“Uh, thanks.” He pulled out the blade, shaved points onto an end on each stick, and then pressed the top of the blade against his hip to close it before slipping it into his pocket. Ready to turn toward the tailgate, a throat clearing stopped him. He glanced to the side.
“I’m sure Mister Andrews would be the first to tell you children that his way of closing a jackknife is probably not the safest.”
He cut her a frown and shrugged. At the moment, he was more intent on finishing the task of getting the birds over the flames. From experience, he knew everyone would be salivating and ready to taste the roasted meat before it was cooked all the way through. Safety lessons could happen at another time. As soon as he skewered the four carcasses and set the sticks on the uprights, he realized more modification was needed. The breast side of the birds wanted to stay down, so he cut a hole into a short block and set it on the blunt end to hold the stick in the position he wanted.
Sitting on a rock near the spits, Pete let the noises of the encroaching evening float through his thoughts. Bull frogs croaking at the creek, a breeze rustling the tops of the fir trees, Miss Pomeroy running the children through some arithmetic problems, the crackling and hissing when fat from the grouse landed in the fire. If he wasn’t careful, he might label the unfamiliar sentiment he felt as contentment. But that couldn’t be, because he was headed toward Morgan’s Crossing and his next adventure. A touch on his shoulder jerked him around, his hand at his hip.
“Uh, sorry.” Miss Pomeroy stepped back, her eyes wide at his hand hovering near his holster. “Ander’s reading to the children, but I need to do the milking.”
“Right.” Nodding, Pete relaxed and glanced to the wagon where a lantern glowed with warm light and the kids all huddled in a circle. “I’ll keep an eye out.” He watched her walk away, remembering with a grin the surprise of coming upon her in the creek with the water teasing the hems of her rucked-up skirt. Not many women he’d ever known went wading.
By the time the birds were cooked, the rich smell drew everyone to hover around the campfire. Miss Pomeroy waited with her skillet filled with sliced roots.
Pete carried the skewers to the wagon tailgate where a shallow pan sat. A pan that looked like the one used earlier for animal feed, but he couldn’t be choosy.
Like a herd moving in synchronized step, the children followed, Julian hitching a ride on Ander’s back, and pressed close. “Smells so good.”
He couldn’t identify who spoke but he agreed. With a combination of carving and tearing, he stripped the carcasses of three and left his bird whole. Turning toward the fire, he was about to wipe his hands on the seat of his trousers and froze. “Where’d you put that towel?”
“I know, I know!” Erin jumped up and down then dashed toward the front of the wagon. She tripped, went down on all fours but hopped up again, and came back waving a towel.
“Obliged.” Pete wiped his hands, coating them with a layer of dirt.
“Go ahead and start eating.” Miss Pomeroy flipped whitish disks in the pan. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”
He’d seen how hard she worked, and eating while she still cooked didn’t seem right. “We’ll wait.”
A couple of the kids groaned.
“Good manners says we should wait for the cook.” He thought of what to do to fill the time. “Well, I’m going to the creek to wash my hands. Anyone else?” Within seconds, he with Julian on his back trailed everyone else.
The wait was worth it. Pete didn’t think he’d seen happier kids—even on a visit to a candy store—than these five after they got their first taste of the roasted grouse. All conversation stopped as everyone crowded around the tailgate of the wagon to eat. Pete took his portion to the driver’s seat, ostensibly to ease the tight fit. But really, he wanted to watch the kids’ faces as they ate their fill, even of the strange vegetable. He’d passed, telling Miss Pomeroy to let the kids have his portion. His suspicions ran high about the stuff she’d dug up that he’d never heard of before. Besides, he was perfectly satisfied with the meat infused with a spicy mustard tang. Her suggestion was right about that.
A short time later, the dishes were dried and put away, and all the children had been washed, toileted, and changed into their nightwear. The older ones complained a bit about going to bed when the little ones did, but soon all the whispers and grumbles quieted.
Pete sat on a low stump he’d hacked off a fallen tree—the exertion aggravated his injury a bit but the comfort of a mostly flat seat was worth the ache. Seeing Julian enjoy the flute this afternoon gave him the idea to make one for each of the kids. This time, he worked a thicker piece of aspen. He stroked the jackknife along the stick’s surface, shaving a strip of bark.
Miss Pomeroy lowered herself onto a nearby rock with a sigh. “Whittling was an inspired choice. Julian could talk of little else while you were out hunting.”
“That so?” He liked the sound of having an impact.
“Made Ander green with jealousy. I’m glad he got a chance to help with the sticks for roasting the meat.”
“Woodworking’s a hobby of sorts.”
“Oh? Not your livelihood?” She picked up a piece of kindling and made swirls in the dirt.
“No, ma’am. I used to be a trapper, and woodworking filled the idle times.” Should he tell her how he most recently earned his way?
Her head snapped up. “My father’s a trapper.” She extended her foot and drew up her skirt hem a few inches. “Trapped the beaver and stoat for my moccasins.”
“No kidding. Where did he trap?”
“I was raised in Alberta, Canada, and Père moved where the Hudson Bay Company sent him—mostly between Calgary and Red Deer. He and Mère now live up north near Flathead Lake here in Montana Territory.” She leaned forward and watched his movements. “You know the area?”
He shook his head. “My trapping grounds were west, on the other side of the Rockies in Washington Territory.” Learning about Miss Pomeroy was interesting, but he had plans to make. He wanted to be on his own way. “Tomorrow we’re heading out, right?”
“You can travel all right with your injuries?”
“I did before I met you.” That sounded rude, even to his ears. “Sorry, I mean before I got strapped up to reduce the pain.”
“I know where I’m headed, but what’s your destination?”
“A mining town called Morgan’s Crossing. My younger brother lives there.” Or, at least, that was Nicolai’s last known address from a year earlier. Guilt over not staying in closer touch ran through his thoughts. “I’m sure the place is on the way to Virginia City.”
“You have a map?”
“A crude one.” Drawn by someone of short acquaintance, so Pete hoped the guy knew the route he claimed he’d taken half a dozen times. Besides, all Pete had to do was get this group to the next town. He assumed her intention to wire for an escort to help her travel the rest of the way.
“We’ll be ready by eight.”
“We leave at first light.” Their words spoke over each other’s. When he saw her frown and open her mouth, he held up a hand. “Compromise is seven o’clock, and not a minute later.”
“Goodnight, Mister Andrews.”
“’Night, Miss Pomeroy.” Pete thought over the events of the day, counting how many had gone the way he’d imagined. He might as well go all in on a high card draw. The chances of leaving when he wanted were about the same—lousy.
Chapter Six
By the afternoon of the third day of travel, Pete was about ready to pull out his hair. He likened their pace to a bit faster than a tortoise’s crawl. Miss Pomeroy told him the wagon jostled too much if the horses trotted, and she fretted that the nannies and kids couldn’t keep up. Steady but slow, the group just walked. Using the excuse of scouting the best route, Pete rode Blaze ahead at least once an hour to give the horse the proper exercise. Truth be told, he also wanted to feel like he was covering ground—even if he kept backtracking to the wagon’s
position.
As for getting started at seven o’clock—that hadn’t happened once. Either the milking was still being done or a child awoke from a nightmare and had to be soothed or someone had to make a last-minute run behind the bushes.
The rapport he’d thought he developed with Miss Pomeroy on the rest day in camp busted apart on the first morning they readied to hit the trail. He’d come upon her attempting to fix a broken link in the harness chain with a length of baling wire. “That isn’t going to work. You need a—”
“You think providing some prairie fowl gives you the right to tell me how to manage this? I’ll have you know before you showed up, I’d driven this team miles and miles on my own. Some days, we get along on little more than baling wire and a promise. We make do with what is provided. But we’ve gotten this far, haven’t we?” She cut a length of baling wire and looped it twice through the harness chain. “And we’ll get to Virginia City, I know we will.”
He could see what was coming next as plain as day. Her gloves were too thin to handle twisting the cut ends of the wire, and he reached toward his back pocket. “Here, use—”
“Ow, fiddlesticks.” Wincing, she shook her hand a couple of times and bend back to the task.
“Let me—” He pulled on his thick gloves.
“I will not. Those children are my responsibility.” Letting the chain drop, she d slapped a hand on her chest. “Mine. And no one will take that away.” She straightened and, after a glance around, stepped closer. “Who do you think has watched over these kids? Me. Who did her best to save what supplies she could and dragged a screaming child from that fire? I did.”
He heard the rasp in her voice and saw the vacant look in her eyes as she relived the memories. Maybe she just needed to talk out the situation. With those she’d worked beside all gone, he bet she’d not shared with another soul. “Julian told me about your bravery.” A sudden urge to enfold her in his arms rose. As mad as she was, he didn’t think she’d let him.
“Who held little Kittie for hours that first night and rocked her, shushing her screams for her dead brother? I did. The next day, when the fire brigade pulled the dead from the ashes, who stitched the shrouds around the blackened bodies, large and small? The task was devastating, but I was the one who bestowed my respects in the only way I could. I was the one who sat in the sheriff’s office and wrote out the list of all who had died. And notified the orphanage in Virginia City of the tragedy.” She sniffled, and her shoulders slumped. “Who finds something every day to put into the stewpot—no matter how meager? Until last night, that had been my job, and I fulfilled it. Even when I barely get a wink of sleep, because I have a child attached to each limb, and I feel like I’m suff—suff-o-cating.” She spat out the last over a sob and then turned away, her back ramrod straight.
Although her words had been spoken in a harsh whisper, what they revealed about the woman and her suffering echoed in Pete’s mind for more than two days. The tentative camaraderie they’d been building broke, and now she spared no smiles in his direction. Her attitude with the children remained as upbeat as always. He watched for ways to lighten her load, but the only one she allowed was for him to provide food for supper.
Blaze tossed his head against an annoying bug.
“Easy, boy.” Pete patted his neck. The breeze brought a scent of wood smoke, and he stood tall in the stirrups, moving his head to locate the direction. There. About a mile or so off was the roof of a farmhouse. The first sight of civilization they’d seen. “Whoa.” With his right hand, he angled the lead rope to guide Dandy around to his side. He glanced over his shoulder and waited for the wagon to catch up, lifting the collar from his neck to let in the breeze. Like he normally did each time he reconnected with the group, Pete trained his gaze on the repair on the harness chain. So far, the wire held.
Miss Pomeroy halted the team and gave him a frown. “Something wrong?”
The children in the back popped up, looking around.
“Why are we stopping?” Erin stared from under a floppy bonnet brim.
“Shush, please. Let me talk to Mister Andrews.” Miss Pomeroy rolled her shoulders then indicated he should continue.
“We’re coming up on a farm.” He leaned a forearm on the pommel. “Thought we might trade for supplies. What’s your most pressing need?”
Her eyebrows winged high before she spoke. “Flour. The sack’s almost empty, but I’d settle for cornmeal.”
“And what would you offer in trade? Milk or cheese?” He thought of the supplies in his own pack he could pitch in—cans of beans or potted meat.
“The cheese, I think. I have two rounds I could spare.”
He ran the next words through his mind before he made his proposal. “I’m the one who should handle the trading. You understand that, right?”
“Not really.”
“Our group will appear to those farm folks like we’re a family so the “husband” would be expected to do the talking.” After tapping a thumb at his chest, he shrugged. This was the part where he needed her cooperation, and he hoped she wouldn’t take offense. “And we’d need to use our given names, in engaged in a conversation.”
Several moments passed before she nodded. A pink blush colored her cheeks. “I suppose you’re correct about both of those situations, Mis—, um, Pete.” Her lips twitched at the corners then flattened.
Ten minutes later, he directed Fantine—an unusual name he hadn’t heard before, but one that rolled off his tongue—to park the wagon at the edge of the cultivated field. They’d decided not to risk one of the children speaking out against ruse of being a family. He left Dandy tied to the wagon and approached the house, holding Blaze to a slow walk. He scanned the barnyard and the corral for signs of activity, seeing only a few chickens and a team of mules.
Although he hoped not to run into trouble, he was ready with his right hand resting on his thigh. Chasing bounties had taught him criminals often hid out in secluded places. And they never took kindly to being discovered. He rode to the middle of the yard and turned to face the house. Up close, he could see the boards looked weathered and the porch sagged. “Hail, the farm house.” Cocking his head, he listened for noises from within.
A click of a rifle sounded from the house. “State yer business, stranger.”
Pete stiffened but didn’t move anything but his head. “Traveling with my family parked yonder. The wife is hoping you’ll trade flour for some cheese.”
The door opened, and a young woman in a faded calico dress stepped onto the porch. A shotgun lay tucked in her elbow. Three blond kids lingered in the doorway. “What kind of cheese you got?”
“May I?” He pointed toward the saddlebag and waited, hands held in full view.
“Go on.” She jerked her head in a quick nod.
He unclasped the buckle, pulled out the rounds Fantine had wrapped in muslin, and held them up, one in each hand. “Made from goat’s milk. Real tasty.”
She walked down the three steps and glanced to where the wagon stood.
Fantine and the children waved.
Lifting her hand, the woman snorted. “And I thought I had my hands full with these three younguns.”
Pete forced what he imagined to be a proud father-type smile. “My brood keeps me hopping.”
“What kind of trade you looking fer?” She squinted upward.
“Five pounds of flour per round.” By the looks of the place, that might be too much to ask. He’d rather start the barter too high than too low.
“I’ll give you four.”
“Five, and I’ll toss in two tins of Irish corned beef.”
“Deal.” Frowning, she glanced back at the house. “’Cept I got no extra sacks.”
Pete balanced the rounds in front of him with one hand and reached into another saddle bag for a burlap sack. “Fantine sent this along to use. She’ll be real happy for the chance to make biscuits again.” Darn if his pretend role as a husband didn’t sound real enough.
The woman took the sack and disappeared through the doorway.
Satisfied with what he’d accomplished, he glanced around. A vegetable garden displayed green plants at one side of the house. In the fields beyond, the tops of the stalks hung low, buds probably heavy with wheat grain. Or maybe oats. He really didn’t know the difference. Harvest would be soon, because everyone knew crops were brought in from the fields during September before the first heavy frost.
Footsteps announced her return, and she walked close and held up the sack.
Pete took it and then handed down the items, one at a time.
She made a trip to the porch to set down the cheeses, and the children scampered through the door and hunkered down next to the rounds. “Don’t touch nothing.”
After he handed down the last tin, he grabbed a leather strip from his back pocket and tied the top of the sack. “Could you tell me how far is the nearest town? Are we headed in the right direction?”
Within minutes, Pete leaned over and handed Ander the flour sack, who stowed it under the wagon seat. “Good news. The next town is Honey Grove, and the farm wife says it’s only two hours away.” Following Fantine’s instructions, he kept his tone light as he said the words. Problem was, he wasn’t sure how he felt about leaving them there and then heading to Morgan’s Crossing.
****
As soon as she heard a town was near, Fantine started planning. This past week proved her idea to make the trek to Virginia City without another adult’s help had been naïve. She figured if she could contact the orphanage, then the person in charge would either arrange for a local escort or sent someone to guide her. At least, that’s what she hoped.
Thankfully, the days weren’t as hot as when they’d first left Missoula. She didn’t feel so drained at the end of a day of driving the team. No matter how hard she tried she couldn’t get everyone ready by Mis—Pete’s requested departure time. That failure weighed heavily on her mind. And showed how ill-equipped she was to be in charge of these kids. How did someone who spent years planning to perfect her musical talents think she could oversee the care of children?
Montana Sky: Baling Wire Promises (Kindle Worlds Novella) (Entertainers of The West Book 4) Page 7