stumbling and the distance was short. To keep himself awake, he hummed a Russian folk song learned in his youth. After letting out Maks for a final comfort break, he used the privy then entered the kitchen and pulled the door shut. He’d have to ask Dorrie for the key tomorrow. Being in his brother’s shop meant he assumed the responsibility of keeping Nicolai’s tools and belongings safe. Maybe he could slip a note under the door with the request so he wouldn’t have to face her. Now, he was only vaguely aware of how he’d acted. Tomorrow the full realization of the fool he’d been would hit.

  Standing at the sink, he pushed aside the curtains to let in the silvery light cast by the moon. Out of earshot of the saloon, he could believe he was the only one awake in this tiny town in Montana Territory. Bracing his hands on the counter, he let out a relieved sigh. Tonight, after too many nights of sleeping under the stars, he and his animals were protected within shelter and safe.

  Maks scraped a paw into his bowl then nosed it across the floor until it bumped his master’s boot.

  “Need some water, moй coбaca?” Valerik eyed the pottery jug on the floor but didn’t trust himself to lift it without breaking it. Instead, he filled the bowl from the kettle then leaned back his head and directed the spout over his mouth. The cool liquid refreshed his sour-tasting mouth. What he really needed was a full bucket to dunk his head in.

  Now, to prepare a place to bed down. The word conjured the image of the cozy bed he’d spied upstairs. He glanced at the shadowy darkness at the top of the kitchen’s wall ladder. Did the pretty lady sleep peacefully, with her long blonde hair spread across the pillow? Or was she as active and fitful during slumber as she was in the daylight? The bent of his lyrical thoughts told him just how drunk he was.

  On the way into the shop, he stumbled against the leather case propped against the wall and jerked forward to catch it before it fell. His head banged the wall with a hard thump. “Ow.” Holding the case by the slender neck, he carried it to the workbench and unhooked the latches. For a moment, he debated about opening the window blinds but decided against the exposure to whoever might be afoot at this hour. Although he didn’t hear noise from the mine, he didn’t know if an overnight shift might be working. Better to light the lamp. As soon as he struck the match, the strong odor of phosphorus hit his nose, but the flame made the surface of his balalaika glow golden.

  His knife made quick work of the bindings tying the paper-wrapped bundle, and he stepped back as the hides unfurled, releasing a gamey scent. Tossing them into the farthest shop corner at the end of the workbench created an adequate bed for the night. After removing his boots and cape, he lifted the stringed instrument from the weathered case and settled himself on the hide pile. Cradling the triangular-shaped lute inside his crooked legs, he plucked at the three strings and moved his left hand among the frets.

  Soon he hummed as he fingered the chord changes to “The Red Sarafan” and he settled into the rhythm, closing his eyes and leaning his head over the balalaika. The sadness of the next song fit his mood, and he infused pathos into his voice as he sang “Girl, Your Black Eyes.” Until his fingers first strummed the strings as he sat within the walls of his brother’s shop, Valerik hadn’t realized how much he missed his family. His chest tightened. Was he forever changed by his trial of survival?

  *

  A strange sound invaded her dreams, and Dorrie rolled over, blinking awake in the darkness. Faint rhythmic plinking and strumming filtered through the air. The music was like none other she’d heard before, which must mean Valerik was the player. Easing her legs over the mattress, she slipped her feet into crocheted slippers then pulled off the quilt and wrapped it around her shoulders.

  Sacha lifted her head from her spot on the rug.

  Dorrie gave the hand sign for her to stay. Avoiding the middle squeaky plank of the short hallway, she stepped around the hole for the ladder to Cinnia’s shop and crept several feet to the landing next to the ladder leading to Nicolai’s kitchen. Each step closer increased the volume of the sweet strummed notes.

  Hoping to remain hidden, she leaned against the wall and tucked the quilt over her legs. Although he sang in a different language—probably Russian—his tenor voice evoked deep stirrings in her blood. She closed her eyes, straining to listen to every word he uttered. The notes soothed and cajoled, calmed and seduced. Her opinion of the man who so rudely ended their supper with an accusatory outburst wobbled. His rough exterior obviously hid a sensitive artistic nature. Whatever caused him so much pain was being revealed through the plaintive notes. Valerik Andrusha was mercurial. And she wanted to learn more about the mysterious man.

  The next notes were discordant and erratic, followed by a hollow sound of wood on wood.

  Dorrie shifted her position to kneel at the opening above the ladder and leaned forward, bracing a hand on the wall for balance. She hoped he was switching his hold or getting into a more comfortable position before continuing.

  A throaty rumble sounded.

  Her gaze flicked to the large animal that stood near the table, ears pricked forward and his ice-blue eyes staring at her position. She froze, her fingers gripping tight to the edge of the wall. Valerik’s dog stood guard, and she didn’t intend to test his willingness to protect his master.

  The air filled with a loud hacking snore, followed by breathless gasps.

  She giggled then covered her mouth. Obviously, Valerik was done for the night. With slow moves, she pushed to her feet, and then hurried back to crawl into her bed and smooth the quilt over the mattress. As she snuggled into a comfortable position, she wondered if maybe he’d agree to play at the dance. Then the earlier scene of how he’d yelled crossed her mind, making her stiffen. No one had spoken to her like that since she’d left the family farm. Right then and there, she vowed not to speak to the man until he apologized for his rudeness.

  The next morning, Dorrie spent the better part of an hour creating announcements for dancing lessons. As she wrote in her best penmanship, she thought of where to put the cards for the best advantage. Of course, she’d place a big one in the shop window. One would go in the mercantile, and she was sure Bertha would let her set a couple on the boarding house dining tables. The miners were her most likely customers, and she couldn’t think of a better place to have them learn of her lessons than the spot where they took their meals. Not that she’d dare to enter Rigsby’s Saloon, but maybe she could catch Marla or Becky Lee as they went to work and ask them to take the cards inside.

  Only as she headed out to deliver the announcements and drop off a note to Michael Morgan about arranging to rent the meeting hall did she wonder about the visitor in the adjoining shop. She stood at the dressmaker’s front door, tying on her hat, and realized she hadn’t heard a sound all morning. Just as well. I won’t waste a single thought on that man. Dorrie tucked her arm through the strings of her reticule and stepped outside, snapping her fingers. “Come, Sacha. You need some exercise.”

  With a happy yip, the spaniel bounded onto the porch, and then down to the ground.

  The sun wa
s bright in a cloudless sky, but a chill remained in the air. She debated about going back inside to get her heavier coat but figured a brisk walk would help warm her body. “Haw, Sacha. We’ll take care of the most important errand first.” She turned left and followed the energetic pup up the short rise to the Morgan house. Her first knock went unanswered, so she pounded on the windowed door with the side of her fist.

  From inside came slow, measured footsteps. The door opened, displaying Prudence Morgan wearing a green dress that draped her rounded form.

  Over the past few months, when the people of Morgan’s Crossing had come together as a true community and helped each other through the horrible winter, all pretense of formality had fallen by the wayside. Now, everyone was on a first-name basis. “Afternoon, Prudence.” Dorrie glanced at the very pregnant woman and wondered, even if they were on a friendlier basis, if mentioning her condition was considered proper. “How are you faring?”

  The brown-haired woman with the long face placed a hand at the small of her back and let out a sigh. “As well as can be expected. I never really thought about how being with child affected absolutely everything I do.”

  Was that a hint? Does she need something? “Is there a task I could help you with?”

  She shook her head and gave a quick smile. “No, today I’m feeling a bit blue, thinking this condition will never end.” A hand rested on her protruding belly, and she rubbed a small circle.

  “The next couple of months should zip by.” What did she know? She’d never been around a woman in this condition. Nola hadn’t mentioned many details about her own pregnancy in her letters from Four Clovers Ranch. Although, if Dorrie remembered the dates right, she calculated the women were both due to deliver in July. She dug into her reticule and produced the folded note stating her proposal to the mayor. “Here’s a request for your husband to consider. I wish to rent the meeting hall one Saturday a month this summer to host a community dance.”

  “A dance, how wonderful.” Prudence waved a hand toward the doorway. “Come in, let’s discuss this. I wish to get off my feet.”

  “Of course, you do.” Dorrie held her hand, palm out, toward where Sacha sat on the shaded plank porch, her pink tongue hanging to one side. “Stay, Sacha.”

  The dog flopped down and tucked her chin between her front paws.

  “Good girl.” As Dorrie stepped into the vestibule, she couldn’t hide a pleased smile or the sudden lift to her step. Everyone in town knew Prudence held great sway over the social activities of Morgan’s Crossing. Some even whispered she had a lot to say about the decisions made under the Morgan roof. If she approved of the dances, then the hall would most assuredly be made available.

  *

  Two days passed before Valerik did more than rouse himself to trudge to the privy, gulp a drink of water, and collapse back on the hides pile. Thankfully, Maks wasn’t picky and appeared happy to finish off the pot of soup. Gnawing on the heel of caraway bread helped settle Valerik’s stomach.

  On the third day, he felt well enough to sit at the workbench and spread out the supplies needed to work on his scrimshaw. Unwrapping a scrap of flannel exposed the whalebone belt buckle featuring a moose standing knee-deep at the edge of a lake with jagged mountains as the backdrop. He’d already rubbed the entire surface with beeswax and buffed the rectangle. The basic outlines were engraved, and now he worked to add definition and the marks that provided the shading by poking and scraping the bone with the tip of a thick needle.

  While in his early twenties, he’d spent a season on a whaling ship that ran along the Pacific coastline of Mexico, America, and Canada. Daylight kept the sailors busy with processing the valuable catch, but evenings stretched long. After he’d read every book in the captain’s library, he sought out a different activity and discovered he had an aptitude for the hobby practiced by several of the sailors. His mentor was Torg Jostein, who’d learned the art at his grandfather’s knee in Bergen.

  Arching his back, Valerik stretched and then scooted the stool to the side. Now that the design was well-defined, he was anxious to see how the bone would accept the black ink. Using a rolled tip of cloth, he dabbed the ink into the crevasses and carvings. On the body of the moose and the ridgelines of the mountains, he repeated the process for a darker color. Once he was satisfied, he rubbed the entire surface of the bone rectangle again with a beeswax block and then buffed it to a glossy shine.

  Nicolai’s display case was as good a place as any to store the finished buckle, and he stood back, admiring how the ivory contrasted with the black cloth lying at the bottom of the case. Within minutes, he’d added the other items he’d made over the winter—brooches, pendants, earrings, clasps for string ties, and the one that had occupied him the longest, a jewelry box.

  To avoid crossing paths with Dorrie, Valerik waited until dark to venture outside. Even though he cursed himself for being a coward at not wanting to face the woman. Interesting that he hadn’t heard many noises today from the adjoining shop. A fact that made him wonder how Dorrie spent her time in the evenings. Patting a hand to his leg, he opened the kitchen door and inhaled a deep breath. The air was crisp, but he didn’t need his cape.

  Maks bounded a few feet away and then dashed close again.

  Guilt stabbed him as he walked to the stable to do a much-delayed check of the horses. He hobbled them under the trees so he could muck out the stalls and toss down fresh straw. That water remained in their pails surprised him. He walked along the side of the shop to the road then turned toward the boarding house that still had lights blazing from its windows. At the town’s well, he refilled the pottery water jug. He desperately needed a bath to scrub away the odor of whiskey oozing from his skin. By the time he’d hauled the third jugful—that must weight thirty-five pounds—to ensure a supply for the next few days, his legs were a bit shaky. Nothing worse than what he deserved.

  As two pails of water heated on the stove, he used the shears from the workbench to cut off the bulk of his beard. A close look in the mirror convinced him the scraggly mop on his head needed to be tended as well. Keeping the portion he was cutting centered in the small mirror propped on the window ledge proved difficult. The back part he did purely by touch.

  He soaked in the bathtub until the water grew tepid and his fingertips wrinkled, a sign probably indicated his body had finally overcome his stupid actions in the saloon. Using the translucent soap, he worked up a good lather and then took his time to shave off the last of his wiry beard. The skin on his cheeks and jaw was a few shades lighter than around his eyes, but he liked seeing his unadorned face again. A few days of riding would restore a healthy color.

  Just as he was about to stand, he heard a squeak of the pulley and noticed a faint glow in the loft opening. Dorrie was moving upstairs? He froze before grabbing the sheet of toweling and stretched it over the tub. Not that he expected her to be at this side of the loft, but he hated feeling vulnerable. The light brightened until the glow filled the ladder opening, and the pulley squeaked a couple more times. Padding footsteps and the clunk of wood against wood clued him into the purpose for the pulley rig—that’s how she lifted her dog to the sleeping loft. Another example of Nicolai’s clever skill.

  Valerik tried not to listen to the swish of clothes against skin or the glide of a brush through long tresses or the creaks of the ropes under the mattress as Dorrie climbed into bed. The sounds he heard from her side of the building during the day were always muffled, and never this intimate. How could he feel close to this woman who he hadn’t spoken to in three days?

  Goose flesh rose on his skin, and he stood, rubbing the sheet over his body before he stepped onto the plank floor and pulled on the pants and shirt of his Jaeger sleeping suit. The price had been steep when the item hit the mercantile shelves in Kamloops last fall, but nothing beat the feel of fine woven silk against his skin.

  He grabbed his bedroll from the pack and tossed it atop the hides. After snuffing the lamp, he stretched out and crad
led his head with clasped hands. Too many thoughts swirled through his mind—tasks he needed to complete, supplies he had to buy, horses that required exercise, what his next scrimshaw project would be. The thought that kept landing uppermost was how his conscience wouldn’t rest until he apologized to Dorrie, and he vowed to make that his priority.

  Chapter Four

  As her tea steeped the next morning, Dorrie checked her list. So far, two miners had signed up, and she’d be conducting their first lessons this afternoon. Excitement about her plan built. Although she’d hoped for an answer about the meeting hall by now, she would walk to the mine this morning to speak to Michael. Only a few days remained, and she wanted to move forward with the final arrangements.

  The last bite of oatmeal was cold, but she swallowed down the lump then set the bowl in the sink. Movement outside caught her eye, and she pushed aside the curtain for a better look.

  A man worked inside the stable between the two horses.

  Must be Valerik. Something about this man’s appearance was different. A colorful band ringed the collar of his light-colored shirt, and he wore denim overalls. She leaned close to the window, waiting for him to step into the sunlight. The man who led a black horse from its stall had short hair and was clean shaven. Not again. Why do men keep trespassing here? She yanked open the door and hurried through the doorway onto the back stoop. “You there. What are you doing with that horse?” She spotted the man’s shoulders jerk as if in laughter.

  “Another example of your greeting? Not the most friendly.” Valerik stepped into full view and lifted a waving hand. “Morning, Dorrie.”

  The voice was the same but his face looked quite…different. She walked close enough to see his strong jaw and well-defined lips. A sigh caught in her throat. So handsome. “I’m sorry, Valerik, but you can understand how I didn’t recognize you. Removing the beard really changes your appearance.”

  As he ran a hand over his bared chin, he chuckled. “That it did. Think of this as my summer face.” Several moments passed as he stroked a brush over the horse’s coat. He cleared his throat and then looked over the horse’s back.