Montana Sky_Laced By Love

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  “Oh, look. Are those buildings?” Dorrie shaded her eyes with one hand and pointed with the other. “I see a red barn and a corral off to the right. Those dark dots must be cattle.”

  Cinnia stretched upright, straining to catch sight of physical proof of civilization in this frontier wilderness. Since this morning, when they left the way station behind that marked the halfway point of the span between the two towns, she’d only seen what nature provided—tall grass, rocks, and scattered trees. This late in the year, no wildflowers bloomed to break the monotony of fields of golden grass waving in the breeze.

  “There’s another ranch off to the left side, too.” Nola tilted her head in that direction.

  “Ranches mean cowboys.” Dorrie giggled and dropped to the seat. “Most of the cowboys I’ve met like having a good time.”

  “By that, I hope you mean they like seeing well-performed entertainment.” Cinnia disliked the sound of her prim statement, but she couldn’t help how she felt. The longer she worked with the vaudeville performers, the more she yearned for a different life. So far, Nola had not been receptive to any suggestion of quitting the troupe.

  Tying off a knot to finish the repair, Cinnia wished Mr. Thomas was right and their stay in Morgan’s Crossing would last several days or a week. Enough time for a couple of long baths so she could soak away the trail dust. From the corner of her eye, she caught the other ladies sharing a look and shaking their heads.

  “Appears that Thomas wants to give his usual speech.” Nola pulled back on the reins. “Whoa, Captain, Skipper.” With a practiced move, she steered the team into the usual circle formation and then stopped behind the Fosters’ green wagon before pushing forward on the brake handle.

  From inside the wagon came excited barking. Cinnia stood and arched her back before scrambling down from the seat. “I’ll leash the dogs and meet you in a couple of minutes.” She glanced around, hoping for a copse of trees or a grouping of bushes for privacy. But she saw just knee-high prairie grass and let out a sigh. At the back of the wagon, she climbed the metal steps up to the porch ledge and opened the door, keeping her boot several inches off the floor until she was inside. Couldn’t risk the dogs escaping.

  Gigi and Queenie bounded forward, tongues wagging.

  “Hello, pups.” Quickly, she scanned the narrow aisle of floor space to see if Nola or Dorrie had left out any clothing that the dogs had shredded. Nothing. “You’re probably just as anxious as I am to get outside and stretch your legs.” She reached to the hook on the wall and lifted down the leather leashes then bent to clip them onto the dogs’ collars.

  Gigi, the miniature French poodle, snuggled close and licked at her hand.

  Queenie, with the normal stand-offish attitude befitting her name, stood just out of reach.

  Cinnia looked at the Jack Russell terrier, who watched her with her head cocked. What is going through that mutt’s mind? She turned her hand so the palm faced upward and crooked her fingers twice. The signal for Come was one Nola told her to use. Cinnia waited. She might not work with the dogs on a regular basis, but she knew not to chase the terrier. The dog had to come to her.

  After ten seconds, Cinnia stood and took a step toward the door. “Bye now, Queenie.”

  Giving a little whine, the dog scrabbled forward and sat on Cinnia’s left side. Then she looked upward, her dark eyes shiny bright.

  “That’s what I thought.” With a shake of her head, Cinnia clipped the lead on the collar, opened the door, and followed the dogs down the steps.

  Once outside, the dogs frolicked and chased each other before sniffing for a place to do their business. A few minutes later as Cinnia joined the group of performers, she heard Mr. Thomas laying out his plans.

  “If my discussions with Mr. Morgan go well, we’ll have a performance tonight.” He held onto the lapels of his jacket and rocked on his heels. “An abbreviated show at a reduced fee. Do your short routine or musical pieces, no solos and no encores.”

  Around her, people nodded and murmured agreement. Good, this type of short performance was easier. No backdrops to erect, no costume changes, and everyone saved their showcase pieces for a longer performance. No elaborate make-up needed.

  “When I return, I’ll give the lineup of the acts. You have an hour or so to relax.” He started to walk away but paused then waved a hand at the wagons. “Be sure to unfurl the banners before we start up again.”

  “Here, I’ll take them.” Nola held out her hand for the leashes. “An hour’s not enough time to haul out their pen, so I’ll run them through a warm-up exercise.”

  “I might read for a while.” Having time to herself was a rarity. Even in non-performing hours, Cinnia usually had a chore involving sewing or cleaning or cooking that demanded her attention. She dashed up the stairs, opened the cupboard that held her personal belongings, found the copy of Charlotte Temple, and then grabbed the square of gutta-percha waterproof cloth from under the tiny sink. Before she heard Nola’s voice calling out a task that must be attended, Cinnia walked around the wagon and settled in the grass near a choke cherry bush. When she located her place in the book, she was lost in the story of a young, unassuming lady pursued by a handsome, love-struck soldier.

  All too soon, she was pulled from the story by a cry that the manager was in sight. She scurried to help Dorrie and Nola untie the canvas banners that hung from the roof overhang. The painted scenes contained images indicative of their individual performances. Nola, wearing form-fitting jacket and trousers, worked the dogs through dance steps. Dressed in a short, flouncy skirt, Dorrie arched in a backward bend. Cinnia waved a flowing scarf across the front of her Grecian stola. They were a rather crass advertisement because, at Mr. Thomas’ urging, the costumes had been depicted as more revealing than the actual ones were.

  Cinnia crinkled her nose at her exposed limbs and revealing décolletage, wishing for a moment she actually possessed such a curvy figure. Then she might catch the attention of a beau like in the novel she’d just been reading. But the troupe’s vagabond lifestyle didn’t allow for acquaintances to develop. With a sigh, she stowed her book in the cupboard and hurried to the front of the wagon.

  Thirty minutes later, the clop-clop of horses’ hooves on the wooden bridge over a wide river signaled the troupe’s arrival. Golden sunlight glinted off the slow-moving water that tumbled over rocks and boulders. As they rolled behind the town, Cinnia spotted the backs of several cabins, bigger buildings that must be stores, and a large two-story house on a rise. Stretching to her tallest sitting height so she was sure to see everything, she scanned the area and, to herself, counted the structures. The town had fewer than fifteen buildings lining both sides of a single street and was much smaller than she’d anticipated.

  How did Mr. Thomas think a trip this far west, to what looked like little more than a mining camp, would be profitable? Certainly not for the multiple days he told them he’d booked. Before she could ponder that question further, she saw the manager standing next to his gold-and-black wagon and pointing his cane toward the right turn ahead.

  Riding down the low hill about a rod away walked a solitary horseman who pulled up his mount to let the wagons precede him into town.

  Cinnia noticed he rode a big chestnut horse with a golden mane and tail. A perfect color combination for fall. Then they moved farther along the road, and she lost sight of him.

  The rumble and clank of several arriving wagons drew the attention of a variety of townsfolk. By the time theirs rolled along the hard-packed dirt street, Cinnia noted a sporadic row of bystanders gawking and pointing from where they lined the street. But very few women. A raucous cheer went up from the crowd of bearded men gathered in front of a boxy, unpainted building labeled in crooked letters as “Rigsby’s Saloon.”

  Is that where we’ll be performing? She shuddered. Performing in saloons had its definite drawbacks, because the crowds were more boisterous and unpredictable. Plus the men were often in a state of inebriation. More t
han one show had been interrupted by drunken hijinks, and the male performers had stepped in to prevent any unwanted advances upon the particular female on stage at the time.

  Hearing the admiring comments as they passed, Cinnia put herself in the shoes of the residents of this tiny town, as if she viewed the troupe for the first time. A vague memory of such a show coming to the small Nebraska farming town where she grew up rose in her mind. She’d been only seven or so, and such an event was something quite out of the ordinary.

  The shiny costumes and bright colors looked enchanting and special, so unlike the calico, denim, and homespun that comprised her family’s regular wardrobe. The show’s performers and their acts of daring acrobatics or intricate juggling had put Nola under their spell—a thrall from which she hadn’t yet recovered.

  As special and as diverting as she’d thought the singers or dancers were, never once had Cinnia yearned to count herself as one of the people on the stage. Nope, she was here because vaudeville was her sister’s dream. Since their family had shrunk to only the two sisters, they stuck together.

  The traveling company did present quite a picture. Each wagon was painted a different color, making the collection look almost like a rainbow. The yellows, blues, and greens stood out in this town of log cabins and whitewashed or unpainted structures. She’d always had a particular fondness for the one assigned to them—a lavender wagon with purple accents on the moldings and scrollwork decorating the upright sides.

  A few children skipped alongside the line of wagons followed by a couple of barking dogs. One little girl with long dark hair skipped in front of a flame-haired boy a couple years younger.

  As was expected upon their arrival at each new town, the performers waved to the crowd. They called out, “Come see the show” and “Great performances for the family.” Some of the people waved back. At the end of the street opposite what looked like a tent city, the wagons slowly turned in a wide circle and retraced their path.

  Cinnia spotted a big whitewashed building that resembled a church or a schoolhouse on the uphill side of the road. Maybe that was where the performance would be held. Definitely a better choice. She looked ahead to see the road snaked past that two-story house with a wide porch and around a hill. A flat space at the base of the hill looked like a good place where the group could set up camp. No livery stable or permanent corral was anywhere in sight. Normally, the troupe stuck to the outskirts of town to avoid complaints about the horses or the open fires they used for cooking.

  Instead, Mr. Thomas stood in the middle of the street, his waving cane pointing them toward an open area in the center of town.

  The empty space looked out onto a gentle incline down to a bend in the river. A variety of trees lined the moving water, and dried grasses waved along the ground.

  “Park facing outward between the saloon here and those shops down there.” He pointed toward the fork in the road. “Flynn, the equipment wagon goes closest to the saloon. There’s a slope on the back side so don’t forget to set the blocks on the wheels.”

  “Really?” Nola scoffed. “Doesn’t he realize we’ve done this enough times and in all types of terrain to know the routine?” She shook her head as she angled the wagon to the uphill side of the road.

  Dorrie and Cinnia hopped to the ground to perform their roles as parking guides. They walked near the front wheel and shouted instructions as Nola cajoled the horses to back the showman’s wagon into position. Each driver repeated the action, making sure to allow walking space between the wagon wheels. Soon, the six wagons stood in a straight line, tongues facing the street. This time, their lavender wagon was positioned next to Mr. Thomas’s, who had parked close to a building that looked like a newly constructed shop of some type.

  Within minutes, the area was a beehive of activity. Sturdy rope lines strung between the trees and square wooden posts the men hammered into the ground created a temporary corral. The horses were unharnessed and let loose into the grass-covered space.

  With a long-legged stride, Nola walked Captain and Skipper down to the river to let them drink their fill after the day-long journey. Other drivers followed her path with their horses. Whistled notes of an unknown tune floated on the late afternoon air.

  Arney, the juggler, joined them, rolling a wheelbarrow for collecting rocks to create the fire pit for cooking. Others opened windows to air out the wagons or set out folding stools for evening use.

  Dorrie and Cinnia unclamped a roll of wire netting and poles from the underside of the wagon. Working together like they had many times in the past, they set the poles and then wrapped the netting around the outside. Simple cord ties secured the netting to the uprights, and when they finished, a rectangular pen for the dogs stood only a few feet away from the wagon’s filigreed metal steps.

  Gigi and Queenie rolled in the grass and chased each other, happy for the freedom after being cooped up in the wagon or restrained by leashes for hours.

  Tasks that were everyday and routine to the troupe seemed to be of interest to the townspeople. As Cinnia set out their three folding stools, she heard whispers from the front of the wagon. When she leaned over and looked underneath, she saw five or six sets of small-sized feet. Good. Children were often the best ambassadors of advertisement for the shows, because they pestered their parents to attend. Families always had an enjoyable time because of the variety of the acts—an entertainment for everyone.

  What she hadn’t expected was the tall blond-haired man who leaned against a clapboard building just past Mr. Thomas’ wagon. Dressed in a buff-colored shirt and denim trousers held up with suspenders, he looked like a shopkeeper, rather than a miner. But, even from twenty feet away, she could feel the intensity of his gaze as he watched her movements. Different from the leers she often had to endure, she sensed this man’s scrutiny was more curious, like he wasn’t sure what he observed.

  The long day of travel undoubtedly had taken a toll on her appearance. Being in the direct sunlight had probably increased the number of freckles dotting her cheeks. Encountering a steady breeze while traveling on the prairie was a given. She slipped a hand up her neck to check for any stray hairs coming loose from her bun. Maybe not too much fixing would be needed to make herself more presentable.

  “Who are you primping for?” Nola nudged her with an elbow as she passed.

  Cinnia stumbled off-balance then clamped her jaw tight. Leave it to her older sister to be obvious and obnoxious. She picked up a stool to relocate it, taking a peek over her shoulder, only to spy the bare plank wall of the building. Her shoulders slumped.

  Her mystery man had disappeared.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Nicolai pushed a wooden paddle through the vat of oak, willow, and larch tannins, gently shifting the cow hides beneath the surface. So far, he saw no signs the quality of this batch would suffer because of the unexpected several days’ interruption in the tanning process. After a few weeks of operation in Dillon, he’d endured enough disparaging comments about the odor on his trips into town to make him relocate…again.

  Those last few days, he’d noticed a couple of strangers hanging around the saloon where he went for his nightly meal and a beer. Although he hadn’t been sure, he thought they resembled the men who’d inquired about him in Eagle Rock, when he’d set up operations in Idaho Territory.

  Their unwanted attention prompted his move to the most unknown place he could find in southwestern Montana Territory. He hoped this tiny town of Morgan’s Crossing would prove obscure enough for him to get established and continue supplying the goods his father sold in the family’s San Francisco store. The way he worked, and the intricate stamped designs he produced, mandated extended periods of uninterrupted time to ply his trade.

  If Nicolai had to move again, he might as well join brothers Petya along the Snake River in Washington Territory or Valerik in Kamloops, British Columbia. Papa worried the family’s secret tanning formula would be discovered before the patent received approval, and the valu
e of Andrusha leather would suffer. The family patriarch prized secrecy above all else and always wired money to fund whatever relocations the brothers deemed necessary.

  Already, Nicolai had spent a sizable amount to rent the double lot from the town’s owner and self-appointed mayor, Michael Morgan, and buy the supplies to build his own shop. Because Nicolai liked to plan for the future, he’d constructed an identical building adjacent to his which, as yet, stood empty. If his stay in Morgan’s Crossing stretched long enough, he’d convert one into a real house, instead of using only the small room and sleeping loft at the back of the saddlery shop. Although, in his twenty-five years, he’d discovered a man living alone didn’t need much in the way of creature comforts.

  A breeze rattled the dry red, orange, and rusty brown leaves of the scarlet oaks shading his work area. Nearby, his chestnut stallion Ziven stamped his foot and chomped on a tuft of still-green prairie grass. A rod or so away, the creek danced with sparkles and flashes in the waning afternoon light. In this location, he’d chosen an uninhabited spot well away from the town to set up his vats. Although he wasn’t too far away from the gold mine that was the reason for the town’s existence, he doubted the miners who spent the majority of their time underground would object. In addition, he found the steady rhythm of the stamp mill a comforting backbeat to his work.

  Nicolai lifted his pocket watch from the leather holder attached to his belt and clicked open the engraved silver cover. The needed length of time for floating the skins had elapsed. His gaze went to the inscription written in Cyrillic letters: “To my namesake on his sixteen birthday, Grandpa Nic.” Nicolai had only visited his grandparents in the old country twice, but he credited his dedushka for instilling in him a love of the outdoors.