Mail-Order Brides of the West: Trudy (A Montana Sky Series Novel)

by Debra Holland

  When Seth reached the smithy, he didn’t go inside, but leaned against his wagon, listening to the clang-clang metal sounds Reinhart’s hammer made. A saddle straddling a rail outside the shop, with a colorful Indian blanket folded underneath and a paper pinned to the top, caught Seth’s eye. He sauntered closer to read the printing and saw the saddle was for sale.

  A smaller, lighter version than the one he used, the saddle was a perfect fit for a Western woman. He wondered if Trudy knew how to ride, then figured even if she did, she’d probably ridden with one of those fancy Eastern sidesaddles. Either way, she needed to get around on horseback, and if necessary, he’d teach her. He thought back but couldn’t remember a saddle among his wife’s numerous possessions. Surely if she’d brought one, it would have ended up in the barn where he would have seen it.

  Seth pulled off the paper and examined the saddle. The leather was well maintained, with little sign of wear. He wondered if it had even seen much use. He picked up the saddle and examined the underside, then the girth and the stirrups. Absorbed in his study, he didn’t realize silence had settled on the smithy.

  “Campbell’s selling that. His daughter’s.” Reinhart growled the words from his place at the anvil.

  Seth had to think a moment to recall just who Campbell was. Hadn’t met the man more than a time or two. But he remembered hearing his only daughter had taken sick.

  Reinhart pointed at the saddle with one smoke-blackened hand. “She never uses it anymore, and he needs the money for the medical bills.” The blacksmith named a price.

  Normally, Seth would have dickered, gotten the cost down a bit more. But given the more-than-reasonable price and Campbell’s circumstances… He didn’t have the heart to gouge a man when he was so down on his luck. And it was a fact that even with all the building he was about to undertake, thanks to Trudy, his pockets were far more full than Campbell’s. Made a man right grateful to think on it. “I’ll take it.”

  He paid Reinhart for the plow and the saddle and loaded both into the wagon. He thanked the blacksmith and climbed onto the seat. Once Seth released the brake and started the team, he settled back in his seat, wondering what Trudy would think of her present.

  * * *

  Trudy sat on the porch, darning Seth’s socks and waiting for the wagon to appear. Seems the man didn’t have one pair free of holes. Supper, a hearty stew, simmered on the stove, ready to be dished out when Seth arrived.

  She took pleasure in watching the speckled black pullets peck around the yard. Two perched on the porch rails as if they owned the place. She’d already scrubbed off their droppings—something she figured would happen a lot in the future.

  Movement in the distance caught her eye. The wagon. She squinted and could make out her husband. She stuck her needle into the sock, rolled it up, wooden darning egg and all, and tucked the little bundle into her sewing basket.

  Checking the watch pinned to her bodice, she saw that three hours had elapsed. Seth’s going to be unhappy with having lost so much time today.

  Before long, the wagon reached the yard.

  Trudy rose to her feet, just as he pulled up to the house and reined-in, instead of driving to the barn like she’d expected.

  He flashed her a grin and set the brake.

  Surprised by his good mood, she smiled back, walked down the steps, and stood next to the wagon.

  “Trudy, my dear. I never did ask if you’ve learned to ride.”

  She glanced at the team. “Horses?”

  “Well, what else?” The skin around his eyes crinkled. “Not asking about pigs or cattle,” he teased.

  Trudy wrinkled her nose at him. “You could have meant a bicycle.”

  He laughed. “You have me there, Mrs. Flanigan.” Seth swung down from the seat, the motion strong and graceful. “Brought you a present.” He reached into the wagon, hefted out a saddle with both hands, and held it in front of her. “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s a man’s saddle.”

  “That it is, Mrs. Flanigan. But it’s smaller, made for a woman.”

  “But Seth,” she protested, feeling pleased and flustered at the same time. “I’ve only ridden sidesaddle.”

  “No sidesaddles in Montana,” he declared, his eyes teasing her. “Much easier and safer to ride astride.”

  Trudy looked down at her dress, pinched some fabric in each hand and pulled it out. She cocked an eyebrow at Seth, daring him to say she could ride with her skirts hitched up to her knees.

  “Seems to me…” Seth obviously enjoyed jesting with her. “You can make a divided riding skirt. I’ll bet, if you put your mind to it, you could have it done by tomorrow evening and you could give this here saddle a try. What do ya say, Mrs. Flanigan?” he drawled, his eyes twinkling

  “I don’t know, Seth.”

  “Being able to ride sure will make it easier to go explorin’ like you want to,” he coaxed.

  Trudy laughed and patted his shoulder. “You have me there, Mr. Flanigan. Although I doubt I’ll have a new riding habit finished by tomorrow. I have too much else to do today.” She reached up to rub the gelding’s nose.

  “Good choice. Saint will be an easier ride than Copper.” He stroked the sorrel’s shoulder. “You won’t have any worries on him. Copper’s not so easy goin’”.

  Trudy tilted her head toward the barn. “Now go see to the horses, Seth Flanigan. By the time you wash up, I’ll have supper on the table.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He climbed back into the wagon seat.

  She turned to go inside. Once she knew her husband couldn’t see her expression, her mouth trembled. Ride astride! The very thought made her stomach tighten. But I wanted adventure. She began to think of the freedom riding would give her—how she could explore.... A smile bloomed on her face. If women out West ride astride, I will too!

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  A week later, while drying the dishes, Trudy heard the sound of hoofbeats. Still carrying a plate and towel, she walked to the window and saw Mrs. Murphy driving her mule cart into the yard. She hadn’t seen the woman since the day after their trip to town, when she’d come by for the yarrow and sage for her husband and stayed for a short tea.

  After setting down the dish and towel, Trudy untied her blue apron, hanging it on a hook near the dry sink. She walked out the door and stood on the porch, feeling the warmth of the sun. “Mrs. Murphy, how nice to see you again. Won’t you come in?”

  “Na,” the woman replied. She was wearing a faded gray sunbonnet that matched her dress. “Them herbs of yours perked Thomas up a bit, they have.”

  “I’m so glad to hear that.”

  Mrs. Murphy pressed her lips together and shifted on the seat, her shoulders stiff. “Came by to see if you can spare some more.”

  Trudy gave her a reassuring smile. “Of course.”

  “I won’t be beholden, mind you.” She jerked her thumb to the back of the cart. “Brought you two dozen eggs.”

  “Oh, you didn’t need to do that. I’m glad to help out.”

  Mrs. Murphy relaxed her stiff shoulders. “Right kind of you to say so. But Thomas and I pay our way, we do.”

  “Of course. I’m glad for more eggs because I’m just about out. I look forward to the day when my pullets are laying,” said Trudy as she walked down the steps of her porch.

  Mrs. Murphy picked up a basket on the seat next to her and handed it to Trudy.

  Trudy grasped the handle and peeked inside at the sawdust-covered lumps. “Just let me take these inside and empty the basket. Then I’ll put the yarrow and sage inside.”

  “I’ll wait right here. Don’t mean to hurry you, Mrs. Flanigan. I just don’t like leaving Thomas for long. For all the good your herbs have done him, I don’t rest easy about his health.”

  “I understand.” Trudy trotted up the stairs and into the house. Rather than take time to go to the cellar for the almost-empty egg crate, she carefully set them on a platter, then dumped the sawdust into the stove on top o
f the banked coals. She dug through the box that held her herbs, looking for the packets labeled yarrow and sage. There wasn’t much left. Hoping she’d have no need for them in the weeks until she could harvest a new batch, Trudy placed both packets in the basket.

  Once outside, she handed the basket to Mrs. Murphy. “That’s the last I have, I’m afraid.”

  Mrs. Murphy stared at her for a minute, eyes bright with unshed tears. “I won’t forget your kindness, Mrs. Flanigan. No indeed.”

  Trudy dared to reach up and cover the woman’s hand with her own. “I’ll keep Mr. Murphy in my prayers.” She stepped back away from the cart’s wheels.

  The woman raised her chin. “Knowing your man’s a friend of Chappie Henderson, I thought I’d mention Jack Waite at the post office said he’s had a book waiting for him, going on two weeks now. We rarely see that man around, but he always emerges from his hidey-hole when he orders a book. Not like him to leave it waiting.”

  “Will you be calling on him to see if everything’s all right?”

  Mrs. Murphy shook her head. “Can’t spare the time away from Thomas to make a stop that’s out of my way. Perhaps you can send Mr. Flanigan to check up on him.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  The woman bid Trudy good-bye and turned her cart around.

  Trudy shaded her eyes with her hand and glanced toward the fields. Seth doing the plowing was a small speck in the distance. She walked back into the house. While she put away the eggs in the cellar, she did some thinking about the notion of visiting Chappie Henderson. Would there be time after Seth finished his work? What if the old man is ill and needs help now?

  She’d ridden Saint some in the last week, grateful for her childhood riding lessons and how quickly the skill returned to her. Although she wouldn’t admit anything to Seth, she found the new saddle far more comfortable than she’d expected. Although her leg muscles were sore after a ride, Trudy thought she could handle a longer outing.

  She climbed the cellar steps and shut the door. Glancing at the kitchen, Trudy bit her lip. The dishes weren’t done. But she could leave them until later. Yesterday, she’d made stew and biscuits, and there was enough left over that she didn’t have to prepare a meal today. The cookie jar held two dozen oatmeal and raisin bars from yesterday’s baking. She could wrap up some to take along and be ready to leave as soon as Seth came in for supper. But he’d be hungry. Maybe they should leave earlier…

  However, Seth was so beset with work. She hated to pull him away when she could so easily do this errand herself.

  Making her decision, Trudy went to her bedroom to change her clothes. She’d ride out alone.

  * * *

  Seth walked straight into the house from the fields, only stopping at the trough to wash up. He was aware of a quiver of anticipation that pulled him home nowadays. Eagerness to kiss his pretty wife and sit down to a well-cooked meal made him right quick to finish up his work on time. He’d never felt that way before. Although sometimes he tried to tell himself he just looked forward to the good meals, he knew Trudy’s presence—the warmth and conversation they shared—meant as much as the food she prepared.

  When Seth stepped through the door, he instinctively knew Trudy wasn’t there. “Mrs. Flanigan,” he called, just in case. Emptiness echoed about the place, despite how much furniture now filled the main room. But he walked over to the bedroom, opened the door, and glanced inside to make sure his wife wasn’t lying down.

  He hadn’t looked in the bedroom since she’d moved in. The new furniture, his mattress covered with elegant bedding edged in lace, the dresses hanging on pegs on the walls, the trunk at the end of the bed, the silver hair brush, comb, and mirror next to a rose-patterned pitcher and ewer on the chest of drawers, all transformed the space into a feminine bower, which made him a little uncomfortable. With the scent of lavender tickling his nose, he backed out and closed the door.

  Where in the heck is she? He gazed about the room seeking a clue. A letter on the table caught his eye. He picked up the stationary so familiar from their initial correspondence, and realized Trudy had left him a note.

  I’ve ridden over to check on Chappie Henderson.

  Mrs. Murphy was concerned about him.

  Why didn’t she wait for me? Seth read her words again. He glanced out the window into the sunlight. Trudy shouldn’t have a problem with only going to Chappie’s and back. He’d pointed out the way, and the path was well marked so she wouldn’t get lost. Luckily Chappie’s place was in the opposite direction of McCurdy’s. But the unease in his gut made him grab his gun belt and strap it on, feeling the reassuring weight of the Colt at his hip.

  When Seth stepped out on the porch, he saw a bank of clouds in the distance that hadn’t been there before. Probably just one of the rainstorms that often blew through on an afternoon. Trudy wouldn’t like being caught in a downpour. He went back into the house for his heavy jacket, Trudy’s coat, and some wool blankets. If it did rain, the wool would soak up the water. Still be wet, but warmer than a quilt. She’ll be all right, he tried to reassure himself.

  As long as the temperature doesn’t drop.

  * * *

  Trudy halted Saint in the forest where the path led off the road to town. With the tree branches blocking out much of the sunlight, and mysterious bird sounds and other rustlings coming to her on the breeze, some of her courage faltered. Now she wished she’d waited for Seth to go with her rather than riding out on her own. The idea of calling on Mr. Henderson, which had seemed so uncomplicated when she conceived the notion, now seemed a little foolhardy.

  Before she could lose her courage all together, she urged Saint down the path, more like a wide track that wove through the thick stand of trees. From time to time a small game trail verged away from the main way.

  The sky grew darker and the air chilled. I wonder if it’s going to storm? Would it be safer to continue on, or go home? Trudy reached behind her, pulled out the red knitted shawl she’d tied against the saddle, and settled it around her shoulders.

  She heard the sound of birdcalls, an unfamiliar cack-cack-chirp in the trees on her left, answered by another cack-cack-chirp from about fifty feet on her right. The birds spoke back and forth, having a conversation that sounded like two neighbors gossiping about their children, the price of food, and errant husbands. Then a third bird, somewhere behind her, chimed in, interspersing occasional opinions.

  Suddenly, the birds fell silent. Apprehension tensed her body. Trudy strained her ears for other sounds, but only heard the dull thud of hoofbeats. The horse shied, nervous.

  A sprinkle of snowflakes drifted down. Snow in May? She held out her hand to collect a few flakes. That decided her. She didn’t know how long it would take her to reach Mr. Henderson’s, but she did know how long returning home would take, especially if she hurried.

  With a gentle tug, she reined in Saint, heading back the way they’d come.

  The horse quivered and sidestepped, tossing his head.

  “Easy, boy,” she said, pressing her hand to Saint’s neck.

  He nickered and moved along. But he was on alert.

  A flurry of snowflakes made Trudy look up. Something odd about a thick tree limb extending over the path caught her attention. Feeling nervous, she squinted.

  A big cat came into focus, hungry yellow eyes glaring at her. Meeting her gaze, it growled, showing gleaming fangs.

  Trudy gasped and sawed on the reins, jerking Saint around. But before they made the complete turn, from the corner of her eye, she saw the cat leap. Her hand grasped the pommel, and she kicked the horse’s side.

  Saint lunged forward, down a small right-hand trail.

  A branch whipped her face. Another tangled in her shawl, yanking it from around her shoulders. Too intent on escaping, Trudy barely noticed.

  The trail forked, and she blindly chose the left side. A tree branch lifted her straw hat off her head, yanking at her hair in the process.

  The horse rushed on. The
narrow path twisted and turned.

  They emerged into a small clearing. A hill made from a jumble of lichen-covered rocks blocked their way.

  Saint slowed to a standstill and stood, sides heaving.

  Trudy twisted in the saddle, stared into the darkness at the base of the trees, and looked for any sign the big cat had pursued them. She saw only snow beginning to dust the branches. Silence settled around them. Turning forward, she surveyed the summit in front of her, which rose taller than the trees. A narrow path skirted around the base of the rocks.

  Her heart raced. With a shiver of fear, Trudy realized she was lost.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Just as Seth reached the turn-off to Chappie’s place, the first snowflakes drifted down, melting as they touched the ground. He let out a curse, thinking of his wife caught out in a storm without her coat. I’d better catch up with Trudy before she’s wet and chilled.

  Pine needles and dead leaves padded the path. From time to time, the way narrowed and he ducked underneath a tree limb. Game trails branched off into the woods, and he hoped his wife had the good sense to stick to the main track.

  Why didn’t I warn her about Montana’s changeable weather? Forbid her to ride far without me?

  He answered his question. Because it had never occurred to me to do so. His ma certainly hadn’t ventured from the house. But his adventurous wife wasn’t like his mother, so content to finally have her own home that she never left, unless she was going into town with her husband. The two women had different dreams, he realized with a twist of his heart, wondering if life on a farm would be enough for Trudy.

  In a patch of mud ahead of him, Seth saw a fresh hoofprint. He sat back in the saddle, relieved he was on the right trail and that he’d soon find his wife, hopefully snug in Chappie’s cabin where they could ride out the storm together. At this time of year, the snowstorm would be short, probably passing in time to return for evening milking.