Montana Sky_Love's Target

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  “About ready?”

  She let the valise lid shut and then scrambled back to the seat and climbed to the ground. “All set.” She held out her clenched hand, fingers downward, and waited for him to extend his open palm.

  A rumble sounded deep in his throat. “This arrangement isn’t right.”

  “But necessary for now. That’s enough for a few games and to buy our food.” She linked her elbow with his. “Shall we let our noses guide us?”

  “Or our stomachs.” Owain Deverell smiled and led her toward the rows of tables and booths where many others grouped.

  Because this event was such a treat, Vanora insisted they walk the entire row, viewing all the food offerings, before buying their selections. Papa wanted beef strips that had been cooked on wooden sticks coated with tangy tomato-vinegar sauce. She chose corn pone shaped like a roasting ear then wrapped in bacon. The combination of salty meat and slightly sweet cornbread was tasty, and one she’d not thought about serving together. The food went down easier with a glass of cool lemonade. Papa topped off his meal with a giant sour pickle.

  They treated the game choice in the same manner, walking the length of a row of booths to see what was available. The moment Vanora spotted a game that used a baseball she knew that one was the winner. “Papa, do this one. I’ve heard your stories of playing baseball as a boy and how you were always chosen as pitcher.”

  He leaned close and whispered, “Hush, you don’t want the operator to think I’m a ringer.”

  The twinkle in his eye caught her off-guard, and she sucked in a breath. Then she answered with a wide smile.

  At the far end of the booth stood a long table with pyramids of wooden blocks shaped like milk bottles. For two bits, they each received three chances to knock down the six bottles.

  “Ladies first.”

  With her left hand, Vanora picked up the leather ball with raised stitching. Holding it brought back memories of Preece and his efforts to teach her how to pitch so he could practice his hitting. With an effort, she pushed aside the memory. No more sadness. Today, she wanted to make new, happy memories. She pulled back her arm and pitched the ball forward. It arced high and missed the table all together. “Oops.”

  “Where’s your follow-through?”

  Frowning, she turned toward him. “My what?”

  “Watch my form.” Papa faced his left side toward the table, held the ball at his waist, then lifted his left leg a few inches off the ground before levering back his right arm and throwing the ball. He held his stance, his hand pointing at the bottle pyramid where only two remained standing. Then he grinned.

  Papa is actually grinning. Her heart lightened. Vanora clapped. Then she grabbed her next ball and imitated what he’d done as best she could. This time, she knocked off the top bottle and felt quite proud.

  They both walked away from the booth with prizes—a token each for the baked goods table. “I saw them at the end of the food row.”

  “Step right this way, folks,” a barker wearing a bright red vest called and waved an arm. “Come see the marionette show. Only two cents.”

  At the mention of puppets, Vanora’s excitement rose. She felt like she was ten again and visiting a funfair for the very first time. “I want to see the show.”

  Papa’s brow furrowed. “Puppets? Not for me. I’ll head over to the animal exhibits now.”

  Go our separate ways? Uncertainty about being among the throng still ran through her thoughts. They did just about everything together, and she wasn’t used to being alone. “Can we meet back at the wagon in an hour?”

  “Sure.” With a dip of his chin, he turned and ambled away, whistling.

  Her eyes flooded, and she blinked fast to keep them at bay. Papa’s whistling was a sound she’d never thought she’d hear again. The decision to stop here had been a good one. She only hoped his happier mood lasted. After dropping her two pennies into a cup, she scooted onto the end of a bench and was soon entranced by the jointed puppets on the small curtained stage. The story was simplistic, but still she found it entertaining.

  The hairs on her arms rose and the back of her neck itched. What is happening? While still facing the puppet show, Vanora cast her gaze left and right to see if she could spot someone watching her. Had Stanwick found them? Her pulse kicked up. How could she get to Papa and warn him?

  From behind came the shuffle of a foot moving in the dirt.

  Vanora tensed, ready to bolt.

  A garishly dressed clown walked past then stopped next to the bench in front of her and juggled three small colorful balls in the air. His animated expressions added to his painted-on grin were intended to make the children laugh, and he succeeded.

  She took a deep breath and chuckled at herself for being too cautious. Then she rested both elbows on her knees, propped up her chin, and settled in to watch the rest of the show. Somewhere in her mind, she knew people held the strings that moved the puppets’ limbs, but the movements were so lifelike she forgot. When the show ended, she wandered the path between the booths, wondering which game to choose next.

  A man walked close. “Good afternoon, miss. Are you from this town?”

  The voice sounded familiar. She looked up into the features that had occupied her free time during the past several days. Her breath stuttered in her throat, and she told herself to breathe. “Uh, no. Just visiting the funfair.” Does he recognize me from the contest? Is that why he approached? Why would that matter now? “How about you, sir?”

  “Sir?” He shuddered. “I’m not old enough to embrace that title. Trent Melbyrne.” He doffed his hat and bent at the waist.

  This man had heard her “boy” name so she didn’t want him making any connection from that one to her real name. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Elen Deverell.”

  “Well, Miss Deverell, I’m at sixes and sevens about how to approach seeing everything.” He smiled, and the lines at the edges of his eyes deepened. “I’d hoped you were a Butte City resident and could act as my guide.”

  He’s asking to spend time together? A thrill ran over her skin before she lifted a shoulder in what she hoped was a nonchalant shrug. “I’m exploring the funfair on my own.”

  He tilted his head and narrowed his gaze. “Have we met before?”

  Her stomach clenched. Vanora dipped her chin and angled her head away. “I don’t believe so, Mister Melbyrne. Like I mentioned, I’m traveling through the area and happened upon this event.”

  “Me, too.” He scratched a hand over his chin and stared. “No matter. Shall we enjoy a game or two in partnership?”

  Vanora breathed out a sigh of relief. Hopefully, she looked different enough with her hair loose and wearing a skirt and blouse that Mister Melbyrne wouldn’t associate her with the boy in ill-fitting clothes. “I’m not sure I should agree…for we lack a chaperone.” Papa would definitely not approve of her stepping out with a stranger.

  “Lack one?” He spread out his arms and turned a half-circle. “I see at least thirty people within a rod or two from here. Nothing untoward could happen under so many watchful gazes. Don’t you know that strangers to a town are always closely watched? Put two strangers together and they’ll watch extra long.”

  What he said was the absolute truth. She lived through that experience every time they entered a new town. Vanora lifted a hand to her mouth to suppress a laugh. The man was a charmer, and he was correct. “Besides, the townspeople don’t know we’re strangers. We could be long-lost friends reuniting in this most unlikely of places.”

  His eyes widened then a grin slid across his mouth. “You’re correct. If that’s the case…” He stepped forward, placed his hands on her shoulders, and leaned close to brush a kiss on both cheeks European-style. “Oh, how wonderful to see you again, Elen.”

  At the sound of her name, she stiffened. A hint of warm lips pressed against her skin lingered. Then she relaxed into the pretend play. “And I’m glad to be greeting you after so long, Trent.” Bracing her hands on h
is arms, she stood on tip-toes to repeat the gesture. A mixture of hay, leather, and warm cotton scents teased her nose.

  Trent bent his arm and held it suspended. “What’s your pleasure?”

  Vanora slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. “I saw a game of hoopla I wanted to try.”

  “Hoopla, it is.” He led them onto the dirt path, maneuvering them among other strolling people. “You said you’re traveling. May I ask to where?”

  How much should she reveal? “Wherever a farrier is needed.” At his wide-eyed expression, she felt the need to provide more detail. “My father’s job keeps us on the move.” As does his vice. She didn’t want to think about that problem now. Instead, she wanted to enjoy the first instance of normal life that she’d experienced in a long while. “How about you?”

  “On my way home to the family ranch a couple days’ ride away. I’m transporting a stallion I recently bought.”

  When she first saw him in the crowd at Paradise Valley Ranch, she thought he’d looked like a cowboy. A ranch meant a house, a barn, and other buildings. Animals that tied a person to the spot. Stability. She bit back a sigh. “Here’s the game.”

  They moved into position at the back of a line.

  Vanora wondered what the correct custom was. Since they’d stopped walking, should she drop her hand? Or would each advance toward the booth count like being escorted, and she could leave it in place? She enjoyed this connection to another person and the feel of his hard muscles under her fingers. That sentiment must not be what a proper lady would think. Oh, how she wished she had a female friend to ask.

  “I saw you exit the puppet show. Did you enjoy the performance?”

  “I did. Were you there, too?” She thought back to her view of the audience and didn’t remember seeing him.

  “No, but I was headed in that direction.”

  As they moved forward, she explained the plot and did her best to imitate the puppets’ movements. Trent provided a good audience, nodding and smiling to encourage her to continue. Maybe her explanation lasted almost as long as the entire play. Having his hazel-eyed gaze focused on her made her stomach pitch like she rode in a bouncy wagon.

  “Howdy, folks. One player or two?”

  “Two.” Trent reached into his jeans pocket. “How much?”

  “Three rings for a nickel, or seven for a dime.” The barker spun several wooden rings on his fingers.

  “Here’s twenty cents.”

  Trent received rings with a red band, and Vanora’s had a blue band.

  She glanced at a tray about two feet wide filled with square pegs set a couple inches apart. Squinting, she gauged the distance from where she stood. The best possibility was to aim for the closest row of pegs because the flight of the ring would remain fairly flat.

  “We taking turns or tossing together?”

  “Go ahead. I’m assessing my strategy.”

  He shrugged and turned to face the booth. The first couple of tosses bounced off to the side. His brows lowered and he flexed his knees before he pinched the ring between thumb and forefinger and threw the remaining ones. The last ring he tossed circled a peg. “Got one.” Trent grinned.

  “Congratulations.” Vanora opened the thumb and forefinger of her left hand wide and held the outside edge of the ring then flicked her wrist. The ring flew on a horizontal plane with little wobble. Four of her rings landed on pegs. Smiling like a fool, she clapped and bounced until she looked over at a sober Trent. Then she sobered. Probably a protocol existed about not doing better than a gentleman escort. “Do we get prizes?”

  The booth operator held out a square of cardboard with lengths of colorful ribbon. “For the gent to choose.” To her, he extended a paper fan.

  “Thank you.” She carefully unfolded the folds until the partial circle lay almost flat and waved it before her face. Painted on one side were a conical mountain, a bright sun, and several trees in the foreground. She stepped to the side to let the next players have a turn.

  “Here.” Trent held out his hand with the light blue ribbon curled in his palm. “It’s not my color.”

  If he could make a joke, then he must not be too upset at her showing off. Which she had done, but only just a little. “I appreciate the gift, Trent.” Then she looked over at the next booth. “What’s that one?”

  Trent glanced over his shoulder and his brows lifted. “Looks like tic-tac-toe played with bean bags. Want to try it?”

  “Sure. I love games.” She tucked her new fan into her reticule and stepped to the end of the line. The game consisted of wooden blocks painted with the same number of sides marked “x” and “o.” Although they played two rounds, she couldn’t figure out the strategy. But she so enjoyed the laughter and teasing between tosses. Trent had a knack for making a single bean bag slide over more than a single block, disrupting her bags’ placement.

  Grinning, he held up two wooden tokens. “Care to join me at the baked goods table and share my prize?”

  The tokens reminded her of Papa, and she gave a quick look around the area. Not seeing him in the crowd convinced her he probably still visited the animal exhibit. Turning her attention back to Trent, she smiled. Vanora didn’t know when she’d had so much fun. Like the action had become a habit, she slipped her hand into his elbow. “Of course, kind sir. Oops, I mean kind Trent.” She’d just made her selection of a Saskatoon berry tart when she glanced at the man next to her who gazed at his open pocket watch. Her pulse raced at the elapsed time. “Oh, my.”

  “What’s wrong?” Trent paid for his slice of pie and eased her to the side of the table.

  “I just remembered I was supposed to check in with my father.” She scanned the area and spotted Papa at the edge of the booths, hands on hips. Since Mama’s passing, Papa’s only lectures about spending time with a man were ones of staying out of saloons. He probably thought she was still in her teens. If he saw her with Trent, Vanora didn’t know what her father’s reaction would be. “I had a wonderful time this afternoon. I have to run.” She lifted her skirts so she could hurry across the path. Glancing over her shoulder, she smiled at the sight of his gaped-mouth expression. “Thank you.”

  After tucking the tart into her mouth, she scampered away. As she hurried toward Papa, she heard a rider announcing the shooting contest would start in fifteen minutes.

  The opportunity seemed like what they needed. Should she consult with Papa about entering?

  Chapter Five

  Trent couldn’t believe she’d dashed off with barely a good-bye. Elen dodged between pedestrians, her head barely visible below most men’s shoulders. The sight of her running away reminded him of the story of Cinder Ella from the fairy tale book his sister, Kathryn, loved. Although the last time he checked, he was not a prince. Not even close.

  Their afternoon together had gone by too fast. He had so much more he wanted to learn about the brown-haired woman with the flashing blue eyes. He was about to turn around and look for Ford when he caught sight of a reddish-brown-haired man who looked familiar. Was he the same man who’d been at the ranch contest?

  While he contemplated the situation, he lifted the square of wax paper to his mouth and bit off the tip of a slice of berry pie. Juicy tart fruit flooded his mouth, and he groaned.

  “Hey, Trent.”

  Reflex turned his head toward the sound of his name.

  Ford Dunham shambled closer, a hand raised. “Glad I found you. Man, a lot of people are at this gathering.” Grimacing, he stopped and rubbed a hand along his left thigh.

  Trent glanced back where he’d last seen Elen, but she’d disappeared into the crowd. The man was no longer in the same spot. “I was about to look for you. What do you need?”

  “You gonna eat that?” Ford pointed toward the remaining dessert.

  “Nah, lost my appetite.” He passed over the fruity wedge. Although they’d only been together for an hour or two, Trent felt comfortable in Elen’s company. They’d laughed and joked, and he hadn’t exp
erienced such ease with a female before. She even played along with his renewed acquaintance ploy. Disappointment over her sudden disappearance clouded his mood.

  In three huge bites, Ford finished the pie and smacked his lips. “Um-um, that was good. I met a farrier in the animal exhibits who’s looking for work. I told him the Rolling M had about a week’s worth and that I’d bring you to meet him.”

  “Got nothing better to do.” A conversation refreshed in his mind. Elen’s dad is a farrier. Could he be the same guy? Trent turned toward Ford.

  “What’s that, boss?”

  “Never mind.” As was his habit when he walked with Ford, Trent shortened his stride and let the other man set the pace. They arrived at a section of land containing temporary rope pens for sheep, goats, cows, and hogs. Judging of nanny goats took place in an enclosure at one end with a judge walking along a line-up. Seeing the goats reminded Trent of the lady veterinarian’s recommendation he let a few graze in his pastures to keep down the yellow toadflax. He didn’t want to risk another stomach attack like Estefan’s Tronar suffered last month.

  “Huh, I don’t see the man.” Ford jammed his hands on his hips. “He was waiting here by the hogs when I left. You stay, and I’ll make another circuit.”

  “Who am I waiting for?” He craned his neck and glanced around the exhibits. Not a single man waiting to be found. “Don’t I need a name?”

  “Owain Deverell.” Ford moved off in his jerky stiff-legged gait.

  Deverell. Trent did a double-take and wanted to ask Ford to repeat the name, but the ranch hand was out of hearing range. He removed his hat and scratched his head. Familiar-looking man with reddish hair. Owain Dodson who collected the prize money for his son, Van. The name had the same initials as Owain Deverell. How many Owains were in southern Montana Territory? Trent had just spent the afternoon with Elen Deverell, who he thought had looked familiar at first meeting…and who had the same color eyes as his competitor at the shooting contest. He let out a frustrated whoosh of air. Except that boy hadn’t been a boy, but a female. One who had slipped out of sight at the contest even faster than Elen had just minutes ago. His body tensed. His embarrassment at being shown up at the shooting contest surfaced, bubbling heat through his chest. If Van Dodson and Elen Deverell were—