Montana Sky_Love's Target

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  A sigh escaped then she turned and met his gaze. “First, my name is Vanora. Elen is my middle name. Second, we Deverells are capable of handling our own problems. As long as we don’t have to deal with any interference from outsiders.”

  Vanora. “All right, Vanora.” He liked how her name rolled from his mouth. “Tell me about the problem I won’t be helping you with.” Although, I really will be. He grabbed a handful of cornmeal and coated the fish on both sides.

  She leaned around the edge of the wagon and looked toward the fire then shook her head.

  The matter had to do with her father. That much was obvious. “Look, if I’m to employ your father on my ranch, I have to know what’s going on.”

  Her shoulders rounded, and she leaned a hand on the wooden slat. A sign whooshed out. “Papa gambles, and he owes a saloon owner in Virginia City. Stanwick offered to wipe out Papa’s debt if…” Color flushed her cheeks, and she ducked her chin.

  “Don’t be embarrassed.”

  She jerked up her head and stared. “I’m not embarrassed. I’m still angry. That slimy toad thought he could gain a young bride for a debt of less than fifty dollars.”

  “Hey, you two.” Ford’s voice grew closer. “How are those fish coming? I’m starved.”

  Vanora grabbed the other fish, tossed cornmeal on both sides, and carried the plate to the fire.

  Her words resounded through his thoughts. Buying a bride by coercion? He clamped his jaw, doing his best to tamp down the hot anger that flushed his body. Trent lifted the skillet and scooped up the jar of bacon fat. “You always did have the worst timing.”

  Ford dropped his jaw. “What did I do?”

  As he ate the flaky fish and sopped up the stew with hunks of bread, Trent watched Vanora alternate between chatting with the other men and sending sideways glances his way. He puzzled over how to offer these people help without looking overprotective—which he most certainly was. A man who’d stoop to bartering with a gambler for his daughter would probably not give up after a minor setback. But he had to learn all the facts so he could be prepared.

  The best thing would be to get them situated out on the Rolling M, ten miles away from Morgan’s Crossing and bordered by the S Bar D Ranch and one owned by his new neighbors, the Andrushas. Open range ran to the east. He set his plate on the ground. “Mister Deverell, Ford tells me you might be looking for work.”

  The older man dipped his chin. “Might be.”

  “Well, I sure could use your help, Owain. Morgan’s Crossing has a blacksmith, John Thorpe, but he has a business to run near the mine.” He kept his gaze connected with the man he wanted to persuade. Besides, he didn’t want to give Owain any indication that his reason for hiring him was to guarantee Vanora stayed close. “Driving my horses into town for a hoof trim or to get new shoes isn’t always convenient.”

  “I agree with that.” Owain sipped at his coffee. “How big’s your herd?”

  “Soon as we drive the last group down from summer pasture, the count will be around fifty.” The fact the man asked encouraged him. “Got an Army order of twenty horses to fill by October first.” He stood and stepped to the fire to refill his coffee cup. “Those animals will be the priority.”

  “Understood. Ford says you have two other hands but no housekeeper or cook.” Owain squinted an upward look.

  Trent glanced at Ford but couldn’t read anything in his expression. “That’s right. My cousin, Savina, served that role this summer while she healed from a foot injury. But she’s gone, traveling east to audition for Buffalo’s Bill’s Wild West show.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Vanora’s head pop up.

  “Truly? What kind of act?” She leaned forward with her forearms resting on her crooked knees.

  “Bareback rider.” Trent returned to his rock and sat. “She danced ballet for years so I’m hoping she achieves her dream and gets hired.”

  Owain cleared his throat. “Back to the housing situation. Where did you plan to put us up? Obviously, the bunkhouse is out of the question.”

  Actually, he hadn’t thought that far ahead. But the man was right. Consideration for a single female would have to be made like when he brought Savina into the group of four bachelors—five, counting the visiting Estefan. Plus, the nights were getting too cold for sleeping on the ground, which is what he assumed they’d been doing. “The ranch house has empty bedrooms you’re welcome to use. I’m the only one living there.” The idea of having Vanora under the same roof opened all sorts of possibilities for getting to know one another. When he noticed Vanora nudge her father’s shoulder and saw the hopeful look in her eyes, he figured she was sharing similar thoughts.

  “I accept on one condition.” Owain looked between Ford and Trent, the lines around his mouth deepening. “That you guarantee my daughter is safe from any type of romantic advances on the part of your ranch hands.”

  Trent choked on his coffee. To right the wrong he’d done, he’d have to ignore the tug in his heart every time he was around Vanora. Was his willpower that strong?

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning, Vanora awoke to the smell of coffee brewing and rolled over, snuggling the worn nine-patch quilt under her chin. Papa must have beaten her to the morning’s first task. He’d be ready for breakfast soon. She sat up. Her hand was on the tent ties ready to flick them open when she remembered the other two men who’d arrived last night.

  Last night’s conversation filtered through her mind. Securing steady work for Papa had been her goal, and with Trent’s offer, that aim was achieved. At least, for a week. But relinquishing any possibility of getting to know Trent better was a high price.

  With less enthusiasm, she dragged herself back to her bedroll then sorted through her valise to find the least-wrinkled blouse and skirt. For once, she’d defy Papa’s preference and dress as she pleased. The cream-colored blouse with quilting on the collar and cuffs was one of her favorites. Boredom on their long wagon rides prompted her to teach herself to quilt. Several of her blouses were accented with wavy curves, random shapes, or straight lines on an angle.

  While under her quilt to avoid the worst of the chill air, she shimmied out of her night rail and pulled on her camisole, a loose corset, drawers, blouse, petticoat, and skirt. By the time she emerged she felt like she’d wrestled an angry cat. With only minor adjustments and realignments, she was presentable…or she hoped she was. After grabbing a washcloth, a bar of soap, and her hairbrush, she emerged from the tent and headed downstream to take care of her ablutions. Dawn had barely warmed the chill from the morning air, and she shivered on her walk.

  Tonight, and for several additional days, she’d be sleeping with a real roof over her head. Maybe, if they arrived early enough, she’d have a full bath in a tub of hot water. Happiness bubbled up, and she wanted to sing out. But the explanation following that act would take too much effort.

  Back in camp, she dumped her things in the wagon and headed straight for the coffeepot. Which seemed to be the only item at the fire. Strange. She glanced around for other food preparations.

  “Morning.” Trent approached, holding a burlap bag. “Here are hard biscuits and jerky. Today’s is a traveling breakfast. Don’t forget to fill your canteens and water barrel. We head out in ten minutes.”

  The orders came at her so fast she simply complied. Vanora set down the pot and held out cupped hands to receive the food. Then she blinked after the bossy man who strode toward the creek. Authoritarian was a side of his personality she’d not seen before. What happened to the teasing man who’d accompanied her at the funfair? Muttering to herself, she carried the food to the wagon and set it on the bench seat.

  Papa looked up from checking Dutch’s back hoof. “What’s got you peeved?”

  “Trent appointed himself trail boss and just issued orders. I’ll grab the canteens, if you’ll do the barrel.” She reached under the seat and collected the battered water container. “We leave in ten minutes.”

  “Hustle, V
anora. We shouldn’t keep the man waiting.” Papa untied the quarter-size barrel from its platform on the side of the wagon and headed toward the creek.

  Not wanting to be the last one ready, she hurried after him, careful not to trip over her skirt hem. In truth, she was quite anxious to be on the road. Her curiosity about the Rolling M Ranch kept her awake longer than she thought her imaginings would. Trent looked to be about four years older, and already, he managed a ranch with fifty horses and three employees. Quite an accomplishment.

  When the sun approached its zenith, Trent called a halt, waited until the wagon drew abreast, and turned in his saddle. “What you see ahead is the backside of Morgan’s Mountain. The town is pretty much owned by Michael Morgan who runs the gold mine. He won the mine in a poker game several years back, and he’s been the self-appointed mayor ever since.”

  She glanced at her father and cocked an eyebrow. Owning a gold mine sounded like a great job. “Is he a nice man or a horrible boss?”

  Trent shrugged. “Never having worked for the man, I can’t say. But he has a lot of land holdings in the area, as well as owning most of the businesses in town. Brought in a mail-order bride last year and has a young son born this summer.” He pointed off to the side. “We’ll take that western trail that circles the base and it’ll wind right past the mine entrance.”

  Papa clucked to the horses and eased the reins to the left. “Haw, Dutch. Haw, Star.”

  Trent rode ahead, leading the stallion with a long rope.

  Her quilting project abandoned in her lap, Vanora gazed around at the scenery that changed from rolling prairie to mountain foothills within only a few minutes. Leaves in shades of pale green, yellow, and orange dressed the oaks and aspens. Pinecones hung heavy in evergreen branches. When the wagon wound toward the right, she spotted a circular vat on a downhill slope and a wooden rack with skins draped over it. Trent called out to a man nearby, but she couldn’t hear what was said.

  After a few minutes, the group drew abreast of a small building to the left and a cavernous opening into the mountain where a big man stood, cradling a rifle.

  Trent lifted a hand in greeting.

  The sober-faced guard merely nodded.

  Before she knew it, they left the dense trees behind and the small town lay before them. Near where another road joined the one they were on, Trent had stopped.

  “Quick tour. To your immediate left is the livery then the two-story house is the Morgans’ place. Morgan built ten cabins for the miners with families and those have a space for a small garden. You see a couple of the units just down the hill with the boarding house for the miners and mercantile past them. The big building is the meeting house with more cabins on both sides of the road. The tent camp is for the Chinese miners. Next comes Rigsby’s Saloon, the hotel, and the saddlery and seamstress shops.” He turned and glanced her way. “The owner of the saddlery was in the woods near his vats.”

  “I thought that’s what he was doing.” She took another look at all the buildings. Trent was right about the town only having a hundred citizens. The town appeared smaller than she imagined. Of course, the boarding house must account for a good number of the residents. She gazed beyond and spotted a couple ranch houses in the far distance in multiple directions on the prairie.

  “Head for the mercantile.” Trent clicked his tongue and walked his horse down the hill.

  Vanora tried taking in all the details as they rolled to a stop in front of the single story building with a big front window. Across the way names painted on the windows labeled the shops for Andrews’ Saddlery and Cinnia’s Dressmaking.

  “Ford, check inside for any mail and see what of Dorrie’s vegetables are available. I doubt Hans or Gordon have come into town during our absence.”

  “Will do, boss.” The man dismounted and tied off his horse to the wooden rail.

  Trent turned to the wagon. “Owain, I don’t know what supply of metals you have. If you want to stock up, go left at that fork”—he gestured back the way they’d come—“and you’ll find Thorpe’s smithy.”

  Again, Vanora was amazed at his take-charge attitude. Nothing in his game-playing in Butte City hinted at a practical business man. She looked longingly at the dressmaker’s shop. Too many years had passed since she’d owned a new garment. For once, she wanted to spend a bit of the prize money on herself. This occasion seemed like the right time.

  “Miss Vanora.”

  She glanced up to see him studying her, and her pulse skittered. “Yes?”

  “I hope you know how to ride. The skill is essential on a ranch.” He jerked his head to the side. “You might find the dressmaker has a ready-made split skirt that proves more suitable for riding than the denims I’ve seen.”

  Had he seen her wistful expression? Straightening, she nodded. “I do ride, and I might have a look in the shop.” After reaching behind the seat to collect her reticule, she raised her skirts enough to climb down to the dirt street. A gasp escaped at the touch of Trent’s hand on her elbow to assist.

  “Be quick. We head for the ranch in thirty minutes.”

  Having such structure in her days would take getting used to. Besides meals at reasonable times, Papa had been more casual in their daily activities. As Vanora reached the boardwalk facing the shops, she heard the creak and rattle of the team in motion. In the window’s reflection, she saw the wagon roll in a wide circle. Watching everything important to her move out of sight brought a lump to her throat. Shaking off the silly thought, she opened the door and entered the shop.

  Ready-made dresses, skirts, and blouses hung from a rack. Shelves held bolts of fabric in a limited selection of solids and patterns. A wire mannequin draped with a matching maroon jacket and skirt stood to the side of the window.

  From an open doorway walked a red-haired woman carrying a tea cup and saucer. “Good morning. How may I help you?”

  “Morning.” Vanora noticed a definite bump rounding out the woman’s loose-fitting blouse. “I’m traveling through and wanted to see what items you have ready-made.”

  “Welcome to Morgan’s Crossing…for as long as your stay lasts. I’m Cinnia Andrusha.” She set down the saucer on a counter that abutted one wall of the shop then walked closer.

  “My name’s Vanora Deverell. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Likewise.” The dressmaker rested a hand on her protruding stomach. “What type of clothing do you need?”

  “A riding skirt.” She noticed the woman’s protective gesture and responded to the dressmaker’s ready smile with one of her own. “I realize that’s probably an unusual request.”

  “Before this summer, maybe.” Cinnia moved toward the rack. “A young woman special-ordered a similar garment a couple of months ago. Granted, her requirement for its use was more specific than most women’s, but I saw the wisdom of such a garment in this ranching community. So I sewed a couple for my inventory.” She slid several wooden hangers on the rod and then lifted one. “This looks close to your size.”

  Could she be speaking of Trent’s cousin, the bareback rider? Vanora approached the clothes rack, accepted the hanger, and removed the garment. After pressing the skirt to her waist, she glanced down and noted the hem didn’t quite reach the floor. “Is the length correct, do you think?”

  “I’m told for riding it is.” She let out a laugh and waved a hand at her body. “As you can see, riding is outside of my normal activities these days.”

  “When is your baby due?” The smile resulting from her question was one of such contentment that Vanora endured a stab of jealousy.

  “January.” Cinnia let out a sigh. “I pray the coming winter won’t be as bad as last year’s.” She shuddered. “That monstrous blizzard proved truly scary.”

  “Amen to that. My papa and I sat out the winter in a Canadian fort, and I’ve never seen so much snow.” Spying a tall mirror against one wall, Vanora walked to stand in front. By holding the skirt over her clothes, she couldn’t tell if the waist was the rig
ht size. Buying a garment that didn’t fit wouldn’t do for this small indulgence.

  “Behind that folding screen in the back corner is an area where you can try on the skirt.” Cinnia stood near the counter and gestured past her.

  Conscious of the time slipping away, Vanora hurried to the corner and slipped on the riding skirt under the one she wore. After fighting to hold up petticoats and skirt fabric, she fastened the side buttons with ease. The fit around her hips was tighter than her dresses but she could see the advantage while riding astride. Quickly, she removed the garment and walked from behind the screen. “I’m pleased with the fit.”

  “Wonderful.” Cinnia held out her hands. “Would you like it wrapped?”

  Vanora glanced through the window and spotted Papa’s wagon parked in front of the mercantile. “No, I’ll take it as is.” She loosened the strings on her reticule. “How much?”

  “Four dollars fifteen cents.” Her brows wrinkled. “I know that sum might seem high. But transporting goods to the frontier is costly.”

  “I understand.” Vanora lifted a handful of coins then gestured toward the counter. “May I?”

  “Certainly.”

  As she counted out the correct amount, she noticed a piece of paper headed by a banner reading Community Dance. To read the details, she tilted her head to the side.

  “If you’ll still be in the area on Saturday, you should come to the dance. It’s the last one for the year.” Cinnia picked up the paper. “My dear friend, Dorrie…uh, I should say my new sister-in-law, Dorrie Andrusha, puts on these events. The music might be a bit unusual—her groom plays a Russian stringed instrument, and last month, a female violinist provided a solo performance—but everyone has a good time.”

  Her description sounded wonderful, and Vanora fought back a swell of longing. “My papa’s profession as a farrier sees us on the road most of the time. I can’t often make plans.”

  The door opened, and both women turned.

  Trent stood silhouetted in the sunlit doorway, his hat held at his side. “You ready, Vanora?” He dipped his chin. “Missus Andrusha, I hope you’re doing well.”