Montana Sky_Hearts In Rhythm

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  The woman looked up and smiled. “Good afternoon. Welcome to my shop. How may I help you?”

  “I’m Savina Lombard, and I was in the shop next d-door. The man there said you p-performed vaudeville acts.” She waved a hand toward the wall decoration. “Is that a p-prop?”

  “Stage dressing, actually.” She set aside the blouse she’d been stitching then stood and gazed at the room depiction. “That backdrop was used for the act two sisters, Gerda and Milly, played their violins. When the troupe disbanded, I claimed all the backdrops and hang a different one every few months.” She clasped her hands at her waist. “But I’m sure you’re in my shop for a reason other than hearing about my former profession, Miss Lombard.”

  Shaking her head, Savina stepped to the edge of the wooden table with the shiny finish. She couldn’t resist running her fingers over the smooth surface and rounded edges. “Oh, but I d-do wish to hear about vaudeville. See, I’m trained as a b-ballet dancer but suffered an injury. I wish to c-create a trick riding act and audition for the Wild West.”

  A high, tinkling laugh filled the air. “Buffalo Bill’s Wild West? The performance labeled as America’s National Entertainment? The one where the orchestra players dress up as cowboys?” She planted a hand on her hip. “The show that played in the Erastina Amusement Grounds all last summer?”

  Savina nodded, amazed this woman knew so much about the exhibition. “One and the same.”

  “I heard the details of William Cody’s life and accomplishments so many times from my older sister, Nola, I swear I could write the man’s biography.”

  “Nicolai said she had a d-dog act.”

  “Gigi and Queenie, such dear dogs.” She sniffled and lifted the corner of her apron to dab at the corners of her eyes. “Never thought I’d miss those mutts, but I do.” Waving a dismissive hand, Cinnia stepped close. “Don’t mind me. Doc Rawlins said I’d get emotional for almost no reason.” She cupped a hand on her belly for just a moment.

  “C-congratulations, Missus... Sorry, I d-don’t remember which last name your husband said to use.”

  “Cinnia is fine. Tell me, what is involved in trick riding?”

  “I wish to p-perform while sitting or standing on horseback.”

  “Oh my, sounds dangerous.”

  Savina squared her shoulders—like she did every time anyone expressed doubt about her abilities. “I’m strong and have learned many d-dance steps in my c-career.”

  Cinnia reached forward and squeezed Savina’s clasped hands. “I’m sure you have, Savina, and I didn’t mean to hint you couldn’t. I traveled and performed on stage for more years than I wanted to so my sister and I could stay together. I never want to do it again.” She shuddered. “But, I also sewed all types of costumes for the troupe for many different acts. That’s the expertise I believe I can offer.” She gestured toward a round table and two chairs tucked in a room at the back of the shop. “Shall we sit, have a cup of tea, and discuss what you might need?”

  Savina followed Cinnia into a small kitchen overlooking an abundant garden behind the shop. “You must be a skilled gardener.”

  “Not me.” Cinnia filled the tea kettle with water from a pitcher on the counter and set it on the stove. “I’ve been back from my wedding trip for less than two weeks. My good friend, Dorrie, is responsible for the flourishing vegetables.” She leaned toward the window. “I see her straw hat. She’s back there weeding right now. The heat will drive her inside soon.”

  Savina glanced around, spotted a ladder attached to the wall, and walked to its base. “Is that an attic loft?”

  “A tiny sleeping loft with only a bed and bureau. My Nicolai was clever enough to build the shops complete with living quarters. One of the reasons why I wanted to rent this place when I decided to open my shop.” Smiling, she held up her hands toward the ceiling. “A home and business under one roof was the first stability I’d had in a long time.” Then her shoulders slumped and her expression tightened. “Last winter, in the blizzard, we invited some of the Chinese miners to live here, because their tents couldn’t withstand the snow. The others were housed in the meeting hall.”

  The kettle whistled.

  Cinnia turned toward the stove. “Let’s talk of happier things. Tell me about yourself.”

  Savina shared about performing in Helena, staying at the Rolling M, and being thankful that family had been only a few hours’ travel away.

  Cinnia relayed a few details about the dramatic recitations she’d done of famous poems, complete with costumes and props.

  “What types of c-costumes?” Savina set down her almost empty cup, anxious to hear more on this very subject.

  Cinnia gazed toward the corner of the room. “A dress, actually more like a shift, made of leather with lots of fringe. That one came with a hideous horsehair wig.” She gave an exaggerated shudder. “A short-sleeved empire waist gown of rose sateen. A gown called a stolla that draped loosely on my frame and had deep slits in the sleeves. I always wore a crown of leaves with that dress.” She gazed down and smoothed a hand over the front of her garment. “I doubt I could still fit them.”

  “May I see them? I’ll need a c-costume to audition in.” Savina’s hopes about the feasibility of her new career bubbled inside. She’d been so focused on thinking up the possible types of tricks, she hadn’t given much thought to the costume.

  “Of course. I have them in a trunk. Follow me.”

  Minutes later, Savina felt like she’d been transported backstage at the Ming Opera House. Garments of satins, silks, velvets, and netting spilled from the packed steamer trunk. Ideas sparked about wearing the diaphanous white gown Cinnia called a stolla. She pictured herself making an entrance into the arena while riding on the back of two horses, chariot style. But this gown was intended for a more sedate use of slow moves and static positions. “I like this, b-but it needs more flow, so movement makes the fabric stream b-behind me as I ride.”

  “I can see narrow lengths of chiffon being stitched here and here.” Cinnia touched spots at the side seams. “With maybe a matching length tied into the horses’ tails or streamers of ribbons.”

  “I like that suggestion.” Sharing ideas was fun and made her feel more a part of her profession again. “Are any of the leathers from your husband’s shop thin and p-pliable? I have an idea for an Indian p-princess costume that is more form-fitting than yours.” Oh, that came out as less than a compliment. She grimaced and shrugged.

  “That’s all right. That costume was one of my early attempts, and the troupe’s manager, Mister Thomas, insisted we keep it in the inventory.” Cinnia tilted her head. “Pliable, you say. I haven’t looked through Nicolai’s supplies lately. But I’ve seen him use a tool that shaves hides to different thicknesses.”

  “I wonder if he has a p-pattern for moccasins.”

  “Don’t worry. Nicolai can look at an item and figure out how to make it.”

  Savina smiled at her new friend. Today was certainly a good one. All the essential parts for her act were coming together. Now she just needed to put in the work to get over her slight aversion to horses and learn to ride while standing.

  Chapter Five

  After visiting Morgan’s Mercantile to gather the supplies Trent requested, Estefan escorted Savina back to the wagon and assisted her into the seat. She’d returned from the dressmaker’s shop with a glowing expression. He trotted around the back of the wagon, giving a final wave to Nic-Nicolai, who stood at the window. The different name would take getting used to. Clucking at the team got them started. He needed to go forward in order to swing them into a wide turn.

  “Isn’t that wagon lovely?”

  Estefan glanced to the black-and-gold enclosed wagon with the curved roof parked at the side of the dressmaker’s shop. A stovepipe extended a couple feet above the roof, and the window shutters contained carvings of vines and flowers accented in gold paint.

  “The vaudevillians traveled all over the country in those wagons. Each one sl
eeps three or four. C-cupboards hold their b-belongings, supplies, and food.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Four in a bed would be tight.”

  A giggle escaped, and she pressed fingers to her lips. “Not all in the b-bed. Hammocks are hung in the middle aisle at night.”

  “Now I understand.” A man of his six-foot height probably couldn’t stand straight inside. “Gee.” He steered the horses to the right and drew abreast of the Morgan’s Crossing Hotel and Boarding House. The new structure he’d spotted from the hill was two stories with white clapboard siding. Having a hotel in town, even one that must have no more than six or eight rooms, would encourage growth. Flowers blooming along the base of the front porch gave the place a welcoming look. As he guided the horses into the turn, he listened to Savina’s account of her visit with Nic’s wife. Estefan had learned that if he kept his gaze focused elsewhere, and not on Savina’s face, she didn’t stutter as much. Being the only woman on the Rolling M probably made her lonely for female conversation. He made a mental note to bring her on the trip two days hence to pick up the ordered items.

  Several minutes passed as she shared about her visit. He let her comments of costumes, ribbons, and fabrics float around his awareness, and he noted the cheeriness of her tone. Soon all he heard were the clopping of horse hooves and the buzzing of occasional insects. “I’d say you enjoyed your chat with Missus Andrusha.”

  “That I d-did.”

  “Ready for your surprise?”

  “Surprise?” She turned a wide-eyed expression his way. “What d-do you mean?”

  After transferring the double set of reins to his left hand, he leaned forward to pull a pair of light tan cowboy boots from under the seat. “These are the right kind of boots to wear on a ranch. Especially when you’re on horseback.” He set the shoes on the bench between them, watching her face for a reaction.

  “Such b-beautiful work. Thank you.” Smiling, she ran a finger over the stitching along the side seams that resembled climbing vines. “How d-did you know the right size?”

  Satisfaction at the success of his plan filled his chest. “Remember the interruption from Nicolai about needing beeswax?”

  Brows wrinkled, Savina nodded.

  “And how he accidentally spilled Cinnia’s basket of threads?” He waited for her second nod before continuing. The sideways look she gave him possessed a coquetry he suspected she wasn’t aware of. “He measured your foot while he was down on the floor gathering the spools. Hope he didn’t give you a fright.”

  “Working in theater lowers your inhibitions about p-people b-being too c-close.” Shaking her head, she tsk-tsked. “He’s a sneaky man.”

  Estefan flashed a wide grin and winked. “Who do you think gave him the idea?”

  The rich peal of her laughter filled the air. She bent to unlace her ankle boots, kicked them off. After rolling her foot several times, she slipped her stockinged feet into the new ones. “Ah.”

  The sight of her delicate ankles and arched feet snapped his gaze straight forward. He should have anticipated her action. The gentleman’s code drummed into him by his loving Mamá demanded he avert his gaze. He’d been to theater performances often enough to know that dancers of all types wore revealing costumes. As a professional dancer, Savina was probably used to making costume changes with limited privacy. Probably why she wasn’t coy about exposing her limbs when most society ladies would take to their fainting couches at the very idea. “Your foot must be feeling better.”

  “The liniment you suggested worked wonders.”

  As the horses trotted and the wagon bounced, Estefan let his mind wander to the chores awaiting him at the ranch. This trip to town had taken a chunk out of his afternoon, but sunlight lingered during the summer evenings. He should still get a couple hours of work done after supper. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Savina prop up the tan boots on the front of the wagon then turn them to expose all sides. Each time he glanced her way, he glimpsed a smile or she met his gaze straight on. With any of the women he knew back home, a connected glance equaled an invitation to start a conversation. But Savina seemed content to ride in silence. A comfortable silence. Maybe helping her train wouldn’t take too much time.

  From the east, a rider approached at a full gallop.

  His muscles tensed. He straightened and scanned the horizon, ready to reach under the seat for the rifle Trent kept there. “This doesn’t look good. Recognize the rider?”

  Lifting a hand to shade her eyes, Savina squinted. “Too far away still.”

  Moments passed, and the gap between rider and wagon closed. Estefan debated about stopping and waiting for the rider to reach them, but he held the horses to their trot. No matter what this news was, they had to reach the ranch.

  “Not Trent. Hans, I think.”

  Two minutes later, the rider slowed the horse to a trot and circled the wagon to end up on Estefan’s side.

  “Mister del Vado, your stud is in a bad way.” Hans adjusted the reins to keep the horse in check.

  “What?” Tronar! Dread grabbed his chest, and he could barely breathe. The entire breeding program, his whole future, rested on the continued prowess of his stud.

  “Oh, Estefan.” Savina laid a hand on his forearm and squeezed.

  Hans grabbed for a handkerchief and mopped at his face and neck. “Trent rode for the veterinarian about an hour ago. They should be back soon.”

  His pulse raced like a drum, pounding out a message to get to his horse. Fast. “Hans, lend me your mount.” He turned to Savina, unsure of what explanation to give. “Tronar is my—” A lump blocked the rest of his statement.

  “I know. G-go.”

  He sat still, gazing into her eyes and acknowledging the rush of gratitude at her understanding, before giving her a quick smile. Then the switch from wagon to horseback was made in seconds, and Estefan didn’t even take the few second needed to adjust the stirrups. He bent low in the saddle, close to the pinto’s neck, and gave the horse its head. Trees, bushes, and prairie grass blurred as his eyes watered from the galloping speed. Or the uncertainty of the unknown.

  He’d been present at the stallion’s birth, spent countless hours training him, and was one of only two people who’d ever ridden him—his father being the other. His stomach knotted so hard he thought he might be sick. Finally, the weathervane on the barn appeared over a rise and then the rest of the ranch came into view. He guided the horse straight for the barn’s open doors, reining him to a walk a few feet outside the structure.

  “I got him.” Durham, the cowhand with a limp, hurried from the closest stall.

  After dismounting and powering his legs into a run, Estefan headed toward the tack room.

  McVale, the brown-haired cowhand with the hooked nose, walked Tronar in a circle.

  The horse stopped and lifted a hoof to scrape at his right side.

  “Yo soy aquí, mi amigo.” Estefan got within ten feet of the pair then forced himself to slow his pace. He inhaled a couple deep breaths to calm his heart rate before he laid hands on the animal. As he approached, he started singing, crooning silly compliments of what a handsome horse Tronar was and about the many fillies and colts he had yet to father. Anything that helped the animal, and him, remain calm. “What do you think is wrong, McVale?” Estefan watched his gait and the steadiness of each foot placement. What made his skin crawl was the sound of his horse’s shallow breathing.

  “Well, I’d say he ate something that’s not sitting well in his belly.” After one more circle, he extended the reins.

  “Hans said Trent rode for the veterinarian.” Estefan laid the reins over Tronar’s neck and scratched under his chin. He clucked his tongue, trusting his horse to follow without a lead.

  “Yup.” McVale stepped back and sat on a bale of hay outside the tack room.

  Tronar rested his chin on Estefan’s shoulder.

  In an instant, sweat seeped through his shirt and wet his skin. Not a good sign. Fighting the worry that
clawed at his chest, Estefan looked over at the older man. “What’s been done?”

  McVale dug the makings for a cigarette out of his pocket. “Offered him water, which he took at first. But he hasn’t drunk any in twenty minutes or so.”

  “Offered any feed?” Estefan ran over possible remedies of colic, if that’s what the ailment was, in his mind.

  “Nope. Boss’s orders are to stick to walking and offering water only.”

  Feeling helpless, Estefan continue moving in a big circle, singing in a low voice.

  Shouted greetings accompanied the rattle of the buckboard and trotting horses. Within moments, several people headed in his direction.

  Without stopping, Estefan scanned the group until his gaze connected with Savina’s. He’d felt badly about leaving her like he had.

  She walked with a slight limp but hurried just the same.

  McVale jumped up to tend the horses in the buckboard, and Durham joined him.

  “Estefan, I’m sorry this is happening.” Trent lifted off his hat and ran a hand through his brown hair. Then he swung a hand toward a red-haired woman. “Here’s the veterinarian, Doc Harper. I told her about Tronar’s symptoms, or how he was acting when I left the ranch.”

  Her? He glanced at the tall woman dressed in a split skirt and a no-frills tailored shirt. “Glad you’re here, Doc.” He’d never met a lady veterinarian, but if she knew how to ease Tronar’s pain, her gender wouldn’t matter. He tapped a forefinger on the brim of his hat before he circled out of eye contact. “Estefan del Vado, ma’am.”

  “A pleasure, sir.” She turned to the broad-shouldered man at her side and extended a hand. “Rye, do you have my bag?”

  “Here you go, Missouri.” After passing her a leather medical bag, he jerked his chin in a quick nod. “Rye Rawlins, Morgan’s Crossing’s doctor for human ailments.”