Montana Sky_An Unlikely Marriage

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  When she climbed down to put away her dress, Nola was careful to clutch the sides of her red gown close to her thighs. Wearing night clothes around males—no matter how sensible and opaque—sent an uncustomary flush to her cheeks. After opening the door, she glanced inside the tallest cupboard, normally filled to the brim with the special dresses of three performing women. The sight of the empty space was another reminder of tomorrow’s farewell. Her throat tightened. She draped the neckline of her rust-colored gown over the farthest wooden peg. Now all the dresses she owned could be unfolded from the storage drawers and hung in this cupboard.

  From behind, a firm body bumped then steadied her. “Excuse me.”

  The heat from Torin’s hand on her hip seeped through the single layer of flannel and branded her skin. Shaking her head at the nonsense of thinking he’d staked his claim, Nola held up her hands. “We’ve managed this before. What is the problem?” Her personal crisis was the thought of what would come in the next few minutes when she shared a mattress with her…uh, Torin. She couldn’t risk thinking of him as her husband—that would suggest a level of marriage they hadn’t agreed to.

  Cinnia pointed between the two men. “They take up more space than you, me, and Dorrie did.” Moving behind Nic, she eased along the aisle to pull open a cupboard door and store her dress and underclothes. “Whatever clothes you men remove need to go into a cupboard. One of the secrets of living in harmony inside a wagon is tidiness.”

  A deep groan sounded. Torin clapped his good hand over his heart and turned to look at her, brow wrinkled. “We’re doomed, my dear Nola, because I am a slob.”

  “I’m not worried.” Nola scooted the dowels for the hammock to the edge. Then she flashed a smile over her shoulder as she climbed into the sleeping alcove. “I’m a great organizer.” Once on the mattress, she dove under the quilt and scooted to the far edge, near the hatch that led to the driver’s bench.

  “Nic, grab the ends here. Nola says the dowels fit in grooves along the cupboard bottoms. This is your sleeping hammock.” With a grunt, Torin climbed up onto the bed and pulled the curtains closed. Silhouetted by lantern light, he curled his large body nearly in half to unfasten his outerwear. Mutterings accented each move, as using only one hand, he scooted his pants down his legs. A minute later, his jeans and shirt dropped to the floor with a thump.

  At least, he’s wearing drawers and an undershirt. The pinch of unease loosened from her chest. She’d wondered if he was the type to wear a nightshirt. Since his mustang round-up involved sleeping along the trail, he probably had to be ready for anything as he bedded down each night. Nola breathed in the scent of the campfire clinging to their skin and hair. A scent she’d be experiencing over the next two weeks. Good thing, she liked outdoor smells.

  Rustling and jostling noises came from the front of the wagon as the other two got settled in.

  “Good night, Nic,” Cinnia whispered.

  A whoosh sounded right before the lantern light disappeared. The moonlight filtering through the curtained window fell across their bed, making Nola aware of a much-bigger body occupying the other half, or two-thirds, of her mattress.

  Too tall to fit the mattress length, Torin laid at an angle on his right side, facing the curtain. The quilt barely covered the top of his shoulder.

  Probably the most comfortable position for his wrapped left wrist. His injury. Her thoughts stilled, and she bit back a gasp. In all the hustle of the wedding and setting up the camp, she’d forgotten to offer him willow bark tea. He’d had at least one cupful every morning and evening since they’d met. She levered herself up on an elbow, wondering if Torin was still awake and if she should offer to remedy the oversight.

  A breathy snore was her answer.

  One simple wifely duty, and she’d failed. An omission that boded ill for the next two weeks.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Dawn the following morning caught the couples still sleeping and, since then, the group had rushed to make up time. Awakened around two or so by the throbbing in his wrist, Torin had shifted on the mattress, watched his bride’s pert nose crinkle and relax as she slept, and even counted sheep—anything to return to the blessed oblivion of sleep. Without a dose of Nola’s pain-relieving tea, he couldn’t find a comfortable way to position his hand. Finally, exhaustion overwhelmed him after the setting of the waxing gibbous moon. Movements by the three other people when they awoke caused the wagon to pitch like a boat on a river. Still feeling groggy, he’d reluctantly arisen.

  Breakfast had been a hurried meal of coffee, charred bacon, and leftover biscuits before he and Nic fed the animals, put the mustangs on the rope string, and harnessed the teams. Torin hoped Nola proved to be a fast learner with these tasks. He could do them but was too slow for his own satisfaction. The wrapping and sling Doc Rawlins put on his wrist limited his movement. He didn’t even want to consider how much time would pass before he built back the strength in his left arm.

  Now, standing only a few feet away, he couldn’t avoid overhearing the sisters saying a tearful goodbye. Although the young women had similar features, Nola stood a couple inches taller and had a leaner figure. Watery sniffles filled the air. A lot of fuss for a situation that could be resolved in a couple of weeks, based on Nola’s choice. Families who wanted to stay together would. He watched brown-haired Nola pinch her lips tight then heave a big sigh.

  “Don’t forget, the address where to write is the Four Clovers Ranch in Meadowlark.” Blinking fast, Nola rested her hands on Cinnia’s shoulders. “Or, I suppose just the Quaid ranch would still direct a letter there.”

  “We’ve never been apart.” Cinnia’s shoulders shook as she let out a long shuddering breath, her hands holding tight to Nola’s forearms.

  Torin stood at Aengus’s head, stroking a hand over the horse’s forehead. That the sisters were parting for the first time proved an interesting fact about his new wife. Might explain the tears a bit better.

  “I know, sis, but I still want to see the world.” She shrugged and grimaced, darting her hazel-eyed gaze to the side. “Or at least more of Montana Territory.”

  Exactly what this trip will provide. Torin ran a hand along Aengus’ neck, hoping his stallion accepted being hitched to a harness with Banan, the pack horse. Because Torin hadn’t yet seen Nola’s riding abilities, he didn’t trust the spirited horse not to throw her. His injury had done enough to hamper their trip home—they didn’t need to risk another.

  “Promise me you’ll write, even if you only fill a page.” Cinnia wrapped her arms about Nola’s waist and clung tight.

  Who needed more than a page to state their business? Torin frowned, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Time was wasting. Since sleeping outdoors during his mustang roundup over the past two weeks, he’d been plagued by worries about the coming winter weather. All the animal signs he’d observed indicated a hard one. To his left, Nola’s horse, Captain, stamped a hoof, demonstrating the impatience that ran through Torin’s body.

  Torin glanced at the black mare wearing a gleaming new saddle of rich brown leather—Nic’s wedding present to the Quaids. The craftsman was obviously doing well for himself to bestow such an expensive gift. He’d even slipped Torin a bottle of special oil for treating his own battered saddle once he reached the ranch. Torin suspected the quiet, generous man had more depth of character than met the eye.

  Nic stepped forward and ran a hand over his wife’s shaking back. “Cinnia, time for Nola and Torin to leave. Their trip will be long and hard.”

  “I know.” Her words were muffled, but still she released her hold and stepped back into the circling embrace of her husband’s arm. Sniffling, she dabbed a handkerchief at her eyes.

  Nola dashed a hand over her cheeks then squared her shoulders and glanced at Nic. “Keep her safe, Nic Andrews.”

  “I aim to.” He grinned and pulled Cinnia close before jerking his chin in Torin’s direction. “You keep that cowboy in line.”

  After a cur
t nod and one last glance at Cinnia’s bowed head, Nola stalked to her horse, accepted the reins from Torin’s extended hand, and mounted.

  Although he couldn’t catch her gaze, he watched each of her movements as she settled into the saddle. Torin waited until Nola gathered and secured the lead rope for the string of mustangs. Struggling to find the best way with his injury, he finally hauled himself into the driver’s seat of the showman’s wagon. Once there, he loosened the reins from the brake.

  This morning he’d strapped on his holster for the first time since arriving in Morgan’s Crossing. The reassuring weight along his right thigh gave him back a little bit of control. Even though he’d endured a disparaging look from Nola. He figured spending most of her time in cities hadn’t exposed her to the surprises encountered by crossing the wide and wild prairie. The hoof beats of the moving mustangs pulled him from his musing, and he called out, “Get up there, Aengus. Step on, Banan.” Keeping his one-handed grip tight, he snapped the reins against the horses’ rumps. Only a few seesaw tugs were needed before the horses settled into the traces and moved into a rhythmic walk.

  A backward glance along the left side of the wagon revealed Nic and Cinnia in a tight embrace, and his buddy appeared to be comforting his still-sobbing wife. Better him than me. Give him the chance to share a joke or a funny story, and Torin was comfortable in the midst of a crowd. But any sign of seriousness or emotion pushed his boots toward the closest exit.

  Several minutes passed as the caravan of Nola on Captain leading six mustangs followed by the lavender-and-purple vaudeville wagon rolled over the ground. Two adults, nine horses, and two dogs still had one hundred and fifty miles of open prairie ahead of them. This part of southwestern Montana was untraveled territory in his previous searches for mustangs. After being injury, he’d given Aengus his head, and the stallion had followed a creek out of the mountains. Sheer luck had brought the group to the hills above Morgan’s Crossing where Nic had vats for tending his hides. As soon as Torin traveled far enough north he was sure to spot a known landmark to get his bearings and hunt for either the Madison or Jefferson. Tracing a path along one of those rivers would put him into familiar territory in no time.

  At the crest of a small rise, Nola stood tall in the stirrups, pausing Captain long enough to give a big over-the-head wave toward their abandoned campsite.

  Hampered by the sling on his left arm and the reins in his right hand, Torin couldn’t execute a goodbye wave, so he bade a silent farewell to his new friends. Mr. and Mrs. Nic Andrews—two people skilled with their hands who made a logical match. If the budding affection they’d already shown grew, then the couple would probably enjoy a happy marriage.

  Unlike his own union, which was more like a business transaction. Although, Torin had to admit feeling a few sparks from the wedding kiss he’d pressed on Nola’s sweet lips. Not calling himself an expert, but he’d kissed enough girls in his soon-to-be twenty-four years to know that not every woman responded. Her little gasp of surprise had tickled his lips with a puff of warm breath. A sensation he’d found downright pleasant.

  Moments later, the wagon rolled down the short incline. He glanced ahead to check that Nola was all right and in control of the string of animals. Now, when he looked around, all Torin could see was a landscape of brown buffalo grass, green-grey sagebrush, and distant, blue mountains. Up ahead, the mustangs flushed a covey of sage grouse, and he instinctively moved his hand toward his Colt Frontier six-shooter. Then he stopped and relaxed his elbow onto his thigh. Time would come later to hunt the plentiful black-headed birds with white-spotted tail feathers. Or whatever creek or stream they found in the afternoon should have trout or walleye pike he could catch for their supper.

  Handling a wagon demanded less of his attention than riding, and he let his thoughts wander. By now, he’d lost the bet with Morain on who could gather half a dozen mustangs first. Torin couldn’t conceive of a situation where his younger brother wasn’t already back at Four Clovers and starting the slow process of getting the mustangs to accept a saddle. Although the time Torin spent mingling among and grooming the horses while in Morgan’s Crossing had definitely made them easier for Nola to handle on this drive.

  A metallic clunk and the jerk of the wagon pulled him out of his reverie.

  Aengus snorted then bolted forward.

  “Whoa. Easy, boy.” Torin struggled to control the skittish horses and saw the traces were cock-eyed and loose. Leaning forward, he peered over the edge of the driver’s box and didn’t see the whippletree. Instead of being in line with the front side of the wagon, the apparatus was dragging in the grass. “Crud.” He shot his gaze ahead. His first instinct was to go for his revolver to capture Nola’s attention, but Aengus was already spooked enough. He lifted fingers to his mouth and gave a long two-note whistle, watching her body for a response. Nothing. He blew a series of three sharp notes. We need a set of signals.

  Nola glanced over her shoulder before guiding Captain in a half circle, and the mustangs spread themselves like a lady’s fan behind her.

  Torin circled his right hand in the air and beckoned her in his direction. He wrapped the reins around the brake and turned so he could climb down from the box. Holding his arm pressed against his body eased the jarring of his wrist, but he still felt a dull stab with every movement. He stooped so he could pull the loose end of the whippletree from under the wagon bed. The chain connecting the wooden length to the leader bar behind Aengus had broken—one of the links had stretched until it unfastened.

  Dried grasses crinkled under the approaching horses. “What’s wrong?” Nola moved close and stopped her mount but remained in the saddle.

  “Busted chain on the whippletree.”

  “Oh, no.” She swung herself to the ground and held the reins loose so Captain could graze. “A few weeks ago, Mr. Thomas mentioned the wagons needed servicing. He planned to arrange the work while we wintered in Omaha.”

  “Thomas? He’s that manager who ran out on your vaudeville troupe?” He squinted against the sun as he looked up at her. The cold morning air had blushed her cheeks like roses. Where did that thought come from? Using his teeth, he pulled off his glove so he could inspect the chain and ran a finger over the jagged cast iron edges. He felt where the metal had been worn thin before finally giving way.

  From inside the wagon came the sound of excited barking.

  Nola’s shoulders slumped then she walked close and squatted. “I still can’t believe he disappeared like that. Who skips out on paying his employees and leaves behind a lifetime’s work?” Sighing, she reached out a flattened hand.

  He put the broken piece in the palm of her glove. “Got any wire in your wagon?”

  Turning the busted chain link in her hand, she shook her head. “Nothing heavier than the thin stuff we use to repair the dogs’ pen.”

  Torin thought of the setup at the previous night’s camp, and the portable pen that had prevented Nola’s two small dogs from scampering off. The contraption was built of several wooden frames holding wire mesh looped together. For a moment, he considered how a length of the folded mesh might work. Probably too many layers were needed to achieve sufficient strength, and the thickness wouldn’t fit inside the chain loop. “This will have to be fixed by a blacksmith.”

  “Really?” She shot him a sideways look.

  “I’ve got rope to hook the chain to the loop, but that’s not a permanent fix. Before long the hemp will fray from rubbing on the metal rings. Leather might get us farther before wearing through.” He ran a hand down his face. “But not all the way to Four Clovers.” As much as he hated the idea of turning back, away from their destination, that was the only solution. Without knowing this part of Montana Territory, he couldn’t guarantee the next settlement going north offered a blacksmith—especially since he didn’t even know where the next town was.

  “So, we head back to Sweetwater Springs?”

  “Got no other choice. Plus, we should buy some heavy-gauge
wire for emergencies.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he winced. His pockets held only a few coins. And he hadn’t quite figured out how to ask his bride what money she had.

  A thought of the well-stocked workbench in the Four Clovers’ tack room flashed in his mind. Maybe he should have appreciated it more. At the ranch, his dad and Morain took care of the wagons, carts, and harnesses. Torin’s specialty had always been the animals—which meant he had no idea what this repair and purchase would cost. No use worrying now. Might as well wait until the blacksmith quoted the fee.

  Nola grimaced and looked away. “All right, I understand.” She dropped the chain then stood. “What will we use for now?”

  “A length of rope. As is, it’ll be too thick. We’ll, uh”—he jerked his chin toward her—“you’ll have to untwist the strands until the piece fits in the chain loop and then tie it off.” He rose, jammed the broken link into his front pocket, and then moved around Nola toward the team’s heads. A coil of rope hung from Banan’s saddle, and Torin fumbled with the ties until they came loose. He glanced around for a flattish rock to use to cut the hank. Darn this bum arm. Tensing, he stomped over to a gray rock that would serve. “If you hold the rope taut, then I can cut off a length from one end.”

  She complied and, between the two of them, the eight- or nine-inch piece was cut free.

  The length in her raised hand hung like a top-heavy shaft of wheat. “Should I just twist apart the wound coil?”

  “Only one ply at a time.” If he had two good hands, he’d be almost done by now. “After each removal, check if it fits in the loop.”

  Nola shot him a narrowed-eyed look before she stripped off her gloves and picked at the end of the strand, pulling a strip loose.

  Maybe his voice wasn’t as calm as he’d thought. He crossed his right arm under his left to support the wrist.