Wild Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series)

by Debra Holland

  Elizabeth had an uneasy tightening in her stomach. She hadn't seen that expression on her friend's face for many years, but she knew what it signified. Pamela’s just switched into her matchmaking mode. Before Elizabeth could figure out why the idea of a match between those two bothered her, John strolled over with the Cobbs and introduced them.

  The Cobbs reminded Elizabeth of the Jack Sprat rhyme--he, tall and lean, she, short and stout. A fringe of gray-and-brown hair circled Mr. Cobb's bald head, and his red, bulbous nose, made her wonder if he spent too much time imbibing spirits.

  Wearing a black silk dress, ornamented with a froth of lace pinned on her bodice with a cameo, Mrs. Cobb looked Elizabeth up and down. Her small brown eyes seemed to shrewdly assess the value of each article of Elizabeth's apparel.

  Elizabeth tried to show interest in being introduced to the Cobbs, while at the same time keeping an eye on Miss Stanton and Nick. Across the room, the teacher chattered away, her hand intimately placed on the wrangler's arm, her gaze locked onto his face. Elizabeth couldn't overhear their words, but judging by Nick's rigid stance and the tug he'd just given his collar, he wasn't comfortable.

  Reverend Norton, clad in a rusty black suit, ministerial dignity radiating from his thin, white-bearded face, entered the parlor, his wife in tow.

  "Miss Hamilton, welcome to Montana." Mr. Norton's voice boomed over Elizabeth. "I understand you're from Boston."

  "Yes, I am."

  "We originally hail from Cambridge."

  "I know several families there."

  "Elizabeth." Pamela waved her over to meet the late arriving Dr. and Mrs. Cameron.

  The couple exuded vitality and the other guests greeted them with warmth. Traces of a Scottish accent laced their apologies for tardiness. As she talked, Mrs. Cameron's mop of sandy curls almost sprang from the confining hairpins. Freckles danced across her nose, in tune to the cadence of her speech.

  Her husband, although wearing the traditional side-whiskers and Prince Albert coat of a successful doctor, had straight auburn hair that looked as if he'd run his fingers through it. His coat pockets sagged and bulged.

  He reached into one and pulled out a sweet for Lizzy, chucking her under her small chin, and eliciting one of her shy smiles. What a kind man. He must be a good doctor.

  When would Mr. Livingston arrive? She held her neck locked to avoid glancing toward the doorway every few seconds, instead politely focusing on her conversation with Mrs. Cameron. But the lively doctor's wife pulled her into an interesting exchange of ideas about adjusting to Montana.

  Intent on their discussion, she missed his entrance. But Pamela guided him straight toward her.

  Elizabeth's breath caught, and her heart beat with a slow, painful rhythm. The tall, handsome man moving toward her looked the very image of her beloved Richard. The same wide-set brown eyes, the same straight nose. Richard, yet not Richard. She reached up to touch her locket, remembered she wasn't wearing it, and dropped her hand to her side.

  Beside him, Pamela gestured. "Mr. Livingston, I'd like you to meet my dear friend from Boston, Miss Elizabeth Hamilton. She turned. "Elizabeth, meet Mr. Caleb Cabot Livingston, our town banker."

  "Mr. Livingston." Elizabeth greeted him with an extended hand, while at the same time struggling not to show her reaction at his resemblance to her dear departed Richard.

  The man bowed, lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. "Mrs. Carter didn't tell me what a beautiful friend she had." His voice was lighter than Richard's, more tenor compared to her beloved's baritone, but warm, just as she remembered. He held her hand a few seconds longer, then turned it over and lightly ran his thumb over the center of her palm.

  Shock reverberated through Elizabeth; tears sprang to her eyes. She lowered her lashes in what she hoped would be taken as an appearance of modesty. He'd given her Richard's secret signal--the extra touch of the thumb on her palm after the more conventional kiss on the hand. It had been her beloved's way of saying, "I love you," whenever he greeted her in public.

  "I'm delighted to meet you, Miss Hamilton. I sincerely hope you enjoy your visit to Montana."

  Please, please don’t let him notice my reaction, she prayed. How could she possibly explain tears? Caught between painful memory and exciting reality, Elizabeth blinked the moisture away, summoning her composure.

  From the corner of her eye, she caught Nick staring at their joined hands, a stormy frown on his face. Miss Stanton tapped him on the arm, and he looked at her.

  Elizabeth turned her attention back toward Mr. Livingston. "Thank you, Mr. Livingston," she said a trifle breathlessly. "Montana is..." she caught her breath, "more than I'd ever hoped."

  She steadied herself with her other hand on the back of a nearby chair and cast a covert glance at Pamela. The mischievous look on her friend's face banished her strange feeling of faintness. Apparently Pamela didn't comprehend the intensity of her reaction.

  As Elizabeth moved to withdraw her hand from Mr. Livingston's, he again stroked her palm with his thumb. Shivers of warmth raced up her arm, setting fire to her rapidly beating heart. She wanted to sink into his embrace, but before she could speak, Mrs. Cameron claimed his attention.

  As he talked with the doctor's wife, Elizabeth studied him. Richard's hair had been darker, and he'd had a cleft in his chin. Mr. Livingston stood taller, and his shoulders weren't as broad as Elizabeth remembered Richard's being. The Patrician nose matched Richard's, although perhaps Mr. Livingston's was slightly longer.

  She kept the banker in her awareness even though she interacted with the other guests. She barely knew what she said, but she wasn't receiving any strange looks so her behavior couldn't be too odd.

  To distract herself, Elizabeth watched the children greet the adults. They looked quite different from the urchins of the past few days: scrubbed, dressed in their good clothes and warned to be on their best behavior.

  Tomboy Sara had transformed into a little lady. Her hair, held back with a navy velvet ribbon, dangled in corkscrew curls halfway down her back. The child kept smoothing her matching blue-velvet dress, as though pleased with the material.

  Mr. Livingston didn't seem to be a favorite with the children, which gave Elizabeth an unexpected pang. They greeted him with politeness. He acknowledged their presence, said a few short words, then moved away from them to join the Addisons. Belatedly, Elizabeth realized that they didn't know Mr. Livingston well. They'd hardly spend time with the town banker.

  Across the room, the children swarmed around Miss Stanton and Nick. Mark and Sara competed to tell their teacher something, while Lizzy slipped her hand into Nick's and leaned into his leg, a trusting expression on her face. Elizabeth couldn't make out what they said, but she recognized the argumentative postures Mark and Sara used with each other.

  Judging by the pout on Sara's face, Mark won the competition. As if in consolation, Miss Stanton seated herself on the sofa and drew Sara toward her, while Mark continued talking. Miss Stanton looked up at Nick, said something, and patted the place next to her. He shook his head, but she persisted until he complied.

  Elizabeth struggled with envious feelings about the familial tableau before her. Why did it matter to her if Miss Stanton held Nick and the children's attention? Her gaze strayed to Mr. Livingston. In watching his profile, so like Richard's, her attraction to him strengthened and the feelings of envy subsided.

  Annie entered the room and nodded to Pamela. Pamela signaled Dawn to lead the children upstairs, while the guests followed the Carters toward the dining room.

  To Elizabeth's great pleasure, Mr. Livingston approached her. "May I escort you to dinner, Miss Hamilton?" He extended his arm.

  She flashed him a brilliant smile. "I'd be delighted, Mr. Livingston." She slipped her hand through the crook of his arm. She rested her fingers on his sleeve, her cheeks flushed, smile wide like a giddy girl. Our first walk to dinner. How well we fit together. Does he feel the significance of this moment?

  She glan
ced upward to see his reaction. His smile, so like Richard's, set her heart pounding. Her body felt so light she could practically walk on tiptoe. She floated through the few steps to the dining room where their brief contact concluded far too quickly; she could have walked beside him for hours.

  "In this room, one might feel he was back in Boston," Mr. Livingston commented, looking around at the mahogany table set with the Rose Pompadour service. Maroon flowered wallpaper and heavy maroon velvet curtains complimented the rose pattern on the plates. Elizabeth recognized some of the silver pieces as belonging to Pamela's mother. She hadn't seen them here before, Pamela clearly only brought them out for special occasions.

  "Yes, it does," Elizabeth agreed. "Pamela and I picked out the pattern of the dishes before her marriage. She decorated the room to match."

  John strode to the head of the table and sat down. Mr. Livingston seated Elizabeth on John's left, then pulled out the chair to her right. It pleased Elizabeth to see Mrs. Cameron take a seat across from her, with Nick by her side, although her pleasure dimmed when Miss Stanton seated herself on Nick's other side. Nor did she like how Mrs. Cobb settled next to Mr. Livingston and immediately claimed his attention.

  Elizabeth made eye contact with Pamela, who was taking her place at the foot of the table. The two women exchanged warm smiles before her friend turned to her left to answer a question from Dr. Cameron.

  Over dinner, talk ranged from a discussion of ranch matters, to community problems, to politics. Elizabeth let the conversation flow around her. In a blur of joy, only vaguely aware of what was being said, she joined in very little of the discussion. However, she managed to focus her attention on the conversation when Mr. Livingston made a comment. His responses sounded intelligent and conservative.

  She tried not to be obvious in her sideways glances at him. Even in profile, he had Richard's high cheekbones. She couldn't get over her reaction to his appearance. His presence felt so familiar; she found it difficult to refrain from touching him. With Richard there had always been an exchange of discrete light touches on the arm or brushes of the leg whenever they sat next to each other.

  Once she looked across the table at Nick and noticed him watching her with a shadowed expression in his green eyes. For a moment, her happiness dimmed. Could he sense her attraction to Mr. Livingston? Their glances held, then he turned away to reply to a remark addressed to him by Miss Stanton.

  Seated next to Miss Stanton, Mr. Addison, who'd been quietly attacking his food, spoke up when the conversation lulled. "My mare cast a shoe. Second time this month."

  John chuckled. "Never was much of a blacksmith, Addison. Better ask Nick, here, if he'll re-shoe her."

  "I'm not much of a smith either," Nick said. "Sure will be glad when Red Charlie gets his blacksmith shop up and running." He glanced across the table at Mr. Livingston. "Know how much longer it'll take?"

  Mr. Addison gave the banker a curious look. "He going to buy it from Reinhart's widow?"

  "That's what he wanted," the banker said, "but I had to refuse him the loan."

  Across the table Nick's knife clattered against his plate. "Why on earth did you do that?" he asked.

  Mr. Livingston lifted his eyebrows. "Loan money to an Indian without collateral? I hardly think so."

  The warm glow in Elizabeth's heart faltered.

  Nick scowled back. "Red Charlie's a good man and a hard worker. It shouldn't matter that he's an Indian."

  "You mistake me, Sanders." Mr. Livingston sent a quelling look across the table. "I'm not making a judgment on his ability to work hard, nor on him being an Indian. It's his lack of collateral I object to. Banks have gone under by overextending themselves in that way. I'm not going to allow that to happen in Sweetwater Springs. Too many people have entrusted me with their savings."

  Nick's eyes glittered like emeralds. "Red Charlie knows more about horses than anyone around these parts."

  Miss Stanton touched him on the arm. "Not more than you, Nick. After the way you tamed Outlaw---"

  "I didn't tame him. I just worked with him in a way he could trust." Nick's words sounded calm, but one hand crumpled the linen napkin in his fist. "Much of what I did with Outlaw, I learned from Red Charlie."

  Mr. Cobb waved his fork in a big circle. "Shouldn't have one of those redskins running a business anyway. Looks bad for the whole town. As my pa always said, the only good Indian's a dead Indian." He stabbed the fork into the table.

  Elizabeth winced at the harsh words and lack of respect. At the foot of the table, Pamela echoed her movement. Even John frowned at the man. Cobb shoved a forkful of potatoes into his mouth, and smiled vacantly at the minister.

  Clearing his throat, Mr. Norton reproved in his best pulpit tone. "Now, Mr. Cobb, that's hardly a Christian attitude. Remember it's our duty to bring the word of the Lord to the heathen."

  Mrs. Cobb's plump bosom quivered with indignation. "They're always hanging around outside the store, the lazy, drunken thieves," she said with a shrillness that caused Elizabeth to wince again. "I don't let them inside until I see their money in hand."

  A wave of dislike for the Cobbs and their attitude swept over Elizabeth. In Boston, she'd never given any thought to Indians. Dawn was the first Indian she'd met. Elizabeth liked her. Thank goodness the girl wasn't around to hear the Cobbs' horrible words.

  Nick spoke with controlled emphasis. "There's good Indians and bad, just as there's good and bad white men." He shot a dagger-glance at the merchant. "Red Charlie's a good one."

  At the head of the table, John shifted in his seat. "Actually, Livingston, I'd appreciate it if you'd reconsider." The tone sounded quiet, but the words, uttered by the foremost rancher in the county, hung heavily in the air. "Being fairly new to Sweetwater Springs, you might not be aware of his reputation. I agree with Nick. Red Charlie's a good man and a fine blacksmith."

  "You'd save me a great deal of trouble," Dr. Cameron added. "I've had to patch up several men who tried to do their own smithing. We could use an expert."

  "How 'bout if I stand pledge for him?" Nick asked.

  Mr. Livingston raised a questioning eyebrow. "With what?"

  "My string of horses."

  "How many?"

  "Eleven. Eight in foal."

  "Good offer," Mr. Addison spoke up. "Best horses in the county."

  The banker looked unconvinced. "Horses are speculative. Especially since you haven't established yourself with your own ranching operation, Sanders."

  "I'll stand pledge, Livingston." John spoke with firmness. "I think I'm established enough for you. You'd hardly turn me down."

  "If you're willing to do that for him, Carter, then I believe we can work out a deal."

  Murmurs buzzed around the table.

  Elizabeth relaxed.

  "I'll ride into town next week, and we can draw up the papers." John reached for his wine glass and saluted the banker.

  Annie entered the room carrying a towering chocolate seven-layer cake. As if to dispel the tension in the room, everyone focused their attention on dessert. Between bites of Annie's delicious cake, Pamela turned the conversation to a safer subject.

  "Elizabeth has brought the latest music with her," she announced. "Unlike me, she's kept up regular practice."

  "I hope you'll play for us, Miss Hamilton," Mr. Livingston said.

  "I'm sure Elizabeth will oblige," Pamela said.

  "Only if you all remember that I haven't touched an instrument for a week. Perhaps," she said with a teasing smile directed first toward Pamela and then Mr. Livingston, "my fingers won't play as well in Montana."

  "I'm sure we'll take that into consideration," Mr. Livingston responded with a grave look on his face.

  Taken aback by his serious response, Elizabeth's cheeks heated in embarrassment. Obviously, he hadn't been able to tell she was joking. Well, she couldn't wait to demonstrate her skill.

  "In addition to hearing Miss Hamilton play, I'd love to hear that lovely composition of Nick's," Mi
ss Stanton said with a flirtatious smile in Nick's direction. "Mark has mentioned to me how much he likes it."

  "I'm afraid Mark's musical taste isn't very well developed," Nick said.

  Pamela set down her fork. "Nick, don't be so modest," she chided. "It's a beautiful piece, and I'd love you to play for us."

  "Oh, yes, please, Nick." Miss Stanton tugged on his arm.

  He ignored her, glancing in Elizabeth's direction.

  She smiled encouragement.

  Seeming to make up his mind, he nodded at Pamela.

  "Wonderful," Pamela said.

  "Oh, Nick, I'm so delighted," Miss Stanton gushed, sending him another flirtatious smile.

  The schoolteacher's fawning over Nick irritated Elizabeth. Did she have to be so obvious in her preference for the cowboy?

  "Perhaps if everyone is finished eating," Pamela said, looking around the table, "we could proceed to the music room. I'll have Annie bring the tea tray there."

  Mr. Livingston stood up, pulled Elizabeth's chair back, and assisted her to her feet. Across the table she saw Nick do the same for Miss Stanton. The proprietary way the teacher put her hand through Nick's arm bothered Elizabeth. The woman’s too forward. She immediately chided herself for her uncharitable thoughts. Why should it matter to her how Miss Stanton behaved with Nick?

  But it did, and for a moment confusion unsettled her.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Pamela and John led the way to the music room. Everyone stood to follow.

  Elizabeth caught up with them, and hooked her arm through Pamela's. "Thanks for warning me," she said with mild sarcasm.

  "About what?" Pamela asked with a puzzled look.

  "Playing tonight."

  Pamela tilted her head. "I'm sorry. I just took it for granted. In Boston you always played for company."

  "I could have done with a little practice."

  "I haven't practiced either. Besides, on your worst day you still play better than I do."

  "Why don't you play first?"

  "I'll end the evening playing some songs we can sing. That way it won't matter if I make mistakes. Why don't you start with that new piece by Mr. Liszt?"