Montana Sky_Baling Wire Promises

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  A veteran of outdoor camping, Pete carried his bowl and moved to where a wooden bucket hung at the side of the wagon box. “I’ll do the washing.” He stacked bowls that sat on the downturned gate of the wagon.

  “I appreciate the help, Mister Andrews. I need to get the children settled for the night.” She met his gaze. “Then we’ll talk.”

  “Right.” As he walked toward the creek, he whistled under his breath, making just enough noise so he wouldn’t hear whatever Miss Pomeroy murmured to the children. Ironic how he’d initially been treated with suspicion. Especially since he’d been a lawman for the past year. At the creek’s edge, he slowly lowered himself to a squat and rinsed the bowls and spoons in the running water.

  Being around this many dishes reminded him of the last time he’d been at his parents’ house in San Francisco three…no, four years ago. Shortly afterward, he and his brothers were ordered to scatter into far-flung mountain locations and live in semi-seclusion while his father secured the patent on the generations-old Andrusha’s leather tanning process. At first, he’d rebelled at being sent away from his comfortable lifestyle of tennis and polo matches in the daytime, and theatrical plays or society galas in the evenings. Within a few months, he’d reconciled to living under an assumed name and working as a frontiersman, trapping throughout Washington Territory and sending the furs to his brother, Nicolai, to tan.

  Behind him, a twig broke.

  With a smooth move, he swiveled, drew his Colt, cocked the hammer, and leveled the weapon toward the noise. “Move out of the bushes slowly.”

  “Mister Andrews? It’s Fantine.” She emerged from the greenery. “I need to rinse out the pot.” Her eyes shot wide at the sight of the drawn weapon.

  His body relaxed, and he stood, holstering the gun as he rose. “Sorry.” He watched her stoop and dip the pot under the surface then swish it back and forth a few times. Even though the answer was none of his business, he had to satisfy his curiosity. “What are you doing out here…alone?”

  She lifted the pot and poured out all the water except a couple of inches in the bottom before she stood and faced him. “But I’m not alone. I have the children and the animals.”

  “Neither is a substitute for a man’s presence.” Since his first sighting, her hair had dried, and the moonlight shone on fiery red streaks.

  “You offering to be our escort?” Shaking her head, she turned and strode out of sight.

  Him escort a gaggle of children? Not likely. Grabbing the bail of the bucket, he followed, surprised at how quickly she moved. Or maybe his steps dragged to avoid jarring his side. When he returned to the firelight, he saw the pot at the edge of the flames and an overturned box positioned near the circle of rocks. He glanced toward the wagon and spotted the girls snuggled together in the wagon bed and the boys on a mattress underneath.

  Miss Pomeroy wielded a hatchet and chopped at a branch.

  “Let me do that.” After setting down the bucket, he straightened then grabbed a hand to his side at the sudden movement.

  “Probably shouldn’t disturb those ribs. Now that the children are asleep, care to share how you got those bruises?” She tossed a short limb into the fire.

  “How’d you know about my ribs?”

  “I’m a healer. I recognize when a person is altering movements to protect an injury.” She gestured with the hatchet toward the pot. “I’m boiling water to make a poultice out of yarrow stalks for wrapping the ribs. Then I’ll see what I have to treat those cuts. Maybe some case wort. Can’t have you giving the children nightmares.”

  Pete frowned and glared. “My face isn’t that bad.”

  “Says you. It’s downright frightening to a child suffering from a recent tragedy.” She sucked in a breath, and her shoulders slumped. “But that’s not up for discussion.” After cutting two more limbs, she reached into the bucket and withdrew a clean bowl. “Either you can strip off your shirt, or I can.” Then she walked to the wagon, pulled a leather pouch from under the front seat, and set it on the tailgate. As she sorted through the supplies, she hummed under her breath.

  The tune wasn’t one he recognized, but the soft, lilting notes soothed. Pete unfastened the buttons of his shirt and moved to shrug it from his shoulders. The familiar stab cut like fire and stole his breath. A groan escaped his tight lips.

  “Sit and let me do that.”

  Breathing through the pain, he recognized the echo of what he’d said only moments before. He eased down atop the box and held his arms loose at his sides.

  Miss Pomeroy stepped behind him and rolled away the collar from his neck. “Can you angle your arms back a few inches? I can work off the sleeves one at a time.”

  Doing so pulled at the injured muscles, but the idea of a treatment that might ease this pain forced him to work through the hurt. Jaw clenched, he breathed through his nose until the garment was removed.

  “The undershirt has to come off, too.” She dipped her knees until she was at his eye level, face flushed. “Can you manage that?”

  “Without passing out, you mean?” Always a bit of a stickler about his appearance, Pete couldn’t hold her gaze. The intimacy of their situation struck. His last real bath had been three days earlier in Coeur d’Alene, and his clothes were trail dirty and dusty. Even more, he hated that the injury drained his stamina, and he was forced to ask for help. “You better do it.”

  Focusing on her fingers, she unbuttoned the buttons on the placket front and tugged upward on the shirt.

  “It’s attached.” Now he felt heat crawl up his neck. He hadn’t been this embarrassed in years.

  “Oh.” She slipped a thumb into the neckline and pushed it over the crest of his shoulder. “All right. I’ll ease the garment off the non-injured side first. We want to keep your ribs as stable as possible.”

  The moment her hand clasped his bicep to move his arm upward, he stilled. How long since a female had cared to put his feelings first? At her calm direction, he rolled, lifted, and angled his arms to get free of the undergarment. The night air had cooled since sundown but it felt good on his heated skin. Each day since the attack, he’d checked for sweating, fearing a fever. So far, none had developed. But why was he now so hot?

  “You poor man.” Cool fingers touched his torso as she leaned close. “Whatever happened to cause these injuries?”

  A fresh scent from her clean hair filled his nose. She couldn’t possibly expect him to answer while she prodded and probed the sensitive skin, shooting pains through his chest. He closed his eyes and thought of a happy event—raking in the big pot at the riverboat or the last time he and his brothers went fishing. A hand cupped his cheek.

  “Mister Andrews. Open your eyes.”

  He did and spotted her concerned stare under wrinkled brows. “Yeah?”

  She held up a steaming cup. “While I’m preparing the poultice, you should drink this willow bark tea.”

  “Whiskey…in my saddlebag.”

  “This tea is what I’m offering. Take it or leave it.” She flattened his left hand and placed the cup in it before turning back to her supplies.

  Bossy, huh? He could tolerate a bossy woman. Then heat flashed on his side as she smeared on something mushy, and he fought to stay upright on the seat. After downing tea hot enough to scald his tongue, he dropped the cup to the ground and hung onto the wooden crate.

  “No, I need your arms out straight.” Miss Pomeroy circled him three times, ducking under his outstretched arms while she bound a length of cloth around his middle before tying it off.

  Fifteen minutes later, he lay stretched full-length inside his bedroll, wearing his fresh set of undergarments, and tested how deep a breath he could take. The healer demonstrated the best nursing skills he’d seen since his own mother’s. His ribs no longer ached like his skin was pinched in a vice, and whatever she’d smeared on his cuts removed the sting. The tea, although bitter, eased the throbbing, and he thought he could get a good night’s sleep.

  Miss Pom
eroy returned from the creek and spread out his under drawers on a bush.

  She’d done his washing? “You didn’t have to do that, miss. I’m already beholden for the patching up you did.”

  She walked close and lowered her knees to the edge of his blankets. “They were caked with blood.” She reached out a hand and used her forefinger to ease the skin away from under his eye. “No sign of fever, that’s good.” A smile flashed, and she pushed at a tendril of hair with the back of her hand.

  He tried to watch her movements, but the outline of her arm blurred and his eyelids drooped. He struggled to open them again.

  Pursing her lips, she tilted her head to one side. “If you feel beholden, then maybe you’ll stick with us until we reach the next town. Is that agreeable?”

  “Shounds all righty.” His breath whooshed from his slack lips.

  Chapter Four

  Fantine struggled to get enough air. Something pressed on her neck. Memories of the fire filled her head, and she gasped. Keep the children safe. Her limbs were too heavy, and she couldn’t break free from what held her down. A warning cry choked in her throat. Feeling pinned on all sides, she jerked against the confining weight. She needed to get out. Get away. Must breathe fresh air. Safety was just through the doorway that wavered and receded. Angry flames licked closer, the heat almost suffocating. The body at the foot of the stairs. Sister Catherine disappearing from the upstairs window. Smoke everywhere, the silent killer. If only she could…

  With a shove, Fantine sat upright, blinking away the tears that always came in the sleeping hours. The only time she allowed herself to grieve. Drawing in a deep breath, she scanned the area. Trees, bushes, campfire embers barely glowing. The mountain range to the east was tinged a pale pink at the ridgeline. This was reality.

  Only a dream. The same horrible, haunting one…but just a dream. She glanced down and saw the source of the trapped feeling. Since that horrible night, the children pressed close, seeking reassurance in their sleep. One of the girls must have wrapped an arm around her throat as they all slept. At some point in the past few hours, the boys had climbed inside the wagon bed and lay crossways at the end. Shaking off the dream, she realized this was the first occasion since the fire that the children had slept through the night. No panicked screams as one or more child relived the tragedy in an upsetting nightmare.

  Had the children slept so soundly because of the presence of a man? Had she relaxed enough because she’d known another adult was nearby? Especially one who looked as capable as he did, despite his minor injuries. Growing up in places where frontiersmen and trappers congregated, she’d seen her share of strong, self-reliant men. Pete Andrews fit that mold, although no traps or fishing gear evidenced he might belong to that brotherhood. The pistols and rifle he carried were standard for men in the western territories.

  Soon, he’d need another dose of willow bark tea. She swiped at her wet face and looked over to where he slept. The outline of Mister Andrews’ bedroll showed dark and solid against the lighter dirt and leaves of the forest floor. Squinting, she tried to make out his position and then went still at the sight of a raised hand waving. Had she cried out and awakened him? Did she need to explain? Probably best to wait until he posed a question.

  As gently as she could, she extricated herself from the sheets and quilts and clambered out of the wagon. A few minutes later, she emerged from behind a stand of silver sagebrush dressed in a skirt and loose-fitting blouse. Smocking, carefully stitched by one of the sisters, decorated the neckline and shoulders. The morning air held a slight chill, and she gathered twigs as she approached the fire ring.

  The bedroll was gone. The only evidence of where Mister Andrews had slept was a smooth indentation in the dirt. She whirled, heart racing, and scanned the area. Had he left? Was she on her own again?

  A horse nickered and stamped a foot.

  Fantine spotted the silhouette of Mister Andrews as he squatted to undo the hobbles at his horse’s feet. Just tending his animal. She breathed easier at seeing his smooth movements, although she knew he wasn’t yet pain-free. A reminder for her to get water heating for his medicinal tea. She bent at the waist to reach for the water bucket. For a moment, she debated if she could milk both nannies and start the cheese-making process before the children woke. Or maybe she should—

  “Morning.” Footsteps crunched in the dirt.

  The deep but low-pitched voice startled her, and she jumped before turning. “Morning, how are you feeling? I was just about to set water to boil.”

  He held up a small burlap sack and a metal coffee pot. “My thoughts, too.” Leaning over, he reached for a wooden bucket near the fire. With lips pressed tight, he poured water into the pot then gave her a sideways glance. “Will you have a cup of coffee?”

  “That would be a treat. Thank you.” She turned and took a step toward the trees. “I’ll gather more firewood.” Moments later, she dumped a few branches onto the ground.

  “Gotta say, Miss Pomeroy. Whatever you put on my bruises sure helped the aching.” From where he stood poking the fire with a long stick, Mister Andrews rested a hand on his right side. “Don’t know when I’ve slept for that long. Did you slip something into that bitter tea?”

  The man was astute. A frisson of guilt surfaced. “Not in the tea, sir. The poultice contained valerian root, which has sedative properties.” At his narrowed look, she shook her head. “But I was most concerned about reducing the swelling and stabilizing your ribs. The sleep aid proved a side benefit.” Which might have accounted for her restful sleep, as well—although the palms of hands usually resisted the plant’s effects. “I could brew more willow bark for your pain.”

  “Coffee’s my preference, thanks. I like keeping my wits about me.”

  “True. Especially now that you’re our guide.” The first rich coffee scents floated through the air, and she inhaled with a smile.

  “Excuse me, I’m what?” His eyebrows winged high then he motioned her in the direction of where the animals were picketed. A fallen tree angled between two others about a foot off the ground provided a bench-like seat.

  She bit back a gasp. He’d forgotten their agreement. Fantine sat with arms crossed over her middle to hold back her growing anxiety. “You said you were beholden for the care I provided and agreed to escort the children and me to the next town.”

  “I did?” He readjusted his hat and frowned. “Don’t remember a thing about that.” Scratching his stubbled chin, he gave her a hard glance and then stared toward the creek. “Where you headed?”

  “South to Virginia City.”

  “Must be a hundred and twenty-five miles.”

  Her shoulders sagged. Although she had no way of gauging the distance they covered each day, she’d hoped they’d traveled farther from Missoula. “That far still?”

  “Miss, what are you doing by yourself with a passel of kids? This country’s not safe for a woman on her own.”

  Fantine gripped her skirts, and she glared. “I’ve done everything I know to protect them.”

  Shaking his head, he lifted a hand. “I’m sure you have. But if you don’t mind me saying, you don’t look old enough for any but the youngest to be yours.”

  “None are my children.” How much should she tell him? “I promised to get them to the Sisters of Piety orphanage in Virginia City.”

  “When I rode through Missoula, I heard about an orphanage that burned to the ground. That’s where you’re coming from?” He stiffened, and his gaze scanned her body. “You’re a nun?”

  Fantine’s heart wasn’t pure enough to qualify as a nun. “No, I worked as a healer there. Due to an outbreak of poison ivy rashes, the children and I were sleeping on the sun porch.” She pressed her fisted knuckles to her mouth and swallowed hard. “That’s the sole reason we survived.”

  “You’re the only ones who lived?”

  Her throat tightened, and she could only nod. Images flashed—bright flames and scorching smoke. Her mind whirled, f
ighting not to replay the horrible events again. But the acrid smell was real. “Sir, the coffee’s scorching.”

  Mister Andrews bolted to his feet then groaned and pressed a hand to his left side.

  “Let me.” Grateful for the distraction, she scurried forward and doubled up the hem of her skirt to remove the steaming pot to a nearby rock.

  A shaft of golden sunlight angled across the camp. From a far-off branch came a rustling and the sweet call of a lark or a chickadee.

  If she was lucky, she’d have another thirty minutes before the children roused. She grabbed the metal pail from under the wagon seat and a small rag from the cloth sack. “I need to do the milking.” After dipping the rag in the wooden bucket, she trudged to the makeshift corral and ducked between the ropes. “Hello, ladies.” She ran a hand along the closest nanny’s shoulder and slipped off the leather strip that kept the goat from chewing the enclosure ropes.

  Perched on an uncomfortable boulder, she leaned forward and swabbed off Joli’s milk sack and teats before settling in to milk. Luckily, the kids were totally weaned more than a month ago and now fed on leaves, twigs, and grass. Fantine needed every drop from the two does to supply the hungry children.

  From behind, she heard the sound of a hatchet chopping at branches. One less chore she had to do before thinking about preparing food. If the man would stop asking questions, he might not be so bad to have around. As quickly as she could, she switched Charmant for Joli and started milking the second doe, whispering sweet words as she hurried through the task.