Montana Sky_Baling Wire Promises

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  “How long was I out?”

  “Today is the second day since I found you.”

  Pete nodded. The lost time seemed right. His body had shut down so he could heal. “Any food left over?”

  “Some.” She turned and moved toward the stove. “Menu was steak and eggs this morning. With biscuits, of course.”

  The idea of a thick steak appealed, but he’d better stick to soft foods. “Eggs and biscuits will be fine. And coffee.”

  Mrs. Malloy was already on her way back to the table with a steaming mug. “Here’s this. Won’t be but a minute or two for the rest.”

  The first few sips of the rich brew tasted good, but his stomach rebelled. He set aside the mug until after he ate something. “I appreciate the nursing of my wounds you’ve done.”

  “Nothing more than any good Christian woman would do.” She shot a glance over her shoulder then turned back to the skillet she tended. Moments later, she set a plate with three fried eggs and two biscuits and a jar of purplish jam in front of him.

  “Thanks.” Luckily, the eggs slid down without much chewing, and he devoured them within what seemed like only a few seconds. The biscuits took longer, but he savored the sweet huckleberry jam.

  Mrs. Malloy fidgeted with a towel, folding it and then laying it flat. “That food gonna stay down, you think?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  After a deep inhalation, she leaned a forearm on the table and stared. “Mister Andrews, after what’s happened, I have to ask you to leave. I run a respectable place, and I can’t have tenants who are involved in this type of shenanigans.” Her hand waved to indicate his face.

  Pete leaned back in the chair, the weight of her statement hitting him hard. His legs weren’t even steady beneath him, and he’d lost the roof over his head. “Can I have one more night?” He supposed she was right. Since he’d started hunting bounties, he felt more comfortable on the fringes of society.

  She nodded. “You’re paid through Friday, so that gives you two.”

  Later that afternoon, following a nap after breakfast, Pete stood at the counter in the stagecoach line with a pen hovering over a slip of paper. How do I announce my impending arrival to a brother I haven’t seen in almost three years? Figuring only a forewarning was needed, he dipped the nib in the inkwell and scribbled.

  Coeur d’Alene, Idaho Territory STOP

  August 31, 1887 STOP

  Nic Andrews c/o Sweetwater Springs, Montana Territory STOP

  Arriving within the month STOP Short visit STOP

  Pete Andrews END

  Chapter Three

  With a nod and a smile, Fantine pulled apart her pinched fingers as the last note stretched for three then four beats before she let her hands drop to her sides. Sister Bergetta had been a good music teacher, and Fantine watched enough rehearsals to pick up the movements used to guide the children in song. The echo of sweet voices hung in the warm afternoon air. Another stellar performance. Thankfully, surviving the orphanage fire hadn’t affected their singing as it had their appetites and sleep habits.

  The children, bedraggled and wearing ill-fitting clothing, took their bows with as much precision as when they’d been clad in the orphanage’s uniforms of khaki-colored trousers and jumpers with sky-blue shirts.

  A fly buzzed her ear, and Fantine waved it away. Girding herself, she bent to scoop up the small metal bowl. With cheeks flaming, she walked through the gathered crowd, hoping to collect enough donations to allow her group to embark on the journey south.

  High-pitched pings sounded before coins rattled to the bottom.

  “The children thank you, sir.” She couldn’t look the man in the eye as she stepped to the next one.

  The day following the fire, the pastor of the Missoula Congregational Church took pity on the children and opened a barrel of donations destined for the church’s mission work on the dark continent. Although mismatched, enough garments were located to provide each child with one set of clothes and a pair of shoes.

  With each penny or nickel added to the pile, Fantine murmured her gratitude. Even as fast as she moved, she didn’t get to all of those who’d stood listening. Her heart ached to see several townspeople at the rear of the crowd change direction and walk toward town. Plastering on a wide smile, she turned back toward the children. Only to spot a big man blocking her path. She stiffened until she recognized him then she bit back a frustrated sigh. Why couldn’t he have been walking his rounds on the other end of Missoula?

  Sunlight glinted off the star on his vest pocket. The dark-mustachioed lawman stared. “Afternoon, Miss Pomeroy.”

  Clutching the bowl to her middle, she gulped. “Afternoon, Deputy. Weren’t the children in fine form? I do believe their harmonizing could make angels weep.”

  “No denying that.” He crossed his arms atop his belly paunch and narrowed his gaze. “Except I informed you yesterday begging wasn’t allowed.”

  Fantine straightened and gave him her haughtiest look. “We are not beggars. The children’s songs provide an inspirational service. Their sweet voices soothe away worries and settle an anxious mind. In exchange, we are grateful for local folks who demonstrate their appreciation with donations.”

  “Miss Pomeroy, I don’t care how many high-falutin’ words you use. The sheriff has deemed this activity as begging, and he wants it to stop. Seeing as you’re the person in charge, he specifically wants you to stop.” He lifted his broad-brimmed hat from his head, swiped a palm over his forehead, and resettled his hat. After a glance around, he stepped close and laid three silver dollars on top of the coins. “Me and the other deputies pitched in on this contribution.”

  Fantine didn’t know how to respond to his terse whisper. His actions contradicted his words. Thinking he probably wanted to keep the contribution secret, she went along with his statement and slumped her shoulders. A frown turned her lips downward. “Yes sir, I understand. Tell the sheriff today was our last performance.” She gave him a sideways look and mouthed, Thank you.

  A glance toward the waiting children, who huddled close and watched her with wide, frightened gazes, confirmed what she’d known in her heart these past three days. Living on handouts and sleeping in a stable was no life for young children. The group had to set out for the sister orphanage in the southern part of the territory. Tomorrow, they must start the long wagon trip.

  ****

  Two days later, the setting sun stabbed slanted beams through the trees along the ridgeline. Only another hour of good light remained. Once the sun went down behind the mountain, the shadows grew long fast. Driving the team would become hazardous, and Fantine didn’t want to test her abilities. Besides, eight hours of sitting hunched over and keeping her wits about her to guide the horses taxed her strength. The path alongside the river was the surest way she knew not to get lost, but the terrain proved rocky and slow-going.

  From behind came Erin’s halting voice as she read aloud from the Tanglewood Tales

  Poor thing, the print must have been fairly swimming before the girl’s eyes from the jostling of the wagon. Fantine sent up a prayer of thanks the book was spared. She hadn’t been one of the classroom instructors at the orphanage, meaning she didn’t have a ready repertoire of facts with which to prompt answers from the children. Rather, she’d tended the goats, made cheeses, soaps, and lotions from the milk, and served as healer when needed.

  Each day, Ander Mateo begged her for a chance to drive the team. Each day, she gave him the opportunity. He tried, but the eleven-year-old boy’s spindly arms lasted only an hour or so.

  No matter how short the respite, Fantine appreciated every second. And she knew that each attempt only strengthened the boy’s muscles and boosted his confidence. Book learning wasn’t needed to see that. Her father had never set a foot inside a classroom, but he was the smartest man she’d ever met. Papa knew the world of nature and how to get what he needed to support his family. Always a tomboy, she’d been eager to learn and her happiest moments w
ere spent at his side, emulating his actions.

  “Look.” Ander pointed ahead toward the edge of the stream.

  A doe and her two fawns drank then popped up their heads and stared.

  “Whoa.” Fantine pulled back on the reins, but Misty and Cocoa took several more steps, and the deer bolted.

  “Are we stopping?” Nara stood and pushed her head into the space between where Fantine and Ander sat on the wagon bench. “Is this our home for tonight?”

  With the wagon still, all the aches and pains Fantine had been ignoring made themselves known. She glanced around and gauged the suitability. A spot between those trees to picket the horses and goats, plenty of grass, an easy walk to the stream—perfect. “We’re stopping. Everyone knows their chores.” She reached over to set the brake and wind the leather reins around the upright post. The muscles in her back twinged. Oh, how she wished for a warm bath with lots of bubbles. But, she’d take what she could get. “Tonight ,we all bathe in the creek.”

  At the chorus of protests, she smiled and then started singing “Camptown Races” as she removed the harnesses from the horse. She’d discovered they settled better into whatever routine was needed while occupied with a song. Outnumbered five to one, she needed all the strategies she could drum up.

  An hour later, a stew simmered on the fire. Five children stood huddled around it in their nightclothes. The older ones brushed the younger ones’ hair. Fantine cast one last glance over the group, nervous about going out of their sight. But she desperately needed to get clean. “Now, you promised to sing while I’m bathing. I want to hear you loud and clear. And no one sits in the dirt.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Five wet heads nodded as they spoke in unison.

  Ducking behind a bush, Fantine shed her dress, chemise, and drawers then dipped a toe into the cold creek. “A song, please.” Gritting her teeth, she lowered her foot.

  “She’ll be comin’ round the mountain.” Ander’s soprano voice filled the gathering dusk until the others joined in,

  Rocks bit into the soles of her feet, but Fantine wiggled her foot to shove aside the stones and dug her toes into the sandy bottom. When she’d reached mid-thigh, she ducked down and stifled a squeal at the sudden chill.

  The children’s voices filled with enthusiasm as they described her driving the six white horses.

  Rubbing the creamy goat milk soap over her arms and shoulders felt wonderful. As she worked the lather into her hair, she scrubbed away sweat that had seeped into every strand. Right before she ducked under to rinse, she heard Erin and Julian argue about the sequence of what came next. For just a few seconds, she floated, ran her fingers through her hair, and scraped at her scalp. Truthfully, she relished the solitude and peace of not having a child ask for her attention or help or reassurance.

  When she surfaced, she shook her head and pushed the strands from her cheeks then froze. All she heard were crickets and frogs on the far creek bank. “Children, I need to hear you singing.” The instant she didn’t get an answer, she strode to the shore, not caring where she stepped. “Are we to the verse where she has to sleep with Grandma?” Her tongue felt two sizes too big as she stepped onto the muddy bank and wrapped a sheet around her body, struggling with the cloth against her damp skin.

  “I see a stranger.”

  Nara voiced the warning all the children had been taught. Blood pounded in Fantine’s ears. She stilled then stretched a hand toward her moccasins as she peered through the bushes toward the flickering campfire.

  “Well, well, what do we have here?”

  Gut clenched, Fantine glanced toward the deep voice. Ten feet upstream along the creek bank stood a man dressed in dark clothing. He held the reins to a horse.

  His silhouette against the faint light cast by the campfire left his features indistinct. Of particular worry was the pistol resting in a low-slung holster. Instead of revealing the knife tucked in an inside pouch, she pulled on her moccasins and stood upright. “Who are you? And what do you want?” Grabbing her night rail, she ran from behind the bush and, with arms outstretched, positioned her body between the stranger’s and the children. From all sides, she felt bodies press close. Had her overconfidence around making this journey put the children in danger?

  The bushes rustled, and the dark stranger stepped into the circle of firelight.

  A quick scan of the campsite showed a second horse tie to a low tree branch. Was this man alone?

  On her left, Kittie screamed and clutched at the sheet. On her right, Nara duplicated the motions. From behind, other hands grabbed hold of the cloth.

  Unable to stop herself, Fantine gasped at the sight of the man’s bruised and cut face. Then she scrambled to keep the sheet from unwrapping, finally stepping forward and away from the children’s grasping hands. Unfortunately, that movement put her within a couple of feet of the stranger with the sardonic smile who smelled of leather and sweat. Her insides trembled like a shaking leaf. Whimpers from behind encouraged her to be strong for the children. Standing tall, she jutted out her chin. “I demand to know why you have invaded our campfire.”

  ****

  Pete stared at the arrogant stance of the slender woman with long brownish-red hair and flashing amber eyes. A memory surfaced of a mama grizzly bear he’d surprised on a mountain trail a few years ago. The animal had reared onto her hind feet and thrust forth her chin to take the attention from a pair of cubs romping only feet away. This half-naked woman adopted the same alerted pose for the trembling children at her back. Everything he’d noticed before stepping into the light cast by the fire indicated no man was part of this group. “The aroma of that stew is a powerful invitation.” He couldn’t stop from scanning his gaze over the curves defined by her damp sheet.

  The woman glared and leaned forward, her eyes narrowing to slits. “If you were a gentleman, you would already have averted your gaze so I could make myself presentable.”

  A gentleman. The slur that he was not such a type produced a wince. The spitfire had a point. Dipping his chin in an acknowledging nod, he scuffled his boots in the rocky dirt until he faced away. Pain stabbed his side like a hot poker, and he sucked in a breath. Now that the danger of confrontation was past, he relaxed and the aches and pains washed through his body. He shot out a hand to lean on Blaze’s saddle until the pain receded. The beating from two days ago must have busted a rib or two. “Beg pardon, ma’am. For a traveler like myself, a campfire is a friendly beacon.” From behind came the rustle of cloth, and he fought to think of anything but the pretty young woman only a couple feet away.

  “Don’t like the stranger. Scary face.”

  Pete grimaced at the tremor in the little girl’s voice. How had his life deteriorated?

  “Shush now, Nara. I’m here and won’t let anything happen.”

  “I mean you and the children no harm, ma’am.” Her voice soothed, and he was tempted to look over his shoulder to see her expression.

  “I’m clothed decent now. What are your intentions?”

  Taking careful steps, he switched his hand on the saddle and faced the campfire. Maybe, by keeping his chin tucked, he could cast his injuries in shadow. He waited for her to speak. Sideways glances confirmed the woman now wore a long gown. The sheet covered her shoulders like a shawl, and she clutched a handful of the fabric tight under her chin.

  “Children, here is a person who seeks our help.” She waved a hand in his direction as she walked a line in front of where they stood. “He might be a friend who we haven’t yet met. That situation will be solved by an introduction.” She turned then stepped forward with her right hand extended. “Sir, my name is Fantine Pomeroy, and I’m guardian of these children.”

  Pete looked at the line of youngsters—two boys and three girls—none over the age of ten or eleven. He stretched out his hand and clasped hers. “Pete Andrews.” Her skin was cool, but a blush rode on her high cheekbones.

  “See, children, the man is no longer a stranger.” She tugged at the handclas
p then frowned into his gaze before looking over her shoulder. “His name is Mister Andrews. Will you please greet him?”

  Pete held tight for a few more seconds before letting her hand slip away.

  “Hello, Mister Andrews.”

  He broke eye contact to sweep his gaze across the fire and lifted his hat. “Evening, children.”

  “Sir, I must tend to their needs. We’ll talk later.” Miss Pomeroy smiled then turned to the group. “Who’s ready for supper?”

  Cheers went up and most smiled.

  “Collect a bowl and spoon from the box in the wagon and line up.” She moved to the fire and stooped toward the bubbling cast iron pot. “Mister Andrews, I assume you have your own bowl or plate.”

  Firelight backlit the woman’s form, highlighting the silhouette of her legs. Pete averted his gaze and focused on the bulging saddlebag that held his supplies. Needing a distraction, he untied the laces and pulled out a burlap sack. “Miss Pomeroy, might I contribute these biscuits to the meal?”

  She straightened, eyes wide. “Oh, they would be most appreciated.”

  “Probably on the dry side.” He held out the bag, wanting her to feel secure enough with his presence to approach him.

  “No matter, the children can dunk them.” She stepped close and accepted the bag before resting it on her crooked leg to untie the thong. Lifting the bag to her nose, she inhaled. “I love the scent of bread.” Then she dipped a quick curtsey. “Thank you, Mister Andrews.” In a whirl, she turned and hurried toward the wagon. “Look, children. Our new friend has gifted us with biscuits for our soup. What a lovely surprise.”

  Her words quieted as the children gathered around, and Pete watched as she talked to each one. Seemingly as natural as speaking, she ran her hand over a child’s head, tucked a strand of hair behind an ear, or touched a shoulder. By crumbling part of a biscuit into each bowl, she obviously intended to stretch the portions.

  Ten minutes later, he held his own bowl of the thin vegetable soup with a whole biscuit in the middle. Guilt that he’d received one quarter of the bread niggled, but for only a moment or two. He was a sight bigger than the smallest ones. A strange, tree-shaped item floated toward the top, and he poked it with the tip of the spoon. Since none of the children had rejected it, he guessed the item was edible. After the first bite, he gave in to his hunger and scooped until the metal spoon scraped the bottom. An unusual flavor remained on his tongue, and he attributed it to the green twig-like things he’d seen in the liquid.