Wild Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series)

by Debra Holland

  The horror of those words uprooted her. Spinster. Old maid. Her knees shook, and she crossed the room searching for a safe harbor. There. Nick Sanders. He must have arrived while she spoke to Mr. Lloyd. Thank God. He'd be unaware of the undercurrents rippling through the room.

  Even through her distress, Elizabeth noticed how handsome the cowboy looked. Long wavy hair, tucked behind his ears, just brushed his shoulders. The green in the patterned waistcoat worn under his black suit emphasized the color of his eyes. She hoped Laurence and Genia had given him a polite, if not warm, welcome.

  He turned his head, and his gaze met hers. The admiration in his eyes worked like a balm to her wounded spirits. Old maid, indeed. At least this young man thought otherwise. As she reached his side, the dinner bell rang.

  "May I escort you in to dinner?" He extended an arm to her. She smiled and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.

  Nick didn't move for a moment, his gaze traveling over her flushed face. "Something's upset you."

  The concern in his voice brought a lump to her throat. This stranger, who'd barely met her, had noticed her feelings. She tried to swallow. How different from her own brother....

  Nick must have seen the answer in her eyes. With a swift glance around the room, he laid his hand over hers. "I guess a dinner party's not the place to talk about it."

  Feeling heartened by the touch of his hand on hers, Elizabeth managed a slight smile. "We'd better go to dinner."

  Entering the dining room, Elizabeth paused and took a deep breath. This would be the first party since her parents' deaths where she would not sit as the hostess at the foot of the table.

  She directed Nick to her chair, and let him pull it out. She nodded, murmured her thanks, and sat down.

  The familiar room embraced her, and she relaxed. Genia hadn't made her mark here yet. Candlelight blazed from crystal chandeliers over the long table draped in heavy white linen, while gaslight shone from the sconces on the wall. The Georgian silver, engraved with the Hamilton crest, which her great-grandfather had brought from England, shone in the flickering light.

  Her own preference for blue was apparent in the royal-blue velvet curtains pulled across the windows and the blue and gold flowered chair cushions embroidered by her grandmother. The room looked beautiful, as always. I’m the one who’s different.

  "Miss Hamilton," said a simpering female voice. "I do believe you're sitting in my chair."

  "What---?" Elizabeth looked up in confusion. Grace Lloyd stood next to her, pointing to the place card. Elizabeth's gaze followed her finger. The calligraphied name leapt out at her-- Miss Grace Lloyd.

  What happened? This was my seat. Where is my place card? She rose to her feet, her heart racing. "I'm so sorry," she murmured with a distracted smile. "I must not have been paying attention."

  By this time most of the guests had found their proper seats, and Elizabeth knew curious gazes rested upon her. Trying not to look as flustered as she felt, she moved along the table, checking the place cards. Heat raced through her body, and her breath came in quick, quiet gasps. Where was her seat? Time stretched. It was taking forever to find it. Now all eyes were upon her. Embarrassment flushed her face.

  Across the table, Nick met her eyes. He half rose to help her.

  "Over here." Lucinda Simmons waved to her, and for one foolish moment, Elizabeth experienced a rush of gratitude.

  Mrs. Simmons gave her a malicious smile, and pointed to an empty place. In an undertone audible to several people, she said, "I moved you next to young Mr. Lloyd. He's so eligible."

  Elizabeth's face tightened. She forced a polite smile in return and, crossing to the empty chair, slid into her seat. She took great care in unfolding her napkin.

  Nick, seated across the table next to Sylvia, communicated encouragement with a smile, and a slight nod.

  She couldn't smile back. Nor could she bear to look at Sylvia. She knew her friend's eyes would be full of compassion, or even pity, that would overset Elizabeth's fragile composure.

  Movement to her left drew her attention. Mr. Lloyd picked up his napkin, shook out the linen and placed it in his lap. He glanced around the room, his gaze coming to rest on a large oil painting of a clipper ship in full sail upon a stormy sea. Two other paintings, one of bustling Boston harbor, and another of surf smashing on a rocky beach, evidently also caught his notice.

  "What interesting paintings, Miss Hamilton," he said. "It's rather unusual to hang seascapes in the dining room. One usually just sees boring still lifes of mounds of fruit or dead fowl. These are quite good. Do you know the artist?"

  By this time, Elizabeth had recovered her outer self-possession. With his compliments, her tight muscles further relaxed. "Actually, I painted them."

  "My dear Miss Hamilton, I'm impressed. Usually ladies never graduate from watercolors."

  Across the table, she could see Nick listening to their conversation. "I enjoy watercolors as well," she said. "However, here you see the best results of my oil painting stage."

  "I'd like to see the rest of your work." He looked down her dress, and his voice lowered. "I consider myself quite a connoisseur of art, Miss Hamilton. Or may I call you Elizabeth? After all, our sisters are close friends."

  The warmth she had felt at his compliment dissolved. "I haven't painted in several years, Mr. Lloyd," she said with cool emphasis on his name. "I've been much too busy."

  "That's too bad. Such talent must not wither away. Now that your brother's married, you'll be free to resume your painting.... Although perhaps other things might claim your attention." His hand slid over her knee.

  Elizabeth shifted away from his touch. Repulsive man.

  In her attempts to speak with the half-deaf Vice-Admiral, Mrs. Simmons voice boomed down the length of the table. "I've been telling my daughter she really must commence with the decorating of this house. Her furniture should be here in a few weeks. She has everything in the latest style. Her home in New York was quite, quite beautiful ... very much admired ... and I'm sure she'll make this one just as lovely."

  Startled glances flitted Elizabeth's way. The clink of silver on china stilled. Listeners paused with forks suspended in air. Her stomach tightened, but she pretended not to hear Mrs. Simmons' remarks.

  "Oh, I don't know," Michael Lloyd said to Mrs. Simmons. "I rather like the present decor, especially these paintings."

  Genia leaned forward; the Hamilton diamonds around her neck sparkled in the candlelight. "Then, my dear Michael, you must have them. Come for the pictures in a few weeks. My own will have arrived by then."

  Elizabeth stifled a gasp at Genia's effrontery. How dare her sister-in-law give her paintings away! She looked up the table to Laurence, but he was deep in discussion with his dinner partner, and oblivious to his wife's manipulations.

  Sylvia flashed a concerned look at Elizabeth, then down along the diners to Genia. "Mrs. Hamilton, perhaps you don't realize Elizabeth painted these."

  "Did she? Elizabeth, I had no idea you painted. You don't mind, do you? My paintings are by some of New York's premier artists. You'll love them. And I'm sure you don't want your paintings just sitting in the attic collecting dust."

  More covert glances shot Elizabeth's way. She didn't know whether to get up and slap the smug look off Genia's face or slide under the table and not emerge until the last guest had left. Of course she didn't want to part with her paintings. But Genia had put her in such a humiliating position by publicly offering them to Mr. Lloyd, that she couldn't let the woman's audacity go unanswered.

  She was formulating a firm rejoinder when Nick came to her rescue.

  "Actually, Miz Carter once told me that Miss Hamilton had promised her any paintings she wanted to part with. Therefore, I believe Miz Carter has prior claim." His steady green gaze pinned Genia to her chair.

  Genia shifted in seeming discomfort. "Well, of course, but it would be quite an undertaking to package and to ship them out to her ranch."

  "I'll be gl
ad to take them back with me. I'm sure Miz Carter will enjoy them."

  With an acknowledgment of his head, Mr. Lloyd conceded the paintings.

  Sylvia leaned closer to Nick. Although she kept her voice low, Elizabeth still heard her say, "Well done, Mr. Sanders."

  Now that the confrontation had passed, Elizabeth's anger receded, leaving her shaky. She looked down at her lap, twisting the linen napkin. She couldn't bear to see the pity or curiosity on their faces. Her throat burned, and her eyes stung with unshed tears.

  She fought the urge to flee from the table, fling open the front doors, and run into the street. And she wouldn't stop. She'd never stop. She'd run--frantically, breathlessly, until she collapsed.

  She looked up and met Nick's eyes. The support she saw in his green gaze caused her to stiffen her spine. Oh, no, she wouldn't. She'd never give Genia that satisfaction.

  She'd survive this party. She'd get through the next hour with a minimum amount of conversation and, since her stomach was tied in a knot, an even smaller amount of food. Then she only had to endure time alone with the ladies while the men enjoyed their port. Another hour when the men joined the ladies for tea, then the evening would be over. She could escape to the sanctuary of her room.

  The party would be over, but sometime tomorrow Elizabeth would still have to emerge. Her life stretched out before her. Long days of boredom, punctuated by endless humiliations. She'd tried, truly tried, to adjust to Laurence's marriage. Had Genia been kind and understanding, surely she would have succeeded. Now she knew the task to be impossible.

  Across the table, Nick's green eyes met hers. The compassion and understanding in them almost made her weep.

  In that moment, she made her decision. She'd go west with him. She could no longer bear to live in Boston. The Western banker floated through her thoughts. And maybe, there'd be a new man.

  Sudden hope lifted her gray spirits. As soon as this party was over, she'd start packing.

  #

  Elizabeth slowly descended the broad marble staircase. Her gloved hand trailed along the smooth mahogany banister, then tightened at the memory of her childhood slides down the straight length. She remembered how her heart had raced in a combination of excitement and fear as she sailed down the railing--not unlike her current feelings.

  Laurence was the only one who knew about her mischievous behavior. Sometimes, when she knew he was home, she would perch on the banister waiting for him to enter the foyer. As he crossed the hall she would release her grip, hoping to take him by surprise. But halfway down her giggles always gave her away. When she reached the bottom he'd catch her in his strong arms, whirling her around until they were both breathless with laughter. "Fly away, little bird," he'd tease. "Someday you're going to grow too big for me."

  Elizabeth sighed. Were we really that young and playful? When had Laurence become so stodgy?

  It must have been after their parents had died, and he'd had to take over the business.

  Below her, Laurence paced the entry, stopping to take out his gold pocket watch and check the time. He glanced up and saw her. "Ah, there you are." He lost his worried frown. "There's not much time, Elizabeth. The carriage is waiting. Your trunks are already loaded. You know we told that Sanders fellow you'd be early." His frown returned. "I don't know where Genia is."

  Elizabeth continued her measured descent. The skirt of her blue woolen dress trailed behind her. It might be a long time, if ever, before she trod these stairs. She wouldn't be hurried.

  Some of her feelings must have shown on her face, for Laurence stepped forward. In a rare show of emotion, he took her hand to guide her down the last two steps.

  For a moment, she flashed back to when it was just them--before Genia.

  True concern shone in his eyes. This was the brother she had always loved. "It's not too late to change your mind," he said.

  Tears sprang to her eyes. It is too late, Laurence. Unable to manage a reply, she squeezed his hand.

  He patted her arm. "I shall miss you, my dear sister."

  "Thank you, Laurence. I shall miss you too."

  Petticoats rustled in the landing above. "There you are, my dears." Genia's voice sang out like a knife slicing between them.

  Laurence dropped Elizabeth's hand. He glanced up at Genia, a look of reproof on his face, the first she'd ever seen directed at his wife.

  "You almost missed Elizabeth's departure, Genia," he chided.

  "Martha took forever to do my hair." Genia patted her coiffed dark curls, and glided down the stairway. Her eyes assessed Elizabeth's appearance. "Elizabeth, my dear, how clever of you to wear an old traveling outfit." Genia continued down the last three steps, complacently smoothing the dark-green silk morning dress that had arrived from the dressmaker earlier in the week. "It may not be in style here, but those westerners will be impressed."

  "I doubt that," Elizabeth said, her tone wry. She grasped a fold of her dress and held it out. "After four days of traveling, I won't be in any condition to impress anyone. Not even my traveling coat will protect this dress from the dirt and cinders of the train. I'm sure I'll have to throw it away."

  "Such an adventure. I'm sure you'll have a wonderful time." Genia pulled a lace handkerchief from beneath the cuff of her sleeve and dabbed daintily at her eyes. She glanced up at her husband. "This is so sad. We'll miss her, won't we, Laurence?"

  "We shall indeed." This time his voice held the approving tone he usually used with his wife.

  Elizabeth knew there were no tears behind that handkerchief. The two women had not become closer in the last few days. Only her eminent departure kept the uncomfortable situation from becoming even more strained. She suspected the minute Elizabeth left the house, Genia might pick up her skirts and dance a jig.

  That picture of her sister-in-law banished the last of Elizabeth's melancholy. She couldn't wait to get away from Genia. She accepted her sister-in-law's insincere kiss on her cheek, and then a heartfelt one from her brother.

  "Remember," Laurence said, his voice gruff, "you always have a home with us."

  "I'll remember. Good-bye." Without a backward glance, Elizabeth turned and walked out the door toward the waiting carriage.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A thin stream of tobacco juice narrowly missed the brass spittoon, landing with a splat on the wooden floor of the train. Elizabeth closed her eyes in disgust, but the lack of vision didn't help. She could still hear the sound of spitting and the ping the juice made when it landed in the spittoon, or the plop as it hit the floor.

  Her closed eyes spared her the sight of the old man sitting across the aisle with his wild gray hair and dirty clothes. But only holding her nose would shut out the odor of a body that hadn't been washed since long before boarding the train.

  She'd been dismayed when he chose the seat across from her and had wondered how he could afford a first class ticket. Now she didn't dare meet his eyes because he'd already offered a gap-toothed grin that he seemed to expect her to acknowledge. Instead, she focused her gaze out the window.

  The excitement of her adventure had faded. If I had known what it would be like, I wouldn’t have come. The words had become a refrain, running through her head to the accompaniment of the rackety train wheels. I’ll go mad if this journey isn’t over soon.

  After four days of traveling Elizabeth felt stiff, exhausted and grimy. She desperately needed a bath and a long sleep in a comfortable bed. She abhorred the lack of privacy, and hated making a toilette behind closed curtains in a swaying, cramped space.

  She'd barely seen Nick. He stayed in the stock car with the golden stallion, Midas. Sometimes he'd check on Elizabeth during the train's brief stops, but they never had much time for conversation because he had to take the opportunity to exercise the horse.

  She was lucky she had her thoughts for company. Most of the trip, she'd spent thinking or dozing. She had few regrets about leaving the people in Boston, but gazing out the window as the ever-changing landscape rushed by
, she found herself remembering the places in Boston that she might never see again, especially the ocean. In her mind, she had revisited her favorites, imprinting them on her heart.

  Exhaustion and impatience to arrive flooded her. Between the noise of the train and the snores of her fellow passengers, Elizabeth had slept very little. Her eyes felt gritty from the dust and lack of sleep.

  Soon, it would be over....

  #

  "Sweetwater Springs! Sweetwater Springs." The conductor's voice interrupted her light doze.

  Elizabeth jerked herself upright. Thank God, we’ve finally arrived. Keeping her face averted from the man across the aisle, she smoothed the linen duster protecting her dress.

  With its whistle blowing amid billowing steam and a whoosh of brakes, the train pulled into the small station of Sweetwater Springs. She stifled a sigh of disappointment. The town looked similar to dozens of others she'd seen on her journey--a broad dirt street flanked by false-fronted wooden buildings. She'd hoped for something larger.

  A woman carrying a basket and wearing a sunbonnet and plain brown dress crossed the street, trailed by a mangy yellow dog. She entered the only brick building in sight, leaving the dog behind on the porch. "Cobb's Mercantile," painted in large letters on the plate glass window, proclaimed the name of the shop.

  Three old men had planted themselves on a bench on the side of the depot platform as if they'd nothing more important to do than sit and gossip all day. They eyed the train, scrutinizing the disembarking passengers. No doubt Elizabeth would be the next subject of their speculation.

  She gathered her possessions together, rose from her seat at the back of the carriage, and walked down the aisle. The conductor followed with her baggage. Squeezing by her, he stepped down from the train. He set her carpetbag, satchel, and a hatbox on the landing, then turned to help her down.

  She thanked him, and inhaled a deep breath of crisp, clean air. What a relief to not have to smell the soot from the engine and the unpleasant odors of her fellow passengers. At last she stood on firm ground! She took several steps, reeling slightly like a sailor just off a ship.