Montana Sky_Love's Target

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  A rider trotted the circumference of the animal exhibit. “Shooting contest in five minutes. Rifles and pistols. Top prize money.”

  Trent set off to collect Ford because he had a strong suspicion he knew where to find the missing farrier. And if his conclusion was correct, he’d find the disguised sharpshooter, as well. Just as he reached Ford and they turned to start back, volleys of gunshots went off.

  “Boss, don’t wait on my slow progress.” Ford waved an arm toward the sound.

  “Appreciate it.” He took off running. By the time Trent reached the area for the shooting contest, he had to bend over and catch his breath from running full speed. Targets hung like drying sheets from a rope between two trees. One part of the contest must be over.

  A well-dressed man with a handlebar mustache and bushy beard stepped forward and raised both hands. He moved in an arc so he scanned the people gathered for the competition.

  Like a wave, the crowd grew silent from one end to the other.

  “Now, all of the Butte City residents know who I am. But for the visitors to our fair city, let me introduce myself.” He clasped the lapels of his jacket and walked a slow line. Sunlight glinted off his light brown hair. “I’m William A. Clark, and I’m a miner.”

  Laughter burst out from the crowd.

  Trent glanced around, noticing a few men jabbing each other in the ribs. The speaker must have understated his influence.

  “I’ve just learned the boy who just won the pistol shooting contest is quite talented with a rifle. His father informs me of an astonishing ninety-five percent accuracy rate.”

  Conversations buzzed, and a ripple of shaking heads passed through the gathering.

  “I agree with the skepticism I’m hearing. This feat I have to see, and what better place than our harvest festival and funfair. I hope you folks have had an opportunity to enjoy a few of the games of chance and sampled the wonderful treats baked by Butte City’s many talented cooks. I’m willing to pay a sawbuck for every successive bottle he shoots after breaking the first ten.”

  With growing impatience, Trent listened to this politician-type speechifying as he glanced around, hoping to spot Elen/Van as the man talked.

  “Would you folks like to see that type of entertainment?” Mister Clark again raised his hands and started clapping.

  Applause broke out followed by whistles.

  “Direct your attention toward the creek where we’ve set up a table with ten bottles. Thanks to our local brewers—Henry Mueller, Leopold Schmidt, and Henry Muntzer—for the donations of discarded beer bottles.” The orator waved a hand toward the west.

  Trent spotted the target setup and a short figure standing about four furlongs away. Determined to figure out what was going on, he started in that direction but encountered a restraining rope. Stationed along its length were big muscled guards he recognized from one of the breweries where he and Ford sampled ale the previous night.

  “Stand back from the rope,” one of the thick-necked guards growled.

  With his hands raised in front of him signaling he wouldn’t argue, Trent took several backward steps. Then he widened his stance and crossed his arms. He’d just wait here to confront his adversary. Seeing the figure set into a left-handed posture toward the target made his teeth clench tight. Even worse than losing that shooting contest to a boy, Trent had lost to a woman. His pulse hammered in his ears. He hadn’t been in disguise which meant Elen must have recognized him but didn’t say anything the entire time they were together.

  Shots rang out followed by the tinkling of breaking glass. A red flag waved by a spotter confirmed each individual hit. After the tenth shot, a pause ensued for the shooter to reload ammo.

  Commencing with the eleventh shot, the crowd counted each one.

  A cadence that ground salt into Trent’s wounds.

  “Fifteen.”

  How could she be this good?

  “Seventeen.”

  What bothered him more—that she’d beat him or that she’d strung him along this afternoon?

  “Twenty.”

  “All right. Stop.” Mister Clark gestured toward the spotter then stepped to the front. “What do you say, folks? Does that performance deserve acclaim?”

  Applause again rang out, more sustained this time.

  Even though a part of him admired her skill, he still needed answers. From the corner of his eye, Trent saw her moving toward the crowd. He stepped back until another man’s body blocked her view. When she drew abreast of his position, he stepped out and put a restraining hand on her arm.

  “No. Let me go.” She stiffened and threw her weight against his hold before she looked, her eyes snapping. “Trent, what are you doing?”

  “Telling the truth, Elen, or Van, or whoever you are.” Unable to temper his frustration, he took a step forward and dragged her along. “Mister Clark. I thought you should know that the boy whose skill you’ve been touting and paying a pretty penny to see”—he reached up and pulled off her hat, displaying a topknot bun—“the shooter who just won this contest is a woman.”

  Mister Clark jammed his hands on his hips and stared. Then he shook his head and laughed, slapping a hand on a thigh.

  Trent’s head jerked. The man thinks this revelation is funny?

  The crowd let out a long “oh” as if they’d practiced the note of surprise.

  “That’s the woman we’re looking for.” A voice came from the crowd. “Let’s grab her.”

  Gasping, Elen turned widened eyes in his direction. She placed trembling hands on his chest, and her body shook. “Help me. I have to hide.”

  Trent glanced between the frightened woman before him and two burly, scowling men pushing their way through the gathering. Dang it, what have I done?

  Chapter Six

  At the triumphant sound of the man’s words “grab her,” Vanora went rigid, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. She glanced toward the voice and spotted two men she recognized from at the Lucky Nugget. Thoughts raced through her mind faster than she could identify and analyze them. Trent ruined the ruse that allowed her best moneymaking skill. Now, she had keep from being captured. How had Stanwick’s men tracked them?

  Looking up, she searched Trent’s shocked gaze and saw no help there. After snatching her hat from his grip, she dashed behind him, heading to the closest row of booths...and the crowd of people. Safety in numbers. As soon as she reached the first group, she slowed her pace to avoid attracting attention and strolled a foot or so behind. Maybe she’d look like she belonged. Although a boy toting a rifle didn’t blend with many groups. Once she drew abreast of the first game of chance, she moved into the narrow space between booths where she’d be better hidden. For once, her petite size proved an advantage.

  The moment her identity was revealed, her elation and pride at making twenty shots in a row and earning a hundred dollars vanished. Why would Trent do that? What did he achieve by exposing her? Hopefully, Papa collected the money, but could she trust him to hold on to such a big amount?

  Close behind a family of four, she moved toward the animal area, planning to work her way around to where they’d parked the wagon. Unsure of where Papa was, all she could do was keep the wagon in sight from whatever hiding spot she found. Was the saloon owner so greedy he wouldn’t accept partial payments until the total was received? The Bozeman postmark must have tipped off Stanwick to their direction. Possibly the gathering had been known outside the city limits and their stopping at this funfair proved predictable.

  As she approached the wagon, Vanora yanked up a purple mountain larkspur, Mama’s favorite wildflower. She glanced in every direction before dashing to the wagon and tossing the flower onto the wagon seat. Hopefully, Papa would recognize the flower as a sign she was nearby.

  Twenty feet away from the wagon, Vanora found an oak to climb that offered a good view of the surrounding area. Although the leaves were more yellow than green, they provided thick enough foliage to obscure her presence. She hugged b
oth arms around her bent legs and leaned her back against the rough trunk. The rifle nestled in a crook of branches within easy reach.

  A few minutes later, Papa returned to the wagon with the men in hot pursuit. He turned to face the pair, hands on hips. “I told you I haven’t seen her.” He dug into the front pocket of his trousers then held out his hand. “I’ve got the rest that I owe Stanwick right here. Take it.”

  The taller one with a scar on his chin shook his head. “Boss’s orders were to return with the female.”

  Papa repocketed the money then swept an arm in the direction from which the three came. “Didn’t you see her hightail away from the contest? She’s fast and she’s cagey. That girl has been nothing but a pain in my rear-end for years.” He yanked off his hat and slapped it against his thigh. “Too high and mighty. Always badgering me about finding a little place and settling down.”

  She sucked in a breath. Even though she knew he exaggerated to get the men off her trail, the words stung. Did he really see her requests as badgering?

  The men glanced at each other then nodded. “Know a few women like that.” The shorter man spat a brown line of tobacco juice onto the dirt.

  “When she gets in one of these snits, I don’t see her for three or four days. Sometimes a whole week. You gonna dog my heels for that long?” Papa walked around to the back of the wagon and reached out the burlap bag of grain. “I’m just moseying my way west and picking up work where I find it.” He stood at the horses’ heads, removed their bits, and fed them each a couple of handfuls of grain.

  Good, Papa. Acting like he didn’t have a care in the world should reinforce his words. Besides, these guys didn’t appear to be the sharpest tacks in the box.

  “A week, huh?” The taller one kicked at a rock and sent it skipping along the ground.

  Papa brushed off his hands on the sides of his trousers and returned the bag to the wagon. “I know heading back empty-handed won’t be the easiest, but those’re the breaks in life.” He rubbed his palms together. “Tell you what. I’m thirsty, and I’ll buy you boys a few rounds at one of the beer booths. From what I hear, this town has several choices in tasty brews.”

  The shorter one spat again. “Wouldn’t want the day to be a total waste.”

  Vanora waited a full five minutes after the men walked out of sight before climbing down. She watered the horses then crept into the wagon. With only minor adjustments of crates holding Papa’s tools and supplies and the valises, she created an empty space beneath the tent poles and canvasses and tossed in a thick quilt. She made sure the basket of apples was within reach before settling into the space to wait for Papa’s return. Her pistol was tucked next to a crate at her hip. Anyone who passed by the wagon would see only personal belongings, the small cast iron forge, and crates of supplies. She remained hidden, even from a dark-haired man who might peek inside. What a silly thought. Trent had no idea which one was her wagon.

  As she watched the shadows of swaying leaves on the wagon cover, she remembered each bit of their conversation from the afternoon at the funfair. The glint in his eye when he’d knocked off her bean bag, the pout of his lips when she’d scored better at hoopla, his teasing nature…

  The sudden tilt of the wagon woke her from her snoozing. She stiffened and slid a hand over the quilt to wrap around the pistol handle. Only muted light showed from outside the wagon. The air held a definite evening chill.

  Boots scraped the floorboards of the wagon seat. “You here, daughter?”

  “Been waiting.” Relaxing, she released her hold on the weapon. She heard the swish of Papa unwinding the reins from the brake handle.

  “Stay low until we ride clear.”

  The tang of beer wafted her way. A necessary evil, she supposed, to allow their escape. For a while, she let the rocking of the wagon lull her back to her drowsy state. Then, as the angle where she lay pitched upward, she moved enough to watch the lights of Butte City disappear in the distance. She hoped her memories of this day and a certain man would not fade as quickly.

  ~**~

  “A wagon couldn’t make that climb alone with only two people.” Trent stared at the steep mountain range ahead. Trees covered the rising ground in a thick blanket, almost hiding the thin thread of a winding trail. “That’s the last time I follow directions from a drunk.”

  “Well, I hope to shout you won’t listen to a drunk again.” Ford leaned a forearm on the saddle horn and grinned. “Unless the drunk was a good friend with sound advice.”

  For the past day, Trent’s guilt about how he treated Elen at the shooting contest pushed him to track the farrier’s wagon. At first he’d thought running into the two men who’d chased her was a stroke of luck. Especially when he learned they’d heard the direction the farrier intended to go. Now, he realized the farrier would have misdirected the henchmen in hopes of making his escape.

  Exhaling a long breath, Trent glanced at his ranch hand. So, maybe he should have listened to Ford’s admonitions. Although, like the man said, he’d imbibed quite a few glasses of ale. “I admit my mistake. I should have taken your advice and headed straight home.”

  “Told you that man was interested in the job. Leastways, we haven’t gone too far astray.” He waved a hand at a slow-moving creek at the base of the incline. “I know a path along that creek that will get us back to our usual route. An hour or so at a steady walk before we’ll be in open country where we can put some miles behind us.”

  Hours later, the last golden-red light of sunset highlighted the crest of the western mountain range. Birds flew ahead, circling several times before settling into treetop branches. Trent flexed his toes to stretch his calves and bit back a groan at the burn in his muscles. They’d ridden hard and were only a few hours south of Morgan’s Crossing. He pushed onward to reach a favorite spot next to a good fishing stream.

  As he approached, he noticed firelight flickering through the trees and lifted a closed fist to warn Ford. He dismounted then led the horses closer and spotted two figures sitting on a large log. “Hallo to the campfire. Walking in.”

  Both figures jumped to their feet, bodies tensed, and scanned the surrounding area.

  The farrier held his hand poised at his holster. “Identify yourself.”

  “Trent Melbyrne, sir. Back in Butte City, you spoke to my ranch hand, Ford Dunham, about a farrier job on the Rolling M.” He moved into the edge of the firelight, and his gaze went to Elen, still dressed in the boy disguise. Deviltry possessed him, and he lifted a gloved hand to tap the brim of his hat. “Evening, miss.”

  Their postures eased, but she shot him a scowling glare.

  Trent waved Ford forward. “My ranch hand is behind me so don’t shoot.” He couldn’t hide a smirk. Although, in truth, he was glad to see they had not come to any harm because of his impetuous act. He stepped toward the man and extended his hand. “Mister Deverell, I presume?”

  “Call me Owain.” The farrier shook hands.

  Ford walked into the clearing leading Blackie. “Howdy, folks. Whatever’s in that stew pot smells mighty fine.”

  Deverell dipped his chin. “It’s not much, but you’re welcome to share.”

  Elen shot her father a frown then busied herself tending the meal.

  “We’ve got a loaf of bread to contribute. I planned on catching our supper and hope to add a few trout to the menu.” Trent moved to his saddlebag to retrieve his fishing gear and the jar of angle worms he always carried on trips. He glanced over at Ford. “You’ll handle the horses?”

  “Sure thing, boss.” Ford limped forward and secured the reins. “Catch me a plump one.”

  “Usually do.” Trent walked toward the sound of rushing water and settled onto a tree root with a worn spot just perfect for sitting. He leaned over the edge of the bank and dangled the line in the water. Although later in the day than when he normally found success, he held out hope. For the last few miles, his mouth had salivated at the prospect of tasty trout. He also expected that Elen
would join him. Misunderstanding hung between them, and he aimed to clear the air.

  By the time he returned to the campfire holding two hefty rainbow trout, the other three were getting on like old friends. Although disappointed, he figured she hadn’t wanted to be obvious by slipping sway. Or maybe talking to him didn’t have the same urgency. He noticed she’d removed the slouch hat, revealing her hair pinned up in a bun. “They’re cleaned. Shall I haul out my skillet, or do you have one handy?”

  Elen stood. “Got a skillet but no cornmeal or fat for frying.”

  “I’ve got those. We’ll make this dish a joint effort.” He extended the string holding the fish and waited, hoping she wouldn’t laugh in his face.

  With rigid moves, she approached to accept the fish then stomped to the back of the wagon.

  He hurried to gather his supplies and joined her at the folded-down wagon slat being used like a counter. “Elen, I know you’re angry.” He untied the string from the bag of cornmeal.

  “Angry?” She shrugged as she arranged a fish on a metal plate. “What do I have to be angry about? Oh yeah, that you exposed my identity to several hundred people. Probably ruined my chances to enter future shooting contests. And now, we’re running from a couple of guys who want to shanghai me back to Virginia City.” As soon as she finished speaking, she shot her eyes wide then clamped her lips shut.

  Kidnapping was a serious claim. “Really? Why?” He stared at her profile and waited. But she remained silent. Frustration stiffened his posture. His sense of honor made him want to fix the disruption he’d caused. “Elen, I can’t help you if I don’t know what the trouble is.”