Montana Renegade

by Ramona Flightner

  Montana Renegade

  Bear Grass Springs

  Ramona Flightner

  Grizzly Damsel Publishing

  Copyright © 2018 by Ramona Flightner

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems – except in the case of brief quotations in articles or reviews – without permission in writing from its publisher, Ramona Flightner and Grizzly Damsel Publishing. Copyright protection extends to all excerpts and previews by this author included in this book.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. The author or publisher is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Cover design by Jennifer Quinlan

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Do You Want To Learn More About Bear Grass Springs?

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Ramona Flightner

  Chapter 1

  Montana Territory, December 1885

  “When is the virgin auction to take place?” Warren Clark asked. Dusk was falling, and an oil lamp on the corner of his tidy desk cast light onto a small portion of the front room of his office, enhancing the shadows in the corners. A potbellied stove emitted much-needed heat in the frigid December evening. Warren paced behind his desk and kicked one of its legs for good measure. As the only lawyer serving Bear Grass Springs, he was used to knowing all the intricacies of small-town life and little surprised him.

  A cold wind howled on this mid-December evening, and snow threatened. The front windows, currently steam covered, prevented any hardy townsfolk from peering inside. Those with sense were home around a warm fire. Those without sense could be found at one of the town’s four saloons. Or at Betty’s Boudoir, the town’s brothel. Warren sighed and scratched at his head. At thirty-seven, he had no hint of gray in his brown hair.

  Alistair MacKinnon sat in a chair across from Warren’s desk and rubbed at his temple. “I kent ye’d be shocked. I never thought ye’d be distraught she’d given herself to the Madam.” Alistair, the second of four MacKinnon siblings at thirty-three, ran the livery with his brother, Cailean. The two eldest brothers had left the Isle of Sky thirteen years ago, and, after years traveling around the United States together, they had settled in Bear Grass Springs in 1881. Their two younger siblings—Ewan, thirty; and Sorcha, twenty-four—had followed them to America in the subsequent years. Alistair frowned at his friend as Warren collapsed, holding his head in his hands.

  “I hate her mother,” Warren said, provoking a startled laugh from Alistair. “Shouldn’t come as much of a surprise as half the town does too.”

  “I’d say ’tis more than half. She’s despised by all, except her sniveling son.” Alistair tapped a finger on the chair’s arm. “As to the auction, ’tis tonight. Seems a few big spenders are in town for the holiday season, and the Madam wants to see how much she can obtain for fresh flesh.” He shrugged at Warren’s daggerlike glare. “Or so says Ewan.”

  “And Ewan’s rarely wrong when it comes to the bloody Boudoir,” Warren hissed. Before Ewan’s recent marriage to the town newspaperwoman—Jessamine Phyllis McMahon, nicknamed J.P. by most in town, although called Jessie by her husband—the third MacKinnon brother had been a frequent visitor to the Boudoir, although not a patron. “I hate this.”

  Alistair canted forward, his brows furrowed with confusion. “I’ll never understand why ye feel such a … a tenderness for Helen.” He shrugged as Warren stiffened at his word choice. “I’ve seen how ye argue with her, but I can tell when a man is dancing around in the middle of his courtship.”

  “You’re insane if you believe I’ve been pining for the likes of Helen Jameson all these years.” The red flush on his neck put the lie to his words.

  Alistair studied Warren. “Must have been hard to swallow, watching her throw herself at my brothers and me.” Alistair sobered further when he saw the hastily hidden agony in his friend’s eyes. “Ye ken I never sought her company?” He relaxed when Warren nodded.

  Warren rose and paced again. “Why would she go to the Boudoir?” He shook his head. “It makes no sense.”

  “From what J.P. learned, Helen had a monstrous fight with her mother after the woman returned from Helena, either leaving or being thrown out of her family’s home. I dinna ken which, and J.P. couldna discover which was true.” He shrugged. “An’ the homeless lass doesna have many friends in town.”

  “No,” Warren whispered. He ran a hand through his brown hair. “She has not been so fortunate as to form friendships.” He raised tormented blue eyes to meet Alistair’s confused gaze. “I know you don’t understand my need to aid her.”

  “No, I’ve never understood your fascination with her. Since we traveled to Helena this past summer, your interest in her has seemed to only grow.” After a long pause, Alistair asked, “What will ye do?”

  Warren eased back into his chair. “What else can I do? Save her. As I should have done years ago.”

  Alistair fought, and failed, to hide a smile. “I fear she’ll fight ye tooth and nail. For she seems like one intent on savin’ herself.”

  Helen Jameson stood in a small room upstairs in the Boudoir. She had walked past the tiny rooms called cribs where the women lived and entertained the men of the town. She fought nausea as she considered living in such a confined space and sharing her body with another. Anyone other than …

  “Get her dressed,” the Madam shrieked, interrupting Helen’s thoughts.

  Helen was jerked forward, her arms slung upward, so a flimsy white nightgown could be tugged over her confining corset. Her generous curves were made more abundantly obvious by the tortuous contraption, and she had to fight her natural inclination to cover her breasts with her hands. They seemed about to burst from the corset.

  “Perfect,” the Madam said with a sigh. She cinched the nightgown with a red ribbon around the waist, further accentuating Helen’s bust, small waist and generous hips. She pushed Helen forward until she sat at a vanity table.

  A woman dressed in scarlet with a low-cut bodice moved to her side and brushed makeup on her forehead, cheeks and chin. Her gaze flit from Helen to the Madam, her posture relaxing when the Madam left the room for a moment. “Are you sure you want to do this?” the woman whispered.

  “I have no choices left,” Helen murmured. She watched the doorway in the mirror.

  “There are always choices. But, once you spend a night here, they are drastically reduced,” said the woman with blond hair and brown eyes. “If you stay, pick a name for yourself. I’m Grace. Never use your real name. Never let them touch you in that way.” She met Helen’s terrified gaze. “For they’ll touch you in every other conceivable way.”

  Grace, who would play the role of Helen’s mentor, frowned as she stared at Helen. Grace’s gaze was filled with too much understanding. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” she breathed. She clamped her jaw shut as the Madam bustled in. Grace puckered her lip
s, nodding with satisfaction when Helen mimicked the movement. Grace slathered on a thick coating of red lipstick to Helen’s mouth and backed away, awaiting the Madam’s verdict.

  “More rouge. More kohl around the eyes. We want all the men in the room, even those at the back, to be tantalized by her.” The Madam squeezed Helen’s shoulders as she leaned against her back, meeting Helen’s gaze in the mirror. “You will be my next Charity. You will restore my fortunes, and I will be the talk of the Territory.”

  Helen shivered. She knew of Charity, also known as Fidelia Evans. Charity had escaped life in the Boudoir last month when the Madam had bet Charity—and lost her—in a hand of cards. The man who won her, Ewan MacKinnon, saw her as a sister, as his sister-in-law Annabelle was Fidelia’s sibling. Fidelia had been welcomed back into the MacKinnon family with open arms, an uncommon occurrence for a reformed whore.

  “Never forget. I own you now. You are nothing without me. You are only as important as the next man who wants you. Tonight, your innocence is what is valued. Tomorrow, I will expect you to learn from those who’ve been here for years.” The Madam patted Helen’s shoulders and departed, calling the names of the other girls to ready them for the procession downstairs.

  “I don’t believe in God or good fortune, but, if I did, I’d pray for you,” Grace whispered as she rose. Her work was done, and she exited the room.

  Helen sat a moment, staring at a stranger in the mirror with a prostitute’s face paint. “I am a whore,” she whispered to herself. Rather than bolstering her failing nerves, she fought tears. She dug her nails into her palms and rose as the Madam called her name. It was time to face her destiny.

  Irene Tompkins sat in the back of her café with Leticia and Annabelle MacKinnon, who were best friends as well as sisters-in-law. Irene owned the Sunflower Café with her husband, Harold, and had enjoyed befriending Annabelle and Leticia since Leticia’s arrival in Bear Grass Spring in 1880 and Annabelle’s in 1884. Although old enough to be their mother, Irene relished her role as a wise aunt and friend to these women. She sniffed, swallowing her annoyance that she had yet to attain such status for Annabelle’s sister, Fidelia. “I’m glad you could join me for supper, rather than the quick cups of tea or coffee that we steal when you deliver a basket of goodies during the week.”

  Annabelle yawned as she twirled the contents of her teacup. “I shouldn’t be here, chatting with you. I should be at home with my husband.”

  “You know Cailean’s still away with Hortence on their sledding adventure,” Leticia said as she thought about her brother-in-law and her daughter. “He’ll look for you here when he doesn’t find you at home.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t want to go with them,” Irene said to Leticia.

  Leticia shrugged. “My daughter has an abundance of energy, and I’m thankful everyone in the family is inclined to help her expend it.”

  “Why didn’t Alistair go with them?” Annabelle asked Leticia.

  “He thought he should remain at the livery and work with Bears.” Leticia shrugged, unable to fight a contented smile. “We had a lovely morning before he left for the livery.” She yawned. “Besides, there are days I relish a little time alone.”

  Irene watched Leticia closely. “That pretty little speech might work on your patrons at Annabelle’s Sweet Shop, but it won’t with me.” She gave Leticia a long stare. “When?”

  Leticia flushed at the frank question. “I’m not even certain, Irene,” she stammered.

  Annabelle gasped and gazed with wonder for a moment at Leticia before pulling her into an awkward embrace. “Oh, I’m delighted for you both. After all you’ve been through.” She rubbed at her own protruding stomach. “And I like knowing our children will be close in age.”

  Leticia smiled. “Don’t tell anyone else. I want to be sure before it is well known.”

  Irene nodded. “I imagine a rest was appreciated today on your day off.”

  “It was glorious,” Leticia said with an appreciative sigh. She nodded to the café. “What is going on? I heard so many murmurings, and there seems to be a lot of excitement for a town that finds a cow wandering through Main Street remarkable.”

  Irene sighed. “An auction is to be held at the Boudoir tonight.” She met her friends’ appalled glances. “As you know, they aren’t common, and it means a poor, unfortunate woman is about to fall into that horrible woman’s clutches.”

  “I only hope she falls out of them again,” Annabelle whispered. Leticia nodded her agreement. “Who is it?”

  Irene studied the two of them before saying, “Helen Jameson.”

  Annabelle sputtered as she said, “You have to be joking! Her mother would burn the Boudoir to the ground if she could.”

  “We heard rumors something like this might happen, but I never thought it would come to pass. I wonder if Alistair knows?” Leticia shared a worried glance with Annabelle. “Irene, why would Helen choose to do this?”

  “Unfortunately Helen seems dead set on this course. That poor girl has left her mother’s house and has nowhere to go.” She watched as the MacKinnon women fidgeted in their chairs. “Unlike some, she doesn’t have a supportive family or friends.”

  Leticia glared at Irene. “Don’t look to me to help her. Not after she tried to steal Alistair from me when I was separated from him.” She took a deep breath. “You know I would never wish any woman to be consigned to such a life. But I can’t … I still can’t fully forgive her.”

  Irene watched Leticia with patient disappointment. “You must understand by this point that it was her mother urging her to act as she did last summer. Even when she thought she was acting independently, her mother was really pulling her strings.”

  Annabelle rubbed at her belly again. “I can’t imagine the sense of hopelessness Helen must feel to do such a thing.” Her eyes filled. “I wish I’d known she’d become so desperate. I would have done something.”

  “She’s not Fidelia,” Leticia said in a sharper tone than she intended. “She’s not your sister.” It was well known among the MacKinnons and their close friends that Annabelle harbored guilt about her past relationship with her sister. Not only did Fidelia have to contend with her past as a prostitute at the local whorehouse but she had struggled to free herself from laudanum’s hold on her as well.

  “No, but she is someone’s sister, and it’s heartbreaking to realize that her brother won’t stop her from going there. I wish someone had spoken with me.” She frowned when she saw Irene flinch.

  “Don’t be upset with your sister, Annabelle, for not speaking with you first, but I heard that Fidelia is the reason Alistair remained in town today.” Irene faced Leticia. “Your husband, who has just as much right to his anger as you do, was seen having a long conference with Warren. I imagine it had to do with Warren’s concern for Helen. Be as generous in spirit as Alistair is,” she urged Leticia.

  “What would you want Leticia and me to do?” Annabelle asked. “What can we do now that she’s gone to the Boudoir?”

  “Well, if Helen is still at the Boudoir tomorrow morning, I would like you to go there and attempt to talk her into leaving.” Irene met Annabelle’s tortured gaze. “I can only imagine the problems that will cause with your sister, since she remains bitter that she had no one to rescue her so soon after her fall from grace, but hopefully Fidelia will see it as a measure of your forgiving and generous nature. As for Helen, she would have only spent one night there, and hopefully she won’t have to overcome a laudanum addiction. She shouldn’t consign herself to such a life.”

  Leticia tilted her head to the side as she asked Irene, “Why would you believe Helen might not be there tomorrow morning?”

  “I have a suspicion one person in this town will refuse to allow her to spend a night in a whorehouse. I hope I am not wrong in my judgment of him.”

  As the temperature dropped, and evening turned into night, Warren exited his office. He paused on the boardwalk and looked up and down Main Street. To his
left stood the jail with the sheriff’s office. Beyond the jail was the most popular saloon in town, the Stumble-Out, with the new mercantile next to it. Along the same side of the boardwalk as his office, but to his right, the Grand Hotel stood tall, awaiting visitors. A short distance from the hotel stood the livery, with the MacKinnon family home beside it. Now that Ewan and Alistair were married, only Cailean; his wife, Annabelle; Cailean’s sister, Sorcha; and Annabelle’s sister, Fidelia, lived in the large family home.

  Across the street from the livery were the school, church and the larger of the two general stores. Townsfolk called the large store the Merc, and it was run by Tobias Sutton, a cantankerous man, nephew to the owners of the café. Beside the Odd Fellows Hall, the Watering Hole Saloon did a business to rival the Stumble-Out. Warren’s gaze drifted on to the soft lights from the Sunflower Café, and he envisioned Harold and Irene Tompkins inside, doling out common sense and kindness with their hot meals. He fought the urge to approach them for advice. The bakery was shuttered on Sunday, as was Jessamine’s print shop. Beside the bank stood Warren’s destination, the well-lit Boudoir. He stiffened his shoulders and took a deep breath before walking toward the lights that acted as a beacon.

  After crossing the muddy street, he pulled open the door to Betty’s Boudoir. He had previously entered only during the day to review contracts for the Madam. Although unfamiliar with the normal evening atmosphere, he sensed a heightened anticipation thrumming through those milling in the large room below the stairs. The gathered men continued to flit furtive glances to the stairs in anticipation of the arrival of the main attraction. Warren slipped to the back of the room, thankful his tall height aided in providing a clear view of the entertainment to come.