Singing Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series Book 7)

by Debra Holland

  Gundry’s song was the easiest. With a wink at the man, Kael began singing, “She’ll be Coming ’Round the Mountain.”

  With a shout, Gundry smacked the table with one hand and his leg with the other, keeping to the beat, his expression as gleeful as a child’s.

  Some of the others nodded in time and a few tapped their feet, the spikes on their caulked boots scraping against the wooden floor.

  When Kael finished, with a broad grin, Gundry called out, “Mighty fine, Boss. Mighty fine.”

  Kael nodded and turned his attention to Atwell. The young man was the newest of the bunch—barely eighteen, with a round face full of freckles that made him look about twelve. But he had a wiry strength and a reliable work ethic, remaining upbeat during the grueling first weeks of learning the job of lumberjack—a time when many gave up due to the punishing work, isolation, primitive living conditions, and injuries.

  Kael hadn’t yet learned his song, for he’d been too busy teaching Atwell how to do the job. “T’aint easy being the new laddie.” He drew out the words in his grandfather’s Scottish drawl, which brought forth a grin from Atwell. “You get more than your share of joshing and criticism. You have to deal with the frustration of the old timers because of their concern for the safety issues that come from working with a greenhorn. They don’t want to stop and teach you right or slow down until you learn something well enough to pick up speed. You’ve stayed humble, not hot-headed. Learned the job quicker than anyone I’ve seen yet.”

  As Kael spoke, the boy’s eyes widened, as if he’d never been acknowledged before. And perhaps he hadn’t, for most men, whether bosses or fathers, didn’t often, or perhaps ever, offer up praise. Good work, hard work was expected. Shoddy work or laziness were criticized. Not for the first time, Kael gave thanks for his father, who’d taught him that encouraging words made both man and beast work all the harder for their taskmaster. He glanced at Atwell. “What’s your favorite song?”

  “Guess, it would be ‘Amazing Grace.’ My ma sure sings that right purty.”

  So does mine. Kael could almost hear his mother’s beautiful voice as she sang hymns while she worked around the house or in the garden, and he had a sudden feeling of missing his parents. I’ll see them in a few weeks.

  Some of the men gave Atwell teasing looks, and Kael realized the young man had just set himself up for the nickname of Grace. He gave a mental shrug. There were plenty worse monikers the crew could have hung on the kid.

  Kael launched into the sweet sound of the familiar hymn and watched Atwell’s eyes grow dreamy, as if he was home with his family or with the girl he courted in town. At the close of the song, the young man’s gratitude reflected in the sweetly boyish smile he gave Kael.

  Feeling warmed by the kid’s silent thanks, Kael grinned back. As harsh and grueling the job, or primitive the living conditions, he treasured moments like this—the connections with his men, using his ancient bardic skills to entertain and bring pleasure—a rare commodity in a logging camp.

  Nanton Lindland, the foreman of the whole camp and the meanest lumberjack of them all, strolled in from the office, a rolled-up newspaper in his hand. He was a burly brute of a man, with fists the size of hams and snakelike black eyes that were an odd contrast to his light brown hair. “Finished your caterwauling yet?” he growled.

  The warmth left Kael’s body. He kept his face impassive, wishing he could reply with his fists.

  The men frowned and shifted in their seats.

  “Newspaper delivery.” Lindland sauntered over to drop the paper on the table in front of Kael. “Not much to it. Even so, I’ve been busy, and it’s taken me two days to read all the articles.”

  Kael scowled. “That’s my newspaper.”

  Lindland raised his eyebrows in a how-will-you-stop-me smirk. He was cunning, and the toughest man in the camp—inclined to settle disputes with his fists or feet. Several lumberjacks sported pockmarks on their faces from contact with the spikes on the bottom of his boots.

  Kael wasn’t opposed to fighting, but he tended to pick his battles and make them count. He didn’t doubt the time would come when he’d take on the foreman, but that time wasn’t tonight. The news in that paper was already days or even weeks old. A few more days wouldn’t change anything.

  Lindland waited, watching Kael with a narrow-eyed gaze, his body tense and poised to fight.

  Kael reached down for the paper. “Well, since you’ve read it, you probably won’t want to hear me read the news aloud to the men,” he said in a calm dismissal.

  With a snarl, Lindland turned on his heel and strode back to the office.

  Disapproving silence followed the man.

  Kael shrugged and opened the paper. His gaze stopped at a grainy photograph of a woman dressed as a Viking and holding a spear in one hand. Even wearing a blond wig with long braids, he recognized opera singer Sophia Maxwell. Although he kept his expression blank, his heartbeat stuttered. The headline read: Songbird Sings Brünnhilde.

  Last Christmas, most of the lumberjacks had made the trip into Sweetwater Springs to attend the holiday party the town banker held for the opening of his hotel. Kael went to the Christmas Eve service with his parents beforehand, then they’d all walked over to the celebration. Even amid the splendor of the elegant new hotel, the fine food and drink, and the harp music, the highlight of his evening was the performance by Sophia Maxwell, which had rendered him dumbstruck—a condition from which he’d never recovered.

  Perhaps his reaction would have been the same if he’d been blind, and all he’d heard was the lure of the Songbird’s voice. But her beauty and glorious soprano were a potent combination, felling him like an ax to timber. The most hopeless case of love in the whole world.

  Of course, Kael wasn’t the only one so affected. Half his men had become infatuated, as well. The other half admired or flirted—according to their natures—with other pretty women at the party. Ever since that evening, Sophia—for he dared to think of her in familiar terms instead of the formal Miss Maxwell—had haunted his daydreams. Kael read every word the Sweetwater Springs Herald printed about her.

  He snapped open the newspaper, smoothed the pages, and leaned closer to the oil lamp. Without asking, someone slid a second lamp down the table to take a position on the other side of the paper, giving him enough light to see. He began to read aloud the announcement of Sophia’s role in Die Walküre.

  “Dye Walker,” Kael said. “An opera.”

  Gunther Fischer leaned over Kael’s shoulder. “Dee Valkury,” he corrected.

  The article went on to summarize the plot and history of the opera composed by Richard Wagner, which was based on a folktale. He finished reading, wondering what such a production would look like, and if the men in it knew how lucky they were to make a living with their singing and to interact with the woman the newspaper described as mesmerizing.

  A second article was titled: Norton-Bellaire Wedding, describing the upcoming nuptials of the Reverend Joshua Norton, son of the minister in Sweetwater Springs, and Delia, the daughter of Andre Bellaire—newcomers to their town. From the description of the plans, the wedding and reception would be quite a lavish event, with an invitation extended to everyone in Sweetwater Springs and the environs.

  “Hey, we can all go to this shindig,” Gundry interrupted.

  Kael frowned at the man for voicing such an outlandish idea. The wedding wasn’t a holiday like Christmas when they’d all had time off for the party. He continued reading aloud. The next paragraph mentioned Sophia Maxwell and harpist Blythe Robbins would perform for both the wedding and the reception. Suddenly, Gundry’s idea was exactly what Kael wanted to do. He started planning how, even as he kept reading.

  When Kael finished the article, instead of reading the rest of the paper, he folded the pages. He tapped the paper, thinking. “Well, we are all invited….”

  Just then the door opened, and Lindland strode in.

  He must have been eavesdropping. Kael made
a mental note to check to see that the door was closed all the way before he had any future conversations he’d prefer the foreman not overhear.

  “Invited,” Lindland scoffed. “They certainly can’t have intended to include you dirty, surly lot.”

  An angry rumble came from the corner.

  Kael couldn’t be sure which men had made the noise.

  The air in the room grew tense.

  Kael casually leaned an arm on the table. “I’ll make sure they take baths, rinse off the fleas and bedbugs, and don their best clothes before going to town,” he drawled.

  Lindland waved a hand to indicate all the men. “They wouldn’t welcome sixty rough lumberjacks at this wedding.”

  “So rough cowboys and pig farmers are all right, but we aren’t?” Gundry shot out.

  Lindland strode to the man, grabbed his neck, and lifted him, snarling, “Keep a civil tongue, or I’ll yank it out and chop it off.” He threw Gundry onto the bench.

  Gundry put a hand to his throat and lowered his head like a cowed dog.

  Kael hid a wince. Gundry should have known better. No one, not even him, talked back to the head boss.

  When Lindland moved to glare at the men from the head of the table, Kael said in an even tone, “Reverend Joshua drove out here and conducted that church service for us. That makes us part of his congregation. He might even be offended if we don’t show up.”

  Lindland scowled. “We’re not stopping work so the lot of you can fancy yourselves up and go to town.”

  Aagaard got to his feet. “Wouldn’t have to be all of us, Mr. Lindland. Some, like me—” he thumped his chest “—don’t have a hankering to go.” He looked around the room. “Right?”

  Of all the men, Aagaard would have been the last one Kael expected to speak up. He hadn’t realized the man could even string three sentences together. Up until now, two had been the record.

  Some of the men nodded.

  Aagaard crossed his arms over his chest. “Choose only from those who’d like to attend.” The suggestion sounded like a command.

  Lindland looked down his nose. “You keep a civil tongue, too.”

  The men’s postures changed, becoming threatening.

  Lindland must have realized he’d gone too far and might provoke a mutiny. He lifted his hands. “Fine. But I can spare only three of you, and those who go won’t get paid for the time away.”

  More men shook their heads, obviously unwilling to lose out on their meager wages.

  The foremen gazed narrow-eyed around the room. “You’ll leave and return the next day. No lollygagging in the saloon. Those who want to go, toss your names in a pot. I’ll draw.”

  Kael’s heart clenched at the offer. He had never wanted anything so much in his life. The chance to see Sophia Maxwell again, to hear her sing….maybe even to exchange a few words. Such was the stuff of dreams for a lonely life. He couldn’t want for more. Couldn’t allow myself to want for more.

  “You.” Lindland pointed at Atwell. “Get some paper, a pencil, and something to throw the lots in.”

  Atwell beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen and then the office, emerging a few minutes later with a stew pot under one arm, scraps of paper and a pencil in the other hand. He gave the papers and pencil to Lindland, who clanged the pot onto the table.

  With a big grin, Atwell scribbled his name, no doubt hoping he’d have a chance to take the girl he was courting to the wedding.

  The next two men passed, but Gundry was another contender. With a cocky grin, he dropped his paper into the pot.

  Kael turned away so he couldn’t watch, not wanting to see his men as rivals. When the papers and pencil reached him, he quickly scribbled his name on a slip and threw it into the stew pot. He started to hand them over to the next man, an old-timer named Mortimer—Kael had never learned if that was his first or last name—when he remembered the old guy couldn’t read or write. Kael raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry.

  The man shook his head.

  Kael passed the papers and pencil across the table. He glanced at the stewpot. Please, he pleaded silently to the Almighty. He couldn’t even put thought into what he wanted, only picturing Sophia. Please. He took deep breaths to calm himself, inhaling the smell of smoke and coffee and the stink of men.

  After the paper and pencil made the rounds, ten names were in the pot.

  Kael waited, his gut as tight as a knot of wood, for Lindland to fish out the names.

  The foreman reached into the pot and drew out a scrap of paper, unfolding it to call out, “Atwell!”

  “Yee haw!” Atwell whooped like a cowboy. He jumped up and, knees high, danced on the balls of his feet like an Indian, spinning in a circle.

  Lindland rolled his eyes. Ignoring Atwell’s antics, he pulled another name. “Gundry.”

  “Yes!” Gundry pumped a fist in the air and jumped up to smack his palm against Atwell’s. Soon, the two fools locked elbows and skipped in a circle.

  Only one more chance. Kael’s heart beat harder, and he held his breath.

  Lindland took his time with drawing out the paper and opening it. He paused, frowning. “Kelley.”

  Kael caught himself before he could slump in relief. He wanted to jump up and dance with Gundry and Atwell, but such behavior—especially under Lindland’s critical eyes—wasn’t seemly for a man in charge of a crew. Instead, he sent a small smile and a nod to the foreman.

  I’ll soon see Sophia Maxwell!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sweetwater Springs

  Four Weeks Before Opening Night

  The afternoon before the wedding, three rough lumberjacks—Kael, Gundry, and Atwell—drove a wagon from the camp toward town, a day’s ride away. The men looked as clean as could be, given that they could only wash their face and hands unless they wanted to jump into the lake, water close to freezing from snow melt. All three stored their best clothing at their homes to keep the garments free of fleas and bedbugs and because there were no laundry facilities at the camp.

  Since Kael lived the closest, Gundry and Atwell dropped him off first at the path angling east into the woods. Then they continued on to Sweetwater Springs.

  With clear weather, the journey from the road to home would take him about an hour, although as a boy running nimbly as a deer, he could make it in half that. Now he crashed along like a grizzly bear. His heavy boots had caulked soles covered with spikes to keep a good grip when working on a tree. Twigs snapped and leaves crunched under his feet. Actually, even bears are quieter.

  As Kael moved he sang, making up the words and the music as he went. “Oh, what a bright and beautiful day. Oh, May, Oh, May!”

  Chittering as if displeased by the racket, a squirrel jumped from tree branch to tree branch.

  “You’re lucky I don’t have my rifle,” Kael sang. “Ma’s fried squirrel sure tastes good, even if you’re only a trifle.” More lighthearted than he could remember in a while, he laughed at his silliness.

  The sun was heading toward evening when he neared the family homestead, and the timber thinned. A large clearing held a small log cabin surrounded by a garden with a split-rail fence as high as Kael’s head to keep out the deer and other varmints. Wire mesh on the lower section kept rabbits from the lettuce.

  Once inside the gate, Kael slowed his pace, admiring the growth. Every year, the space grew bigger and held more plants—not easy when they had to chop down trees and wrestle the roots from the ground to expand the garden beyond the original clearing. His parents were careful about the timber, though, only removing a few trees a year. They wanted to feel surrounded by the forest rather than by an expanse of fields, and his father preferred hunting to farming.

  Kael insisted on helping during his visits, at least as much as his ma would allow. She wanted him to rest up, eat as much home-cooked food as she could stuff into him, and exchange news of the camp and the town.

  From the outside, the one-room cabin, with a porch spanning the width, looked as cozy and welcomi
ng as always. A few chickens pecked at the ground. A red rose bush—his mother’s pride and joy—grew near the front steps. As Kael emerged from the garden rows, his father stood from the rocking chair on the porch and shaded his eyes.

  Kael’s song faltered. What is Pa doing sitting around? Leith Kelley only took a rest after dusk when the light grew too dim to see.

  His father waved and called out a greeting. “There’s my bonnie laddie!”

  “Hello, Pa.”

  Although Kael was a grown man who towered over his father by a few inches and had broader shoulders, Pa never wavered from his traditional greeting.

  Pa grinned. “What an unexpected surprise. A sight you are for my sore eyes.”

  His father stepped off the porch and came within a yard of him, but no closer so as not to become infected by the bedbugs Kael usually carried in his clothing from the straw bedding at camp. Before he could go near his parents or the house, he first needed to get rid of the bugs.

  “The garden looks mighty fine.”

  Kael stepped back to look over his father. He looked thinner than the last time they’d been together, and his brown eyes—although alight with love—didn’t hold their usual merry glint. “Are you well? Do you and Ma have enough to eat?”

  Pa waved an arm to indicate the garden. “Growing nicely. The chickens are laying well. And your ma took that money you gave us and hitched a ride with one of the Dunn ranch hands into town for supplies. We have plenty.”

  Then why are you so thin? His fears not quite assuaged, Kael opened his mouth to ask more questions.

  But then his mother stepped onto the porch. Nina Kelley was a tall, slim woman who appeared the picture of health.

  Her bright smile and the fullness of her cheeks reassured him they weren’t short of food.

  “My darling boy, I’m so glad to see you. What a treat.” She waved and blew him a kiss. “I’ll fix you something to eat while you bathe.”

  Pa raised his chin in the direction of the hot spring. “The washtub, soap, and vinegar are in the shed since we didn’t expect you.”