I can sell this! Instinctively, Fanny knew the wigmaker would pay far more for Miss Maxwell’s hair than she had for her ma’s.
The idea sent a surge of guilty excitement through Fanny’s chest, and she scooped the hair from the can. She looked around for a hiding place and decided to stash her treasure under a chair cushion and retrieve it later. The next time the cook sent her out on an errand, Fanny would take the hair.
I’ll keep another lock and make a bracelet for Miss Maxwell. I’ll give it to her when she’s better.
Fanny picked up the can and then, with a lighter step, danced down the hall to return it to Miss Maxwell’s office.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Three Days After Opening Night
Anthony “Ant” Gordon sat at his desk in the newspaper office of the Sweetwater Springs Herald, marking up an article about Sheriff K.C. Granger’s arrest last night of two drunken brawlers in Hardy’s Saloon. The fight was practically the most exciting incident to happen in the last month, only topped by the mishap of a crate of suckling pigs bouncing off the end of Olaf Hafner’s wagon. Ant had witnessed the crate landing on the hard dirt road, which broke one side of the crate, releasing the piglets, sending them squealing up and down the street.
One ran straight at Mrs. Grayson, forcing the starchy Boston matron to lift her skirts and perform a dance step to avoid being run over.
Ant suppressed a smile at the memory. The banker’s sister had not been pleased when Ant had asked to interview her about the encounter, saying with a sniff that a proper lady only appeared in the newspaper on three occasions—birth, marriage, and death—and this certainly was not one such event. Her tone had tried to freeze any pretension he might have about deigning to interview her.
Ant remained unfazed by Mrs. Grayson. He’d experienced too many tragic circumstances to allow rebuffs to bother him. He’d raced through a battle to rescue Isabella, the woman he loved, only to have her die in his arms. He’d seen his sister’s violated body and tracked his murdering brother-in-law for two years to rescue his young nephew David. Then he’d almost lost his beloved Harriet to the killer. After such occurrences, he was fairly impervious to anyone except David and Harriet, now his wife.
Indeed, most of the time, he got along just fine with Mrs. Grayson and the other more difficult members of the community, including the Cobbs, who owned the mercantile, and Mrs. Murphy, the biggest busybody in town. The woman never failed to stop by the newspaper office with the latest gossip. He often joked with Harriet about offering Mrs. Murphy the job of society editor.
Sweetwater Springs was a peaceable town. Although sometimes Ant’s spirit chaffed at the boring news he reported to the community, for the sake of Harriet and David—the tender love that had grown between the three of them, the contented life they’d established—Ant was grateful to have it be so.
The windows of the newspaper office were open to let in the hot summer air. Screens on the windows and the front door kept out the worst of the flies, but some strips of tarpaper hanging in long corkscrews took care of some of the rest. Despite his best efforts, nothing could banish all of the pests.
Ant had taken off his jacket and hung it on a peg near the desk. Then, he’d rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt and pulled on cuff protectors. Harriet, his bride of almost two years, had threatened dire harm if he came home again with ink stains on his clothes.
He grinned thinking of his wife. His kitten—the town schoolmarm—was a little bit of a thing next to his mountainous size—but she managed to get the upper hand most of the time in their marriage and keep him in line. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. He still hadn’t gotten over the miracle of finding love for the second time in his life, as well as having recovered his nephew.
The sound of the door opening made him look up to see Ray Burwell, the Chicago courier, stroll into the office, a folder tucked under his arm. Ant employed the man to bring him news of the wider world and more specifically the doings of opera singer Sophia Maxwell. In financial terms, the news of the singer was often more important and lucrative than any other, for Sophia’s sister Lily had married local rancher Tyler Dunn.
Miss Maxwell had visited several times and given sublime performances that entranced all who heard her. The community of Sweetwater Springs had taken the beautiful, charismatic woman into their hearts and considered her one of their own. His subscribers eagerly devoured any scrap of information about the singer, dubbed the Songbird of Chicago by her admirers.
Ant had Sophia’s permission to keep track of her doings. She sometimes wrote him directly or passed information for him to give to Lily, if she didn’t have the time to write her sister directly.
Ant had expected Ray’s report on Sophia Maxwell’s debut as Brünnhilde in Die Walküre but had thought the man would send the information, not come in person.
Although middle-aged, Ray usually buzzed with energy. He had a wry sense of humor and his bland features contorted like rubber when he spoke. Today, however, his woeful countenance and slumped shoulders gave him an air of gloom.
Concerned, Ant rose to his feet, his thoughts racing through visions of a presidential assassination, and from there to war, or an outbreak of the plague. “What’s happened?”
“It’s Miss Maxwell, sir. She’s mighty sick and, they say, dying. She collapsed on stage.”
“During Die Walküre?” he asked his chest tightening.
“Yes.”
He searched Ray’s face, wanting answers. “Were the critics right? Was the role too much for her?”
“That’s being said. And that even if she recovers, our Songbird may never sing again.”
In spite of his softness with his wife and nephew, Ant considered himself a hard-bitten newspaper man. As a foreign correspondent, he’d covered the worst of Europe’s news and seen more tragedies than he could count. But hearing about Sophia Maxwell made him smack a fist into his palm before dropping back into his chair. Please, God, may that be one obituary I don’t have to write!
Ant stretched out a hand for Ray’s folder.
“The whole city seems to be affected by Miss Maxwell’s illness.” The courier handed him the folder and then took a seat on the other side of the desk. “The police cordoned off the street outside her house to keep the people back but to no avail. Flowers carpet her doorstep because the servants have stopped answering. I think the outpouring is more substantial than what I’ve read of the crowd for Jenny Lind’s arrival,” he said about when the famous Swedish singer had toured in America, she’d been mobbed by crowds, who gathered each day around her hotel and followed her carriage.
With a heavy heart, Ant opened the folder and stared at the newspaper’s headline.
Songbird Collapses, Feared Dying
In his career, Ant had seen and reported many unfair deaths—ones he thought wrong—of innocent children, adults of great character, talent, attractiveness, or influence. In addition to Isabella’s death, he’d knelt beside the body of his murdered sister. But, still, the idea of Sophia Maxwell dying couldn’t be borne. Some lights aren’t meant to be extinguished early.
Ant skimmed the two articles from the Chicago Tribune—one from the front page and one from the society page—before looking up. “Do you have anything more?”
Ray shook his head. “Well, nothing newsworthy. I went by Miss Maxwell’s house to offer to bring word to Mrs. Dunn, seeing as I’d be coming here anyway. The butler knows me and let me in to speak to her father.” He pulled an envelope from an inner pocket and handed it to Ant. “Mr. Maxwell’s quite distraught, but he took a few minutes to write a message for me to bring to his elder daughter, Mrs. Dunn. He also mentioned that his youngest daughter is helping nurse her ailing sister.”
“That would be Miss Emma Maxwell,” Ant murmured. “She’s studying nursing.”
Ray pulled at his chin. “I figure you knowing Mrs. Dunn and all that you’d be the better person to deliver the bad news.”
Even as he accept
ed the letter, Ant’s gut tightened. Printing the news was one thing, but personally delivering a tragic message to a loved one was another. “You’ll be staying at the hotel tonight?”
“I’ll catch the next train east, which is two days from now.” Ray pointed his chin at the paper. “I can take a letter from Mrs. Dunn to her family. And if she needs an escort back to Chicago, I’ll be glad to see to her safety.”
“Good of you, Ray. I’ll convey that.” Ant sighed. “Mrs. Dunn has a young baby, so I don’t know what she’ll do.”
“Let me know.” Ray stood and nodded before heading out the door.
Ant gazed unseeing at the article on his desk, remembering Sophia’s performance weeks ago at the wedding ceremony of Joshua Norton and Delia Bellaire. Impossible to believe such a vibrant woman now lay at death’s door.
CHAPTER NINE
Sweetwater Springs
One Week After Opening Night
Kael stood on a thick tree limb, half-way up a lodge-pole pine. He was topping, working his way from the top down, starting from as high as was safe. Around him, he could hear the familiar rhythmic sound of axes, and he inhaled the spicy scent of resin as he chopped. Snow had fallen a few days ago and still lay in patches on the ground. Today, a misty drizzle dampened his hair and clothing but not his spirits, and the strenuous work kept him warm. He often sang when he worked, and with Sophia in mind, today’s choice was the hymn from the wedding. “O Perfect Love,” he belted out.
“Hey, Kelley!”
A yell from below broke Kael’s reverie, and he cut off the song.
He glanced down. What’s Lindland doing here? He’s supposed to be supervising Atwell. “What?”
The foreman waved a newspaper in the air, a malicious smile on his face. “Got news about that Songbird of yours.”
Kael suppressed a sigh and rubbed his forearm across his sweaty brow. Somehow, Lindland had ferreted out Kael’s feelings about Sophia and never lost an attempt to rub her name and speculations about her doings in his face. Adjusting his grip on the axe handle, Kael pretended not to hear the man’s jibes, hoping he’d eventually give up.
“Best come on down for a minute. Don’t want you to fall off when you hear the news,” Lindland taunted.
Kael went back to hacking at the branch. Go away. I’m working. As you should be.
“Your Songbird is dying. She’ll never fly again.”
What? Lindland must be twisting the news to yank my chain.
Yet, a sick feeling in his gut made him falter. He grabbed a branch to steady himself. A forty-foot fall would do him in.
“That’ll bring you off that tree, eh?” Lindland yelled.
Clenching his jaw, Kael shoved the axe into the holster on his belt and, careful to dig the spikes on his caulk boots into the wet wood, climbed down the tree to the ground. Once he reached the earth, he stomped across the loamy dirt, strewn with pine needles, until he stood in front of the foreman, whom he towered over by a few inches, something he knew irked the man. “What drivel are you spouting?” he asked, not caring about his insolent tone. “I just about had that lodge pole topped.”
“Not drivel,” Lindland said in an offended tone, but his snake eyes gleamed. “Your Songbird’s on her deathbed—” he said the nickname in a falsetto “—Guess she’ll never fall for your lumberjack charms now, huh?” He tapped the paper with a dirty finger, pointing to a headline. “See.”
Ignoring the jab but truly worried now, Kael caught a glimpse of the word dying and snatched the newspaper from the foreman’s grasp. His gaze devoured the headline across the top of the Sweetwater Springs Herald: Songbird in Critical State.
He scanned the article, his concern so great he was almost unable to take in the meaning.
“She’s probably dead by now,” Lindland said.
Kael ignored his callous tone. I must go to her. So strong was the fear, the compulsion, that he took two steps away from Lindland, then had to rein himself in lest he start sprinting all the way to Chicago.
“Cat got your tongue?” Lindland practically chirped the question. His voice roughened. “Stop wasting time and get that tree topped, and then get your gang over to that sharp cut-away.”
Kael wanted to yank out the man’s tongue, wrap it around his neck like a noose, and strangle him. Instead, he cast a fulminating glance at the foreman.
Lindland winked, obviously enjoying Kael’s discomfiture.
Kael held in a growl, folding the newspaper and tucking it into the waistband of his pants under his suspenders. In the rain, the paper would soon turn sodden, but he couldn’t bring himself to throw the Herald on the ground.
“Your crew is falling behind on their production, Kelley, old man,” Lindland said with mock amiability. “Good thing I took over the schooling of Atwell. He needs to be brought up to speed.”
This time Kael did growl. “See you don’t ruin him!” He spun on his heel and strode back to his tree, climbing the branches to where he’d left off. He began to chop, working by rote, wielding the axe harder than necessary. The sick feeling in his gut only grew more nauseating.
I don’t really know Sophia. I have no right to go to her, to even feel this way.
Right now, dozens, no, hundreds—maybe even thousands—of men must have the same reaction to the news of her illness.
One suitor, perhaps, does have the right to attend her sickbed. Her latest swain. The jealous thought tightened his throat, but he tried to banish the feeling. If anyone, man or woman, can aid in Sophia’s healing, I should only feel grateful.
He chopped and prayed, prayed and chopped. The drizzle turned to rain, and then to a downpour, as if the sky reflected his unsettled feelings. The brim of his hat kept the worse of the wetness off his face, but his clothes were soaked.
Kael was halfway down the tree, and only barely heard the first shout of warning. So engrossed was he in his thoughts that Kael’s mind seemed to take a few seconds to snap to attention. He heard the sound of horses hooves and the heavy thump-thump-thump of the out-of-control log they hauled as it hit passing trees.
Oh, no! His stomach clenched. The choker must have slipped or broken.
Another shout made him look over to a neighboring tree. He squinted through the rain and saw two men clinging to the higher branches. Gundry and Atwell. What in tarnation are they doing there?
The out-of-control log hit their tree hard enough for Gundry to lose his balance.
Fear spurted through Kael.
One arm around a branch, Atwell dropped to his knees on a limb and reached out a hand.
Gundry grabbed on and clung, dangling in the air.
Aagaard ran to the tree and climbed to reach them, moving with the ease of a giant monkey.
“Timber!” The yell came from about fifty feet beyond them. A giant pine toppled in the wrong direction, heading toward the men and Kael. It barely missed the men’s tree, but the branches tangled and snapped. One knocked off Aagaard.
As he fell, the Norwegian grabbed for the plummeting tree, twisting and throwing his leg over to try and ride it down.
Kael judged the direction as the falling pine headed his way. Holding on to a branch above him, he had only seconds to scramble toward the end of the limb he stood on. The branch bent beneath his weight.
The tree dove toward him, Aagaard riding it down toward Kael. “To me!” Kael shouted and extended his arm as far as he could reach, knowing if he didn’t judge right, they’d both be swept off. With just inches to spare, he caught the Norwegian’s outstretched hand, yanked the man toward his position, and held on with everything he had.
Aagaard jumped and landed on the branch, which bent dangerously low, but didn’t break. The lumberjack banged into Kael, then released his hand to cling to an upper limb like a one-armed squirrel. He turned to shout, “Hold on!” at Gundry and Atwell, but they were already falling
Kael lost his footing. From the corner of his eye, he saw Gundry swept off his perch, clinging to Atwell. The youngste
r’s branch broke with a loud crack, but he didn’t release his friend. Yelling, their expressions terrified, arms and legs flailing, the two men dropped from sight.
Unable to regain his balance, Kael shuffled his feet, to make his spikes stick in the bark. At the same time, the branch he held tore off from the trunk. He grabbed for another, but his fingers only closed on a fistful of pine needles.
Aagaard must have sensed Kael’s fall, for he turned and attempted a one-handed lunge but moved too late.
On the way downward, throat seizing on panic and locking in a yell, Kael grabbed for another limb. Instead, he caught a thin stick, which only slowed his momentum before snapping off.
Kael crashed into a thick knotty branch of the fallen tree, landing on his side, with his arm pinned. He felt his arm break and the shooting pain. Then his head hit solid wood.
* * *
Kael felt the rattling of the racing wagon before he fully regained consciousness. His whole body blazed with pain; the worst was the grinding agony in his arm. When he forced open his eyes, he found himself lying in the back of a wagon underneath some heavy coverings. He felt men lying beside him and smelled the coppery scent of blood. Mine? Atwell or Gundry’s? Aagaard’s? He tried to turn his head to see his men. But a shaft of pain spearing through his skull made movement impossible.
He could, however, shift his left arm, and he inched his hand over until he touched the man next to him, groping for an arm. The man was also wrapped in a blanket. “You hold on, hear!” Kael attempted to put command into his tone but barely sounded audible. He hoped they heard him.
“You awake, Boss?”
Aagaard’s voice. He sagged with relief that the Norwegian was alive and apparently uninjured if he was driving.
Singing Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series Book 7) Page 8