Montana Sky_Laced By Love

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

After covering the vats again with their wooden lids, Nicolai swung himself into the saddle and urged Ziven toward the road that circled the hill. He contemplated the evening ahead and the orders on his workbench yet to be finished. Special orders for six harnesses for a freight company, and two children’s saddles, complete with a set of saddle bags. Or, his father had a standing order for portmanteaus and satchels that were always in demand for the store’s customers.

  If none of those projects held his interest for long, he could work on the stock of winter boots he planned for local sales. On a visit to the town’s mercantile, he’d surveyed the inventory and saw no immediate competition. The shopkeeper informed him townspeople placed their orders for footwear from catalogs. Nicolai had stockpiled about a dozen rabbit skins from his time in Eagle Rock, and he’d already written to Valerik requesting another two dozen and a dozen beaver pelts.

  Nicolai rode within sight of the mine and lifted a hand in greeting to the tall guard Milton who lounged near the opening. Then he cut south and headed downhill toward Morgan’s Crossing. Movement on the road from Sweetwater Springs caught his attention. He spied several colorful wagons, the likes of which he’d not seen before, approaching the crossroads.

  A man standing beside a gold-and-black wagon waving a cane directed the caravan toward the town.

  Stopping to let the wagons pass, he spotted pictures on the sides of each wagon showing dancers and musicians, acrobats and jugglers, and a magician with a fancy top hat and black cape. One even portrayed two prancing dogs wearing skirts. When the last wagon rumbled by, he urged Ziven forward then turned off the road and walked the horse along the side wall of his shop to the stable behind.

  Yasha, a dun-colored gelding, nickered a greeting, and Ziven tossed his head and blew out a long breath.

  “You boys are happy to see each other, da?” Nicolai tensed at the slip into his native language and glanced around to see if anyone stood nearby. He’d presented himself to the townspeople as Nic Andrews, leather worker, and had to keep from raising suspicions about him being anyone other than that person. With quick moves, he removed Ziven’s saddle and bridle and gave the horse a rubdown with a scrap of burlap from a nearby shelf. Their water trough was still half full, so he opened the barrel of oats and shoveled a heaping scoop into each feed bucket.

  Chores done, he strode across the ground studded with dry tufts of grass and used the back door to enter his living quarters. Curiosity about the new arrivals pushed his steps forward into the shop. The rich scent of processed animal hides containing the recognizable sweet note—a secret recipe developed by his Russian ancestors—filled his nose.

  The scent that meant home.

  He skirted the stand holding an almost-completed saddle and the blocks holding three of the harness collars in various stages of completion. Nic liked the process of working multiples of the same item. Using that method, he made fewer switches between the needed tools or didn’t have to make adjustments on the clams of his stitching pony as often. He pulled off his wide-brimmed hat and hung it on the peg near the entry.

  Standing with a shoulder leaning against the door, he watched the line of wagons as they turned around near the tent city of Chinese mine workers and headed back in his direction. The fact they were performers was now obvious, but Nicolai thought Morgan’s Crossing was a strange place for them to come. Too small. They would have made more profit by putting on performances in Sweetwater Springs. He shook his head at his need to always be looking for the profit in business. Maybe entertainment folk had different reasons for what they did.

  The wagon that parked closest to his buildings had shiny gold accents on black and was driven by a matched pair of roan horses. He’d heard about wagons that traveled around the country and that people lived in, but he’d never seen the inside of one. The next wagon, a purplish one, appeared to be driven by a female. That was a surprise. Pushing himself upright, he fingered the thong extending from his belt into his front pocket, pulled out the key, and stepped to the door to unlock it.

  He walked the length of the boards under the overhang to the edge of the adjacent building, but the first parked wagon blocked his view. So he edged along the side of the vacant shop until he could lean against the wall and see the activity. Everyone seemed to know their task, because no one bumped into another as the ten or eleven people moved within the group. Within minutes, a corral was erected for the horses, and people carried items from the backs of the wagons.

  From where he stood, he had a good view of all the activities. The chasing actions of two small dogs within a pen caught his eye. He grinned at their antics as they showed their happiness at being freed from their wagon. The lack of a dog in his life pulled at him. His childhood pet, a Georgian mountain dog named Vanko, had been his constant companion. Maybe if he’d stayed here past the first month or two, he’d ask around for anyone who had a bitch about to whelp.

  Then an auburn-haired beauty with creamy white skin stepped into sight. His throat dried. The brim of her straw hat shadowed her eyes, but she had a nose that turned up at the tip and rounded cheeks. Her figure was curvy, but not too much so. She leaned over to unfold wooden stools and the roundness of her hips pressed against her skirt. Just the right size for a man’s hands. When she looked his way and caught him staring, she blushed, flushing those cheeks with a beguiling pink color, before glancing away.

  The woman was Zosia, goddess of beauty, and Živa, goddess of love, from Slavic mythology wrapped into one body. The rush of blood in his ears forced him to look away. Not wanting to draw attention to himself, Nicolai slipped back along the storefronts and returned to the saddlery. Bracing a hand against the wall, he took in a couple deep breaths to regain control before slipping onto the padded stool in front of his workbench. He left the door ajar to let in more of the afternoon sunlight. Just as he was about to thread a harness needle to stitch on one of the collars, he heard the excited voices of several children.

  A young boy with wavy brown hair passed by in front of the shop.

  Nicolai stood and stepped to the doorway. “Hey, you.”

  The boy turned and looked over his shoulder then pointed at his chest. “Me, sir?”

  “Yeah, what’s your name?”

  “Bobby Tisdale. But I didn’t do nothing.” He shook his head, and his blunt-cut hair flew in a wave from side-to-side. “I was just watching.”

  “Sure you were.” Nicolai dug into his trouser pocket, pulled out a penny, and held it up. “You can earn this if you find out when and where the performance will be. Then come back to tell me.”

  The boy’s blue eyes shot wide. “A whole penny just for telling you some words? I don’t haveta haul water or clean the ashes out yer fireplace?” Bobby leaned left then right, his gaze trained on the open doorway.

  Fighting to maintain a somber expression, Nicolai nodded. “That’s right.”

  Bobby scampered up onto the wooden porch and jammed both hands on his thin hips. “Seven o’clock at the meetin’ hall.” He twisted, pointed down the street then turned back. “That big white building.” Grinning, he held out his hand, palm up.

  Unable to suppress an answering grin, Nicolai dropped the coin in the boy’s dirty hand and watched him scamper away. “Thank you.” As he headed back into the shop, Nicolai whistled a cheery tune. His evening was definitely looking up, because he knew where he’d be promptly at seven.

  Unfortunately, as events panned out, he nicked his thumb paring potatoes for his supper. The cut bled through a couple of bandages before he got it to stop. But, the final wrapping made buttoning his clean shirt take extra time, and now he was a few minutes late to the performance. Please don’t let me miss any of that auburn beauty’s performance. As directed by the neatly printed card, he dropped a nickel into the woven offering basket set on a chair just past where coats hung. Then he slipped in the main room lit with oil lanterns in the window sills, the flickering lights highlighting pale green walls. He leaned against the back wall next
to a couple of miners he’d seen a time or two at Rigsby’s Saloon.

  The men exchanged acknowledging nods then turned back toward the speaker.

  A short, slightly balding man dressed in a dark suit and tie seemed to be winding up with announcing the lineup of acts. “And, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, those are the acts that comprise The H.P Thomas Traveling Entertainment Company.” His speech was pompous, and he used lots of words when a few would have done just fine. He stood in front of a large wooden frame from which curtains hung on both sides to mark off the performance area. With a flourish, he swept off his hat and extended it toward the side of the room. “Now, I give you the master of balance, agility and, most important of all, timing, Arney the juggler.”

  The tall, dark-haired man was quite adept and kept a patter going as he tossed first three, then four balls into the air. A handsome couple came next, and they danced a flowing waltz while the announcer turned the handle of a cylinder phonograph.

  The audience oohed and aahed when the two little dogs ran on stage, with small netting skirts tied around their bellies and hats perched on their heads. An athletic brunette wearing a matching costume worked them through a routine of prancing on their hind legs, walking on top of a wooden-slatted hoop, and the French poodle jumped rope in tandem with the woman. That act received the loudest round of applause.

  With a minimum of fussy words, the announcer stated a poetic recitation by Miss York. Then she appeared. Dang, I missed hearing her first name. Dressed in gauzy cloth that rippled about her body with each step, the auburn-haired beauty walked to the center of the “stage” and bowed her head, her hands held cradled in front of her waist. Not a sound was heard as everyone waited to see what came next. She lifted her left arm with a graceful motion and pointed toward the ceiling. The filmy fabric shifted and revealed a pale limb.

  “She walks in beauty, like the night

  Of cloudless climes and starry skies”

  With a matching elegant gesture, she lifted her other arm overhead and swayed. The costume shimmered with a mysterious, sporadic light.

  Her voice was melodious, even pitched, and loud enough to be heard throughout the hall. The sound wrapped around Nicolai’s head like a siren’s song, enticing him to walk closer, to the last row of benches, and he perched on the wooden edge.

  Dean Tisdale shot him a dark frown, but the broad-shouldered miner scooted an inch or two to the left.

  Nicolai barely noticed, because within seconds, he advanced another row and squatted next to a young girl with long dark hair who stared, mouth agape, at the woman. Da, I know just how you feel, little girl.

  “And all that's best of dark and bright

  Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

  Thus mellow'd to that tender light

  Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

  “One shade the more, one ray the less,

  Had half impair'd the nameless grace”

  Nicolai couldn’t resist moving even nearer. He bent over and walked up to the second row, containing the mayor and his wife, Prudence, and sat behind Miss Bucholtz, the new cook at the boarding house, and Howie, the tall man who worked for the Morgans. This was as close as he could get, because the rest of the front row was filled. But from this spot, he could clearly see each and every movement of her supple lips and the flash of light in her green eyes as she acted out the lyrical poem that he recognized as one of his mother’s favorites.

  “Which waves in every raven tress,

  Or softly lightens o'er her face;

  Where thoughts serenely sweet express

  How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.”

  ****

  For a second time, Cinnia caught movement in what should be an audience of static faces. The surprise distracted her, and she fought to keep her place in the recitation.

  “And on that cheek, and o'er that brow…” She touched a hand to the mentioned features as she spoke and gazed toward the audience. There, in the second row, she spotted the blond man from this afternoon, his gaze fixed on her face. She opened her mouth for the next line, but her mind was blank. This has never happened before. Heat infused her cheeks. Her thoughts raced, running through what she’d already said. From stage right behind her, she heard Dorrie provide the next two words of the poem. Like when a glass is overfilled, the words just flowed from her mouth.

  “S-so soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

  The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

  But tell of days in goodness spent,

  A mind at peace with all below,

  A heart whose love is innocent!”

  As she spoke the last line, she pressed clasped hands to her breast and bowed her head. A moment later, she curtsied and then gave the deserved attribution. “That poem was “She Walks In Beauty” by Lord George Gordon Byron.” Refusing to display how discomfited she felt, she turned and walked sedately out of sight behind the curtain as the audience applauded. Foot stomping and whistles sounded in accompaniment.

  “Now, folks, you’re in for a real treat.” Mr. Thomas’ voice rang from the rafters. “Please welcome the king of joviality, the crown prince of comedy, Mr. Flynn McBride.”

  Flynn, his wavy chestnut hair slicked down, walked past her and whispered, “Never known you to botch up a line before.”

  “Never you mind,” she hissed and pressed a hand to her chest as she moved in line next to Dorrie, who followed Flynn. “Thanks for feeding me the words.”

  “No problem.” She leaned close to speak into Cinnia’s ear. “I stand here mouthing practically everything you say. I love how rhyming the words are, and how some start with the same sounds. That’s so clever.”

  “That’s called alliteration, and it’s a well-known literary device.”

  “Well, I only know the poems you recite, but I like them all.” She grinned and winked before turning toward the performance area.

  The crowd laughed at all the expected places in Flynn’s routine.

  One more joke, and Dorrie would start her act. Cinnia fanned her hand in front of her face, but the heat of embarrassment in her cheeks hadn’t yet faded. She was just glad that Nola was probably transporting the dogs back to the wagon and hadn’t witnessed her momentary lapse. A person could take only so many lectures from an older sibling.

  “Wish me luck.” Dorrie flashed a grin and then launched into a series of three cartwheels to propel herself from behind the curtain.

  She and Dorrie had worked hard on her costume, to create tight pinkish stockings that gave the illusion Dorrie appeared on stage with bared arms and legs. Cinnia knew she’d never feel comfortable wearing the form-fitting outfit, but Dorrie carried it off with aplomb.

  The crowd cheered, and every few seconds responded to Dorrie’s limber moves and flexing contortions with applause and whistles.

  Cinnia leaned against the wall and contemplated why the stranger had affected her in such a way. She’d seen plenty of handsome men before —not that she’d interacted with many—and usually she could ignore them. But something about this quiet, inquisitive man was different.

  When she first walked on stage, she hadn’t spotted him in the bench seating area. Then suddenly he was there, right in the center of her field of vision. His handsome face focused solely on her. She sucked in a few more deep breaths, letting them out slowly. To avoid being teased by Nola when she returned, Cinnia had to appear unaffected. No doubt, someone would share Cinnia’s lapse with Nola. Maybe, if she was really lucky, she had a reprieve for the night from her sister’s censure.

  ****

  After the comedian’s last joke was shared, Nicolai eased down the center aisle and took up a place along the back wall. Part of him was aware of the succession of acts that followed—an acrobat, two violinists, a magician, an opera singer—and he joined in the applause at the appropriate times.

  Several people stood in the middle of the musical number and moved along the outside aisle. The older woman in the middle was stooped, and
others had supporting arms around her. Two more people rose, and the whole group of seven hurried out of the hall.

  Nicolai gave a brief thought about the reason for so many people leaving together in the middle of the show. Then he recognized Rawlins, the miner who did a bit of doctoring on the quiet, and figured someone was ill. Mostly, he ran Miss York’s performance over and over in his mind, remembering her stylish gestures and the movement of her lips as she spoke the lyrical words.

  Finally, the manager walked to the middle of the floor. “Thank you, folks, for attending this evening’s performance of our modest display of talent and agility. The troupe will be here each evening to titillate you with song and dance, dramatic recitations, and comedic antics. Come one and come all during the upcoming five days. Each night will be new and inspiring. I guarantee your enjoyment, or my name isn’t Horatio P. Thomas.” He threw up his hands in the air and paused for a moment before sweeping off his black derby and giving a deep bow.

  Applause sounded, and then the buzz of conversations built as people stood, readying to exit the building. Those who had brought their own lanterns lit them to provide illumination for the walks back to their houses.

  Nicolai ducked out the meeting house door and fell in with a group of men headed for Rigsby’s Saloon. An hour or so of card playing and a beer were just the things to settle the excitement that still ran through his body. Thirty minutes later, he was holding his own with three respectable stacks of coins in front of him when the troupe manager approached.

  “Gentlemen, does anyone have any objections to allowing me to join your game of card-playing stratagem?” Mr. Thomas stood with his fleshy hand on the back of an empty chair.

  Nicolai and the four other men sitting at the table shared glances and shrugged.

  “Very well.” The well-dressed man removed his derby and set it on a nearby table. “Thank you kindly, good gentlemen. Now, for those of you who attended the performance tonight”—he glanced around the table—“and I hope you all enjoyed our little entertainments…” He paused, eyebrow cocked.