Wild Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series)

by Debra Holland

  "Come in."

  She kept her face averted in an effort to hide her feelings. "Josie, please, help me undress."

  Holding back tears while Josie unfastened the long row of pearl buttons down the back of her dress, Elizabeth focused on the rose-patterned wallpaper until her vision blurred. Josie's chattering about the glimpses the servants had caught of the new Mrs. Hamilton only worsened the pounding in her head. Finally, the maid noticed Elizabeth's mood.

  "Are you well, Miss Hamilton?"

  "I've a headache," Elizabeth said, pressing her hands to her aching forehead. She dredged up a smile to combat the look of concern on Josie's plump, freckled face. "Please draw the curtains and see that I'm not disturbed until it's time to dress for dinner."

  As soon as the door closed, Elizabeth turned the key in the lock. She'd never before locked her door, but she wanted to ensure that Genia's house inspection didn't include her room.

  She crawled into bed, nestling under the pink-flowered covering, wishing she could find oblivion in sleep. But there was no comfort to be found. She curled up around a lavender-scented pillow, clutching it to her with one hand, while the other hand balled around her locket.

  The suppressed feelings of the last two weeks burst forth, and she let loose the sobs she'd been holding back. She had no more hopeful words to bolster her spirits. Reality was worse than anything Elizabeth had imagined, and she dreaded what the future held for her.

  Pamela. The name brushed across her mind like the touch of an angel's wing.

  At the thought of her best friend, she eased her grip on the tear-soaked pillow. After Pamela had married and moved to Montana, the two women engaged in faithful correspondence. Only in her letters to Pamela would Elizabeth let down her reserve and pour out her feelings. Elizabeth might live in the east and Pamela in the west, but their hearts remained connected regardless of the miles between them.

  Shoving the coverlet aside, she slid out of bed. With a few watery sniffs, she made her way over to her writing desk, sat down, and pulled out her stationery.

  The act of putting pen to paper released a new flood of tears. Sentences gushed out almost quicker than her fingers could write. Her usually perfect copperplate handwriting slanted and squished its way across the paper.

  Teardrops splashed on the page, forming miniature pools, the ink rising to the surface before feathering across the letters. As she wrote, the constriction in her chest ceased, and the rush of words slowed.

  Elizabeth sniffed and signed the letter. As she scrawled Pamela's address, one last tear dropped, blurring a word. But when she blotted the script, the writing still remained legible enough to send.

  She dropped the letter on the desk and flexed the fingers of her hand, working out the cramps. The storm of emotion had passed, leaving her drained and exhausted, but calmer somehow. But would it be enough to help her face life with Genia?

  CHAPTER TWO

  SWEETWATER SPRINGS, MONTANA

  Nick Sanders gripped the raccoon-skin overcoat closer to his chest with one leather-gloved hand, while the other hand guided his horse around a large mud hole. Although the spring thaw had finally arrived, the brisk Montana wind nipped through the layers of clothing, chilling his body to ice. With every step, his Appaloosa, Freckles, kicked up muck. The mud splashed his chaps and clung to the horse's legs.

  At the outskirts of Sweetwater Springs, he reined in, thankful to be riding, not walking, through town. A murky quagmire spanned the main street. A few half-buried boards linked the false-fronted stores. For several years there had been a debate about building wooden sidewalks, but so far nothing had been done. If it were up to him, he'd vote for sidewalks—hell, he'd even help build 'em.

  When he reached the train station, Nick dismounted, grimacing as his boots sank six inches into the mire. With a grunt, he pulled one foot free, then the other, looped the reins around the depot rail, and slogged through the last few feet to the relative safety of the wooden stairs. He knocked the worst of the mud from his boots, then stepped onto the platform and hurried into the yellow and brown building.

  Nick pushed open the door, wrinkling his nose at the stale air. But he didn't stop until he reached the cast-iron stove in the corner. He yanked off his gloves, then held out his hands to the welcome warmth.

  Behind the counter next to the stove, the stationmaster huddled beneath several tattered wool scarves and a faded red Indian blanket.

  Nick nodded. "Afternoon, Jack."

  "Nick." His gray hair standing out in a bushy halo, the squat stationmaster bobbed his head toward the shelves behind him. "My rheumatism's painin' me somethin' fierce today. You'll have to get yer mail yerself."

  Wooden crates, stacked behind the counter and labeled with faded black letters, identified all of the Sweetwater Springs inhabitants who regularly received mail. Jack relegated the occasional letters or packages to a plain box on the floor.

  Reluctantly, Nick moved away from the stove, went behind Jack to scoop up the catalogues and a few envelopes from the wooden crate labeled Carter Ranch, and scooted back to the stove. The heat felt good, so he took his time while he paged through the mail. Most looked like business correspondence for John Carter. There was a letter for Nick from his Great-Aunt Agnes, and Miz Carter's father had written again, but it was the last envelope that caught his attention.

  Many a time he'd picked up letters sent from Pamela Carter's dearest friend in Boston, Miss Elizabeth Hamilton. He called to mind the portrait of Elizabeth and Pamela, painted right before Pamela's wedding, which hung in the parlor of the ranch house. Miz Carter had told him the picture was a good likeness of blonde, blue-eyed Elizabeth. The portrait always drew him. He snuck peeks at the Boston beauty whenever he was in the parlor.

  So, he was intimately familiar with the exquisitely formed copperplate writing scrolling across the expensive stationery Elizabeth used. But this time the usually perfect words straggled in slanted lines across the envelope. The watermark that marred the word "Mrs." could have been made by rain, but Nick doubted it. He ran his finger over the blotched letters.

  Not a raindrop, but a tear.

  The hand holding the letter tightened at the thought. A strange gut instinct told him Elizabeth Hamilton needed help, and the need tugged with such force, he could barely resist its pull. If she lived nearby, he'd mount his horse and ride to the rescue. But what could he do? She lived on the other side of the country, and he didn't even know her.

  Nick shook his head in frustration and tucked the letter inside his shirt next to his skin. He pulled a small canvas sack from his pocket and dropped the other mail inside.

  Still mesmerized by the need emanating from the missive, he pulled on his gloves, tilted his hat to the stationmaster, and stalked out the door. He wanted to head back to the ranch straight away to get the letter into Miz Carter's hands, but he still had to collect Mark and Sara Carter from school.

  Once outside the station, he could see children pouring out the door and down the steps of the white frame schoolhouse, the boys laughing and shoving each other, the girls in more sedate bunches. Some stopped to loiter under the large oak next to the building, while others scattered off. It should only take a minute for the Carter children to get their ponies from the livery stable, and they could all head home.

  As he rode closer, he spotted Sara holding the hand of an unfamiliar woman, and clutching a book and doll to her chest. He assumed she must be the new schoolteacher who'd arrived in town sometime after Christmas. He hadn't had a chance to meet her because the ranch had been snowed-in for weeks, and the children had taken their lessons with their mother.

  Sara caught sight of him, dropped the teacher's hand, and waved so hard the brown braids dangling beneath her red knitted cap bounced on her shoulders. He stifled a sigh. He hated talking to strangers, especially females, but didn't see a way out of it. For politeness' sake, he'd have to make another dismount into the mud.

  He slid off his horse, careful not to splash t
he woman or children.

  "Nick, Nick," Sara shrilled, her smile so big he could see the wide gap where she'd just lost her two front baby teeth. "This is our teacher, Miss Stanton."

  "Ma'am." Nick touched his hat. The teacher was a pretty little thing, her shiny brown hair rolled into a sleek bun, and the gray of her eyes matching the wool coat she wore. Those gray eyes sparkled up at him in a way that gave him an uneasy feeling in his stomach and dried up any words he might've said.

  "I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Sanders. The children have been telling me all about you. I gather you're their best friend."

  "Reckon so."

  Mark Carter strolled over, pretending to ignore his sister. Out of the corner of his eye, Nick noted the mischievous look on Mark's face. He reached over to place a restraining hand on the boy's shoulder, too late to stop the scuffling elbow he'd sent toward Sara.

  Sara's book and rag doll flew from her arm into the mud. "Catherine," she wailed, shoving her brother. In resisting, he stepped on her doll, pushing it into the muck.

  Nick grabbed Mark, squeezing his shoulder to stop any further attacks. "What kind of behavior is this? You apologize to Miss Stanton and your sister."

  Mark hung his head. "Sorry, ma'am."

  Miss Stanton nodded.

  "And your sister."

  Mark hesitated.

  Nick sent him a stern look.

  "Sorry, Sara."

  Nick turned Mark in the direction of the stables and gave him a gentle shove. "You go get saddled up."

  "Good-bye, Miss Stanton." Mark's mischievous grin reappeared, then he scampered off.

  Sara ignored her brother and stared down at her doll, its embroidered face so buried only the yellow yarn braids trailed free.

  Nick stooped to pick it up, but before his hand touched the muddy red gingham dress, a memory punched him so hard he had to resist snatching back his hand.

  Marcy’s doll.

  He tried to swallow down the unexpected lump of pain that jumped into his throat, threatening to choke him.

  The wagon accident had killed his parents and little sister while he’d remained safely at a friend’s house. He’d insisted on riding out to view the death site and seen the wagon smashed against the rocks by the bank of the snowmelt-swollen river. He refused to believe the truth, until his sister’s rag doll, buried in the mire next to a deeper indentation, made the nightmare all too real.

  Nick remembered holding that rag body cradled to his chest as he cried for what seemed like hours in gut-twisting torment, followed by a wave of shame for the unmanly tears. He’d angrily tossed the doll into the river and watched as the blood-red dress filled like a sail and floated away.

  Nick grabbed the leg of Sara's doll and pulled it free. Holding the doll dangling by the leg, he handed it to Sara.

  "Nick." Sara's tone protested his handling of her baby. She snatched it away from him.

  "Wait," he ordered. Glad of the excuse to turn his back and hide his feelings, he strode to his horse, opened the saddlebag and pulled out a gunnysack. "Put Catherine and your book in here. We'll clean them up at home."

  Sara complied.

  "Now," Nick said. "Go get your pony. And no more fighting with your brother."

  Sara wrinkled her nose at him, then turned to her teacher. "I'll see you tomorrow, Miss Stanton."

  "Don't forget to study those spelling words, Sara."

  "Yes, Miss Stanton."

  "You should get in out of the cold, ma'am." Nick wanted to escape. He needed time to settle down his thoughts.

  "Oh, I don't mind." Her smile showed straight teeth. "It's nice to stand. I've been doing a lot of sitting on a hard chair."

  He sent a sidelong glance to the stable. No sight of the children.

  "Sara told me your mama used to be the teacher in this very school."

  He nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

  "I'm honored to be following in her footsteps, Mr. Sanders."

  The pleasant memory of his mother sent warmth through the chill in his heart and loosened his tongue. "Just call me Nick, Miss Stanton. Anytime someone calls me Mr. Sanders it makes me look around for my pa."

  "Very well, Nick. If you'll call me Harriet."

  "No, ma'am. I couldn't do that, you being the schoolteacher and all." With a feeling of relief he saw Mark and Sara lead their ponies out of the stable. "Here come the children." He touched a forefinger to the brim of his hat. "I'd best be goin'."

  Nick mounted and headed toward the livery stable. He sensed Miss Stanton stayed outside, watching him ride away. He resisted scrunching his shoulder blades together and instead urged Freckles into a trot.

  He reached up to check the placement of Elizabeth's letter. As the paper crackled against his skin, the schoolteacher and uncomfortable feelings faded from his mind.

  "Come on, you two," he called to the children. "We've a long, cold ride, but there's a hot fire and warm soup awaitin' us."

  First Mark, then Sara kneed their ponies into a trot. Still holding his hand over the letter, feeling Elizabeth's need sear through his skin, Nick signaled Freckles to follow.

  The letter continued to burn against his heart, and Nick longed to turn it over to Miz Carter. Mark and Sara riding their ponies held him to a slower pace. By the time Nick and the children arrived at the ranch, their numb fingers could barely clutch the reins.

  Nick dismounted and hobbled a few stiff steps to the barn door. Pulling it open, he beckoned the children to lead their ponies inside before following with Freckles. Blinking several times to adjust his eyes to the darkened interior, he stepped inside, grateful to be out of the chill wind. The children quietly unsaddled their ponies and started grooming them.

  He longed for the warmth of the indoors, but Freckles needed his attention. It would take more than an urgent letter from Boston to make him abandon the needs of his horse.

  With a flurry of blue wool skirts, Pamela Carter entered the barn. "There you are, my dears." A blue and brown knitted shawl hung haphazardly around her shoulders as if just tossed on. Tendrils of brown hair slipped from a knot on the top of her head and curled around her plump face. Hurrying into the pony's stall, she hugged Sara. "You feel so cold, my darling. Are you all right?"

  "Yes, Mama. But look." She pulled the rag doll out of the sack and dangled its limp, muddy body in front of her mother. "Mark pushed me and made me drop her. Then he stepped on her face."

  "Oh, dear. Mark, you know better than to push your sister." Pamela shook her head and turned back to her daughter. "Why did you bring Catherine to school?"

  "I wanted to show Mildred the new dress you'd made for her."

  "You know school's no place for toys. From now on Catherine stays at home." Pamela kissed Sara's forehead, then walked into the other stall to stand next to Mark. "You're going to help me wash up Catherine, until she's clean as can be. Understand?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Good." Pamela ruffled Mark's hair. "Annie's made cookies in honor of your first day back to school."

  Mark and Sara whooped simultaneously.

  "When you're finished with the horses, you can each have one cookie. Just don't spoil your dinner."

  Nick waited until the children had finished and returned to the house. Before Miz Carter followed, he slipped the letter from underneath his shirt and handed it to her. "It's from Miss Hamilton. I think something's wrong."

  Pamela's brown eyes darkened with worry. "What makes you say that?"

  How could I tell her it’s just a feeling. "Look at the envelope."

  She reached for the letter, backed toward the nearest hay bale, and sat down. Glancing at the writing, she tore the envelope open, and scanned the letter.

  "She's not ill, thank God, and no one has died." Pamela relaxed her rigid posture. "Her brother Laurence, whom everyone thought was a confirmed bachelor, has married unexpectedly. I can't believe it." She shook her head. "Poor Elizabeth."

  "Why's that bad news?" Nick asked.

  "Laurence's marria
ge will certainly change things for her." Pamela gave another sad sigh. "Apparently his new wife isn't very kind."

  Nick frowned. In a protective urge, his fingers brushed the side of his coat covering his gun. Realizing his gesture, he jerked his hand back and laced his fingers behind his back.

  He couldn't understand his strange reaction to this woman's plight. But then again, he'd always felt an attraction to Elizabeth's portrait. He didn't have to interact with a painting, not like a real woman. She was safe--a Boston beauty, as far above him as an angel.

  "Can't she live with someone else?"

  Pamela shook her head. "There is no one else. And she certainly couldn't live alone. That's not done in Boston."

  "It's a shame she never found someone to marry." Strange how those words tugged at his heart.

  Pamela gave the letter a thoughtful glance. "Maybe she will now. It's really her only solution." Her finger traced the tearstains on the paper. "She was crying when she wrote this." Pamela's eyes filled with tears threatening to spill. "I hate that she's so unhappy, and I'm not there to help."

  Nick leaned closer and awkwardly patted her shoulder. "You should invite Miss Hamilton here."

  Pamela's tears vanished in an eager smile. She bounced off the hay bale. "What a lovely idea."

  He took a hasty step backward.

  "I'm sure John won't mind. I'll ask when he comes in." She whirled around and almost tripped over her skirt in her haste, then hurried out of the barn.

  Nick shook his head in wonder. What have I opened my mouth and gotten myself in to? I can’t say more than two sentences to a woman without fidgeting.

  When he thought of Elizabeth Hamilton living at the ranch where he could see her every day, he didn't know whether to kick up his heels like a spring colt or saddle up and ride away to the next state.

  CHAPTER THREE

  "Good morning, Miss Hamilton."

  Josie's cheerful greeting woke Elizabeth from a light doze. The maid poured hot water from a pitcher into the porcelain washbasin, then sprinkled in a few dried rose petals. "Would you be getting up and going down to breakfast?"