Montana Sky_Laced By Love

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  Text copyright ©2016 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Debra Holland. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Montana Sky remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Debra Holland, or their affiliates or licensors.

  For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds

  Laced by Love

  By Linda Carroll-Bradd

  Welcome to Montana Sky Series Kindle World, where authors write books set in my 1880s “world” of Sweetwater Springs and Morgan’s Crossing, Montana. Aside from providing the backdrop of setting and townsfolk, I haven't contributed to the stories in any way. The authors bring their own unique vision and imagination to the KW books, sometimes tying them into their own series.

  Laced By Love is written by Linda Carroll-Bradd. I first met Linda in June 2012 when she rejoined the Orange County Romance Writers of America chapter after moving back to California. Within a couple of months, she copy edited one of my stories, and soon Linda became my regular copy editor and a friend. She’s always there for me, even if we are working late into the night on a deadline. We are in the same plot group, and I often see her stories build from the barest outline to fleshed-out book. Linda also contributed a story to Sweetwater Springs Christmas: A Montana Sky Short Story Anthology.

  I hope you enjoy reading Laced By Love.

  Debra Holland

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  About the Author

  Other Historical Titles

  PROLOGUE

  “How many do ya need?” The dealer’s scratchy voice ground out the words. Below the bluish cloud of smoke, the thin-faced man sat with his elbows braced on the weathered table, holding the deck of cards poised in the air.

  Horatio P. Thomas glanced at the pairs of eights and fives in his hand. This set of pairs was the highest-ranked hand he’d had for the past hour. “I’ll take one.” The rejected card landed near the coins mounded in the middle of the wooden table. Winning that pot would sure benefit The H.P. Thomas Traveling Entertainment Company. Running a vaudeville troupe cost more than most folks could imagine.

  A glance around the table reminded him he was indeed in ranching and trapping country. His compatriots wore a wide range of faded cloth, battered leather, and matted fur. He sipped the last swallow from his glass of whiskey before slipping the fresh card into his hand. Well, look at that, another five—things are looking up. But he didn’t want to scare off the other players—none of which looked overly prosperous—by leaping in with a big raise. “I raise the bet by four bits.” He lifted the coins from his dwindling stack and tossed them toward the pile.

  Raucous laughter from the back of the room drowned out the tinny piano notes. He glanced to the side where a ragged-looking cowhand had grabbed the short skirts of a saloon girl and pulled her into his lap. A scene often repeated in every saloon H.P. had ever frequented. In fact, the only aspects that differed between a high-class place and a lesser establishment were the smoothness of the liquor and the beauty of the fancy ladies.

  The Trail End Saloon in Sheridan, Wyoming Territory, where he currently sat, was a prime example of the latter. But, in his line of work, H.P. often found himself in odd places, doing the best he could to drum up business.

  The long-haired player by the name of Conrad on his left cut him a hard glance and then matched the bet. “I seen you looking around, acting like you didn’t have a care in the world. Not believing your act, mister.”

  In turn, the next two players tossed in the needed coins but remained silent.

  “I’ll see that bet and raise ya a dollar.” The dealer flipped a coin onto the pile and it skittered down from the top.

  H.P. fought not to react. Now the game could get interesting. If he drove the pot high enough, he’d have sufficient funding for the troupe’s return trip toward its winter headquarters in Omaha. “I’ll match and go better another dollar.” The end of September was late to still be on the outbound route.

  “No one here better be bluffing.” Grumbling laced Conrad’s words. He pushed the last of his coins toward the pile. “This money was hard-earned in a gold mine.”

  Gold? Where? With a flourish of the hand adorned by a big signet ring, H.P. tapped his cards into a single-card stack and then fanned them out again. “An honest day’s work, mining is.” In the past, miners had proved to be great customers for a vaudeville performance or two. “Why, my father worked a claim in the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas during the gold rush that made California famous.” He fought to keep his tone calm. “Is the mine nearby?”

  “Over the border a ways into Montana Territory.” Conrad jerked his chin toward the door that roughly faced northwest. “In a little town called Morgan’s Crossing.”

  Morgan’s Crossing, eh? H.P. stored away that tidbit, figuring to cogitate on it later. No denying the buzz that went through his bloodstream. His mind whirled with putting on shows in a town where miners’ pockets sagged under the weight of gold nuggets.

  Players tossed in their cards until only H.P. and the miner remained. Doing his best to hide a gleeful smile, H.P. laid out his hand. “Full house, five over eights.”

  “Hot diggety dog. I got me four of a kind.” Grinning wide enough to display a gap where a lower tooth was missing, Conrad leaned forward and reached for the coins.

  H.P. sagged back in his chair. How could he have lost with the third best combination of cards in poker? He swallowed back his disappointment. “Well done, sir. That ends my play for the night, gentleman.” He forced a smile toward the winner. “Let me buy you a drink, good fellow. You can tell me more about this Morgan’s Crossing.” One drink, and I have to leave this establishment, or I’ll be dipping into the troupe’s wages.

  “Sure.” The tall man, dressed in dark pants and a red flannel shirt, stood and stuffed the coins into his front pockets. “I lit out of there as soon as the mine owner started making noises about improving the town.”

  H.P. nodded at the remaining players, pushed back his chair, and stood. “Not sure I understand.”

  Conrad ambled toward the bar and hooked a boot over the brass rail.

  Resting an elbow on the polished wood, H.P. lifted two fingers above his head and waited for the barkeep to give an acknowledging nod. “With which improvement did you disagree?”

  “I like mining, don’t get me wrong.” Conrad nodded. “A man gets used to the hard work, and the danger of being so far underground keeps you on your toes.”

  “That’ll be two bits.” The barkeep set two mugs of foaming beer in front of the men.

  From his vest pocket, H.P. pulled a silver coin and slid it across the bar. “Appreciate it.”

  Conrad took a long pull on the amber liquid then swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Had me a couple of good years at Morgan’s mine. But when more than a handful of women inhabit a place, they want to change it. First, they demand a bathhouse, and then a barber. Next, they’ll be asking for clean sheets every week on the beds at the boarding house. As soon as a church gets built, they turn a squinty eye toward the existing saloons.” He slapped a hand on the bar. “That’s when I know the time has come to head out.”

  H.P. sipped at the foaming beer, hiding his grimace at the rawness of the yeasty b
rew. “So, a church was built?”

  “Well, not yet.” Conrad scratched at his stomach.

  Attempting not to be obvious, H.P. slid his feet backward to widen the space. No telling what might be crawling on a man who didn’t enjoy the sensation of clean sheets. “Tell me more about the females.”

  After another sip, Conrad leaned on an elbow. “Not having enough females around makes the men antsy, jumpy even. They want to see a pretty face and hear a soft voice once in a while. Sure, the saloon has a couple of girls for socializing, but two amongst fifty is not a good ratio.” He shook his head. “And truly, none of us ever enjoy a dance where our partner might have a heavier beard than our own.”

  Although he’d not attended such a dance, H.P. had heard of events where a bandanna tied around a bicep designated which of the men acted as a female dance partner. “I can see that.” Fifty miners wasn’t a huge number for ticket sales, but the troupe had played to smaller audiences. If the men were hungry to see females, then they’d most likely attend multiple performances. As he sipped his beer, H.P. calculated probable revenues. A week-long stint had the potential of each miner seeing at least three shows, more if the performers agreed to use a different routine each night.

  “A group of miners complained, and Morgan said he’d consider getting more women into his town. The man’s recently married, and the new missus appears to be ruling that roost, iffen you know what I mean?” His shoulders jerked as he chuckled.

  “You’re saying the new wife is behind this?”

  “Most likely.” Conrad drained his beer and set down the glass. “I heard he was distributing an ad to get more of them mail-order brides, like his own lady was.”

  Brides? H.P. thought of the seven single women in his troupe. Their arrival would be quite a boon to the town’s social life. Maybe the miners would pay him a fee for arranging one-on-one meetings with the women. All for the sake of investigating the possibility of holy matrimony, of course. He could act as a broker, definitely a more dignified label than matchmaker. Or maybe he could hold a bride lottery, or even an auction. That way, the fee per bride could be boosted, depending on her attributes. He clapped a hand on Conrad’s back. “You, my friend, have provided great information. Now, what I need is a bit more detail about the directions to take.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Cinnia York leaned forward on the wagon’s bench seat, tucking the small hat she’d been mending into her lap. From this spot, she could see purplish mountains in the distance, the jagged peaks outlined against an azure sky dotted with puffy clouds. Past the rolling expanse of dried, golden prairie grass and on the other side of the foothills dotted with scrub trees. Mostly what she noticed was the lack of buildings and people, almost like their vaudeville troupe of six wagons and twelve people were the only souls for miles around. Which, in the expanse of southwestern Montana Territory, was probably true. “I just can’t get enough of seeing mountains. Nola, did you ever imagine they could be so high?” She turned to look at her older-by-one-year sister who managed the reins of their team.

  Nola flashed a hazel-eyed glance to the side and then re-focused on guiding the two horses along the track of flattened prairie grasses created by the preceding wagons. “Those we skirted in Wyoming Territory were nothing to sneeze at. I just hope this Morgan’s Crossing is located east of what you’re gawking at.” A long strand of brunette hair had come undone from her braid and hung from under her straw hat. “I wouldn’t want to drive over those slopes.”

  “Don’t forget, I offered to spell you as driver.” Growing up on farms in Missouri and Nebraska, Cinnia’d taken plenty of turns at driving a wagon. She couldn’t imagine the showman’s wagons that transported the vaudeville troupe handled much differently. Although in the next moment, she saw the wagon ahead dip and rock over a rut. The abrupt swaying motion altered her opinion. Maybe her stronger, more athletic sister was the logical choice for driver.

  “And what would I do sitting in the passenger seat? I can’t practice my acrobatics or put the dogs through their routines.” Nola tilted her head. “At least you can catch up on mending costumes while you ride.”

  Not to mention this situation allowed Nola to remain in control, right where she liked to be. For the past decade, Nola had been the one making the decisions—ever since their parents’ deaths. Cinnia was forever grateful for Nola’s guidance and protection from being bullied during their five years in the Springfield Children’s Home. And in the years since Nola turned eighteen and walked out of the orphanage—or more accurately, slipped out in the dark of night, taking along her underage sister—she’d been the one to discover a way to feed them and keep a roof over their heads.

  The wagon jolted over a rock.

  Cinnia grabbed the padded seat for balance then tucked the costume she’d been mending into a basket at her feet. No need to keep jabbing her fingers during this bouncy ride. Something about this trip had been bothering Cinnia since they’d left the last town the previous day. “Why do you think Mr. Thomas only set us up for one performance in Sweetwater Springs?”

  The usual routine was for the vaudeville troupe to put on several performances in each location before moving on. Often, the attendance benefited by the local townsfolk spreading a positive word about the show. Resting against the wagon’s wall, she raised a hand to shade her eyes against the bright sunlight. “And why are we heading west? Normally, by the end of September, we’re traveling east or south toward the winter headquarters in Omaha.”

  A rustling of cloth preceded the appearance of Dorrie’s head poking through the window behind the front seat. “I heard him say he wanted to get to Morgan’s Crossing because of the miners. That he’d been informed these men were starved for entertainment.” She gave a cheeky grin and arched an eyebrow. “I think the shows we do in mining towns are my favorites.”

  Cinnia grimaced. Naturally shy, she disliked those types of shows for the very same reason—the men were too attentive. They often had been away from proper society too long and had forgotten everything they’d ever learned about polite behavior toward single women.

  “More like he’s anticipating the rich pots at the gaming tables.” Nola shook her head and propped her elbows on her knees. “He’s counting on getting his hands on gold nuggets from some of those miners.”

  “I don’t care about that.” Dorrie chuckled. “I’m glad for the chance to see more country before we head back to Omaha and are stuck in the same theater until next spring.”

  If only Cinnia shared the adventuring spirits of her sister and their friend. But, since losing Mama, Papa and the family farm, she’d yearned for a real home. A place that couldn’t be harnessed to a team of animals and hauled away at someone else’s discretion. A spot to call her own.

  Truth be told, she was ready to be out of this wagon that served as their home. Cinnia had to bite her tongue about wanting to stay when the troupe rolled away from Sweetwater Springs. That lovely town had just about everything she desired—lots of houses of differing sizes, a train depot, a livery stable, a bank, a church, and a store. In just the short walk from their wagon encampment to the church where the troupe performed, she’d seen and heard a community of folks who called out to one another with well wishes or questions about the family’s welfare. Such a different atmosphere than the hustle and bustle of Omaha, where people hurried about their business with nary a kind greeting for anyone.

  “Scoot over, Cinnia.” Dorrie grunted as she wiggled through the window opening, twisted to the side, and plopped herself into the middle of the seat, petticoats flying.

  As her hat was shoved to the side and fabric whooshed over her face, Cinnia gasped. “Dorrie Sullivan, you’re displaying your pantalettes.”

  “Don’t be such a ninny.” Scoffing, the strawberry-blonde with the ready smile pushed her skirts into place. “No one is out here to even see.” Dorrie looked around and shrugged. “And I’m not counting the male members of the group. Those guys are like the brothers
I left behind in Illinois when I headed west.”

  Nola laughed. “That’s a definite advantage of doing what we do. People don’t expect the same proper behavior.”

  “Being performers doesn’t mean we’re not ladies.” Cinnia brushed a hand over her wavy hair before settling her wide-brimmed straw hat back on her head.

  “Ladies?” Nola leaned forward and met her sister’s gaze with an arched eyebrow.

  “Ladies? Really?” Dorrie’s nose scrunched.

  Cinnia heard the skepticism in their voices and bristled, unable to keep herself from sitting straighter. “Well, I think of myself as one.”

  “I’d say the best we can hope for is being considered female.” Dorrie rested her boots on the front footboard and flexed her toes, down and up.

  “Yeah, how many ladies do you know who drive wagons and haul around props and scenery?”

  Nola wasn’t being fair. Cinnia knew the opinion of traveling performers was often not a good one…but not to be considered a lady? She’d never imagined people’s opinions could steal that label from her. What hope did she ever have of finding a husband and having a family if that was true?

  “C’mon, Cinnia. Think about it.” Dorrie stood and faced backward to hook her hands on the top overhang of the wagon. She leaned forward and pushed back until her arms were straight. “We’re vagabonds. What do we know about sitting at a fancy table and using the right utensil?”

  “Must you do that, Dorrie?”

  “Acrobats have to keep flexible.”

  Irritation prickled along her skin. “That’s not what I mean by being a lady.” Cinnia again grabbed her mending, needing something to focus on. “Growing up, Nola and I never sat at a fancy table, but our parents expected us to act with courtesy, kindness, and modesty. Those are the qualities I meant.”

  She jabbed the needle into the elastic chin band Gigi had pulled loose—again. Why Nola insisted the dogs wear these stupid hats during their act was beyond her. But…she took a deep breath. Long ago, she and her sister had agreed not to comment on how the other chose to manage her own act.