Montana Courage (McCutcheon Family Series Book 9)

by Caroline Fyffe

  “A lot, even for this time of the year.”

  Wolves. How frightening. “But wolves are common, aren’t they?”

  “Yes. But this pack seems unusually big.” He pulled on his thick coat. “In large numbers, they’re bolder. They smell the cattle and the chickens. I don’t want you or Evie leaving the house for any reason whatsoever.”

  The look in his eyes sent a jolt of fear through her. “Of course. I’ll make sure she minds me when she gets up.”

  His chin dipped. “Thank you. I’m not too proud to say I’m mighty thankful you’re here to help. Evie was fitful last night. Tossed and turned. Needed water, then the chamber pot. The baby is kicking her something awful. I wouldn’t be surprised if she slept in until noon.”

  “I’ll be sure to be quiet. She needs her rest. But, Chance, her time isn’t until late February.” She swallowed against a dry throat. “You don’t think her discomfort is because she might be starting labor?”

  A smile finally appeared, and he rested his hands on the back of a chair. “No, I’m not thinking that at all. She’s just uncomfortable is all. My heifers do the same thing. There’s plenty of time to get her into town where Dr. Handerhoosen can assist.”

  “I’m relieved to hear you say that. Now, go on and do what you must outside, and I’ll keep watch in here.”

  Margaret noted that he’d started a fire in the hearth and had a pot of coffee perking on the kitchen stove. Soon the chill would be gone, and she’d take up her reading where she’d left off last night.

  “Is the snow still falling?”

  He pulled on a thick pair of gloves. “Sure is. But the storm has to let up sometime.”

  “I would think so. When will you be back inside? I’ll have something hot prepared for you and Andy.”

  They all were on a first-name basis and wanted her to do the same. Margaret preferred to be proper, as she always instructed her brides when she’d had the mail-order agency, and had held out for almost three days until they’d worn down her resistance. She smiled to herself. Everyone had insisted, so she had complied.

  When Chance finished with his gloves, he wound his wool scarf around his neck and set his hat on his head, pulling it down tight. He buckled on his gun belt and then glanced her way.

  “Around eight, I’d think. There’s one advantage of having a small herd.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  He started for the door. “They all fit in my barn, every last one of ’em. There’s not much room to spare, but they’re thankful to be enclosed.”

  Needing to be helpful, she hurried past and opened the door. Snow blasted in as he ducked his head and slipped out.

  “Be careful,” she called as she watched him disappear into the swirling white. She wondered if he’d heard.

  The sharp fangs of a wolf shimmered in her mind. They all had to be careful. This was the Montana wilds, where survival trumped all cards.

  Chapter Thirty

  Sally stretched lazily, lifting one arm over her head, but quickly drew it back under the covers when the cold air bit into her skin. Something had awakened her. When the bed dipped, she forced her eyes open, even though she was loath to leave the goodness of her dreams.

  “Good mornin’, darlin’,” Roady whispered, and leaned down and placed a soft kiss on her mouth. “You were smiling in your sleep.”

  Other than the bedside lantern, the room was dark, quiet—and frigid cold. Her husband, half-dressed for the day, leaned in closer until she could see a crooked smile on his face.

  “Must have been thinking how much I love you,” she whispered back.

  She lifted her hand from beneath the protective warmth of the blankets and quilts, and caressed his muscled chest. The nubby, well-worn cotton of his undershirt beneath her fingertips made her imagination run wild. When his muscles responded to her light touch, she wished he had awakened her before deciding to get ready for the day.

  “Roady, you’re the air I breathe,” she added, needing him to know just how much he meant to her. “Be careful today. The circumstances are dangerous. Three days of snow, and—”

  He put a finger to her lips, halting her words. “I liked it better when you were telling me how much you loved me. No need to worry, sweetheart. Me and the boys are fine. Mostly hanging out in the bunkhouse.”

  “That’s not true. I heard you went out with Smokey and Ike yesterday. Opened up some of the watering holes. With the wolves and weather, every time you step out the door, you risk your life.”

  “That’s true enough, but it’s my job, and something I’ve been doing for years. We have to look after the animals. We ride in twos and threes, never alone.” He pulled the covers up to her chin and made sure no air was leaking in below.

  Worrying did no good. She couldn’t protect him. She’d keep him in her love and prayers and wait for his return around three or four. “What time is it?” She glanced to the darkened window.

  “Going on seven.”

  He was usually up and out by five. “The sky is still so dark.”

  He chuckled. “It’s still snowing. You never told me what you were smiling about in your sleep. Do you remember? Sure was a pretty sight.” He leaned down and briefly kissed her again.

  “I remember now. I was dreaming about the baby.”

  “Well? Was it a boy or girl? Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “A girl. And we named her Gillian with a G instead of a J to look nice with Guthrie.”

  She waited to gauge his reaction. Was he hoping for a son? A boy to start his family? Men always seemed so partial to that. A male to carry on their name. Her heart squeezed. But the child wasn’t really Roady’s son or blood. Did that truth bother him? He never let on.

  “She was very small and as bald as a pumpkin.” Sally couldn’t stop a small laugh from escaping.

  “Gillian’s real pretty. Sally and Gillian. I like the sound of that. Is that the name you’ve chosen?”

  She ran her hand along his forearm and noticed his gaze intensify. “I’d never choose a name without consulting you. That’s something we should do together. Besides, it was just a dream. I’m sure my imaginings didn’t mean anything, and I’m having a boy.”

  “Who knows? Maybe it’s a sign.”

  “You don’t believe in signs, do you, Roady?”

  His thumb caressed her cheek. “What do you think?”

  “No. You’re levelheaded. You think things through on your own.”

  Sentimentality began to rumble around inside her. His marrying her, even though the baby wasn’t his. Taking them in and giving them a home. So very much indeed. Everything they’d been through in the past few months proved Roady was reliable and loyal—to a fault.

  He chuckled and stood. “I see you’re getting emotional—as usual, these days. No one ever warned me about that.”

  The floorboards in the hallway squeaked as someone walked by.

  He pulled on a thick wool shirt and began buttoning from the bottom. The amber light of the lantern made his face shine gold, like an angel, or like melted caramel candy she ate at Halloween. He reached for his thick wool scarf and, with deft fingers, wound it around his neck. When he turned back from the dresser, to her surprise, he held the unopened letter she thought she’d hidden away.

  “I’m surprised you haven’t opened this yet. With all your thinking about the baby, did you forget about it?” He held out the battered envelope.

  She took it in her fingers. At first, something about the handwriting had her spooked. As she remembered back, she was sure she didn’t want to know, and should have thrown the post away where Roady wouldn’t find it.

  “Sally?”

  “I—I, uh, I believe I know who it’s from, and I don’t want to read anything he has to say.”

  Roady’s gaze jerked up to her face. “He?”

  Even in the dim light of the lantern, she saw Roady’s smile fall away. His eyes hooded, and he sat on the bed next to her.

  She couldn�
��t hide much from her husband.

  “You think it’s from him?”

  She did. She couldn’t pretend any longer. Why he’d write was a mystery, which made her stomach roil with disgust.

  A heated frown slashed Roady’s face. “Give it to me.” He reached out.

  She gasped and held it away. “No. I’ll read it. Now. With you here. You shouldn’t have to be the one.”

  Sally swallowed and placed her finger under the flap. Before pulling the paper from the envelope, she scooted up in the bed and put her pillow behind her back. The growth of her tummy was impossible to miss. For the first time ever, she noticed Roady jerk away his gaze.

  How stupid. Why hadn’t she taken care of this in private? Maybe she was wrong, and the letter was from someone else entirely. She’d made a mess of the whole awful situation, making it even more difficult for her husband.

  She opened the note and glanced at the name at the bottom of the page. A wall of emotions slammed into her when she saw she’d been correct. She stared at Mr. Greenstein’s signature for several moments, gathering her courage as she began reading aloud.

  Dear Miss Stanford,

  I’ve recently learned that congratulations are in order. I happened to be traveling down your street when Anita spotted my buggy. Since we had worked together for some time, she kindly invited me in and shared your news. Your mother was there, as well as Melba and Peter. Everyone is pleased that you’ve married.

  Sally briefly closed her eyes. Thank God they didn’t tell him I am in the family way. Surely, he would put two and two together. The familiarity of the note, as if nothing had transpired between them, made her want to retch.

  I couldn’t learn of this occurrence and not send you a little gift for your wedding to help you start your home. Also to thank you for the good work you did for me and my father at the newspaper. I’ve enclosed a banknote. Anita told me your husband is a cowboy, so I’m sure you can use this small token of my admiration.

  With shaking hands, she picked up the envelope and looked inside to see what she’d missed. Daring a glance at Roady’s stone-cold expression, she drew out a banknote and unfolded it. One hundred dollars, a huge and inappropriate amount of money from a former employer.

  Roady took the banknote from her fingers, looked at the amount, and stood, tension filling the space.

  Was he leaving? She hadn’t finished the letter.

  “The hour’s getting late. You stay in bed until the house warms up downstairs.”

  The edge to his voice cut her to the quick, belying his concerned words. She watched as he set the banknote on the dresser and then pulled on an additional shirt and another pair of socks. His boots, gloves, and overcoat were downstairs where they wouldn’t get the house dirty.

  “Roady?”

  “I’ll be back at supper time, if not before.” He stepped to the door as if he wasn’t going to give her his usual good-bye kiss. He stopped, turned back, and kissed her on the forehead before reaching for the doorknob.

  “Be careful.” She barely got the words out before he was gone, and certainly before she was able to say I love you. As much as Roady’s tone had fear rippling through her body, the thought of that monster speaking with her mother and sisters at her house frightened her even more.

  In despair, she crumpled the letter in her hand. Anita and Melba were in danger. Something had to be done before the unthinkable happened. She just didn’t know what that something was yet—but she would. And she needed to do it fast.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The high-pitched whistle under the third-story eaves stirred Poppy from a fitful sleep. Too cold to even turn over, she lay in a semi-awake state shivering, her arms clamped tightly about herself.

  Three long, agonizing days had passed since the storm descended. The snow had not let up for even an hour. The mood in the hotel was one of quiet despair. No one was out on the street. No one dared.

  Poppy had never seen so much snow. People’s nerves were on edge. The occupants of Cattlemen’s Hotel crept around like sleepwalkers, speaking in whispers and avoiding interaction whenever possible. The rooms were dark and cold.

  Abe, the bartender from the Hitching Post, had joined their ranks last night. He’d locked the saloon and then carefully made his way down the street, bringing with him a gunnysack with several cans of beans, one salted pork hip, three cans of prunes, and a jar of turnip snips. Not much, but no one begrudged him admittance. That brought the number of people to feed to fourteen.

  As the cupboards emptied, Cook began keeping a list of their provisions, not explaining why but everyone knew. No one was to take any food without permission. Even Lenore seemed different. The usual down-curve of her lips had straightened out. She kept her biting comments to herself. Everyone was concerned.

  Thankfully, Sheriff Crawford or his deputy stopped in once a day with news of others in town. So far, everyone still had a supply of wood and something to eat. Old Mr. Herrick was a concern, as were all the older people of Y Knot. He’d developed a deep cough and a rattling chest. For now, he was doing well staying under his piled covers.

  Berta May was staying busy with a new quilt she’d started in the long hours of the day. She extended an invitation to any woman interested that as soon as the snow let up and crossing the street safely was possible, everyone was more than welcome to come help.

  Despite the storm, Mr. Tracy said the telegraph lines were still operational. The whole of Montana Territory had been hit with this blizzard, as well as Wyoming and much of the plains. They were not suffering alone.

  No one talked about the poor livestock, or the fact that they must be suffering horribly. Their plight was just too heartbreaking to think about.

  When Poppy had questioned either lawman about the Preece farm or the Holcombs’ ranch, they said they hadn’t heard anything yet but assured her that wasn’t unusual. People didn’t come out in blizzards. They burrowed in their homes to wait out the worst.

  Still, Poppy couldn’t help but worry about her sister. What was happening? Was she safe? A mantle of responsibility weighted Poppy’s shoulders. Why had their father treated Poppy so much differently than Kathryn? Growing up, she’d taken his benevolence toward her for granted. Now she wished she’d stood up to him, asked why he belittled Kathryn so.

  Unable able to endure the frosty air a moment longer, Poppy crept from her covers and lit her candle with shaking hands. The tiny amount of light wasn’t much, but enough to help her maneuver her way to the fireplace without stubbing her toe. She stirred the bed of ashes and added three small logs. Leaning forward, she gently blew on the base of the wood and the tiny cinders, hoping a few coals were still hot enough to catch the wood. She’d used her ration of kindling for the day and would need to replenish it come morning.

  Blowing hard brought dizziness. Her head ached painfully from the little sustenance in her belly. She’d never gone any length of time without three substantial meals a day, a tea tray at four, and warm milk and cookies before retiring for the night. Now, one meal and a few morsels of bread felt like a prisoner’s rations.

  One small ember glowed. Poppy was cold, and her stomach burned painfully. She wanted to go home. The warm, bountiful kitchen in Boston filled the spurts of sleep she was able to acquire when she wrapped herself into a ball under her covers. She never realized that an empty stomach would keep one awake, no matter how tired they were.

  It’s no use. This fire isn’t going to start.

  Her mother’s two letters tucked away in her trunk came to mind, but burning them didn’t feel right. She had a novel, but who knew how long they’d be stuck here? She’d better save that for later.

  Home? Would she ever see it again? Was there a possibility they’d all perish in this storm? The warm tear on her cheek brought her to her senses. She angrily brushed it away. She needed to straighten her shoulders and lift her chin.

  Hildy seemed to be handling the situation just fine. She didn’t whine or complain.
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  On the other hand, the Sangers refused to leave their room and never let her take the children out. The place was becoming quite rank.

  Fancy, the saloon girl, stayed hidden away in her room across the hall.

  Thank heavens for Mr. Petty. He fed the lobby stove all night, as well as the one in the kitchen, making sure the hotel stayed as warm as possible.

  She scowled at the cold embers that refused to light. Chills pricked her feet through the heavy socks Mr. Petty had given her last evening.

  The lobby. She’d go there for some warmth. No matter the time, she’d make herself a cup of tea and let her limbs thaw out. Tea was one staple they had plenty of, and the patrons were welcome to consume it at will. For water, all they had to do was scoop a pot of snow. She’d learned hot water seemed to stave off the pains from a completely empty stomach.

  Decided on her course of action, Poppy lifted her cape to her shoulders, noticing the garment had gotten much heavier in the passing days. Or had she just become weaker from the small provisions? She fastened the hook and eye at the base of her neck, and then took up the candleholder. The hallway was completely dark, since they weren’t allowed to burn any lanterns and it wasn’t safe to leave a candle unattended.

  She crept down the narrow stairway, feeling like a thief. Necessity had emboldened her. The painting of the ugly woman didn’t bother her in the least. Still, she longed for her home with the mansion’s beautiful furnishings, the light, the warmth, the food, and the servants ready to do any bidding at all. Her parents.

  She stilled, halting on the landing between the second and third floors. She hadn’t thought of her parents at all. She did miss them, but she never thought of them happily together.

  A sudden gust of frigid air zipped up the stairway and went up Poppy’s ankle-length nightgown under her cape. She shivered, thinking of the stories she’d heard of ghosts passing in a cold rush of wind. Spurred into action, she took the last few steps into the lobby. As she knew it would, a lantern burned on the counter, and a modicum of heat touched her face.