Mystic Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series Book 6)

by Debra Holland

  Maggie stared in disbelief at the sophisticated stranger in the mirror who hadn’t been there earlier.

  “Well?” Edith prompted. “What do you think?”

  Is that really me?

  Edith whirled and hurried to the door, flinging it open. “You can come in now.”

  Caleb carried Charlotte inside.

  Slowly, Maggie turned to face him, feeling self-conscious.

  The appreciative look in his eyes filled her with feminine power, and she lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders.

  “You look stunning.” He held up Charlotte. “Look, my sweet, see how lovely your mama is.”

  Maggie blushed and looked away, catching sight of herself in the mirror—the sophisticated stranger—as grand a lady as Edith Grayson or Prudence Morgan. A wave of despair washed over her. This isn’t me. This is only Gypsy Maggie clothed in fine feathers. A wide social gulf still lay between them.

  Wearing a gown like this made it all too easy for Maggie to hope, which she knew would only lead to hurt.

  I need to move out soon!

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  After a sudden snowstorm made uncertainty about the wedding buzz through the town, the weather cleared. Four sunny days ensured people came into Sweetwater Springs from near and far to attend the wedding of the son of their beloved minister and his wife. The day before the ceremony, guests descended on the hotel and Mrs. Murphy’s boarding house or stayed with friends.

  Mack Taylor opened the livery to those folk who’d traveled a long ways and were too poor to pay for a room but who were willing to sleep in the hay, bundled next to each other in their blankets like kernels on a corncob.

  In the early morning hours, a crowd of workers hired by Andre Bellaire, as well as volunteers, transformed the church into a bower of white roses and greenery and made an archway of the same outside the church door. A large arrangement of flowers bloomed on the altar, now covered with a gold cloth, and swags of flowers and greenery lined the windows and the aisle side of the pews.

  As a surprise wedding gift for his son-in-law, Andre had commissioned a stained-glass window for the church. The day before, Reverend Joshua had been sent on a pastoral errand out of town for several hours, ensuring the secrecy of the installation. Because the window was on the front of the church facing away from the street, word was the younger minister hadn’t yet spotted the new addition.

  Set behind the altar, the large window took the shape of a pointed arch, and the background of pale glass looked mauve in some light, pink at other times of the day, and showed gold as the sun set. A simple cross in bluish-purple glass in the center drew the eye. One line of gold and orange and a second of blue and green bordered the sides of the work of art. The bottom showed two panels, each containing mystical symbols, flanking a middle one that contained a wreath of olive leaves circling the date of 1896.

  The wedding was scheduled for two o’clock, but those who hadn’t spent the night drove or walked into town hours early, clustering under the oak tree beside the school. Trestle tables covered with white cloths and vases of flowers were set up for a community meal, with food provided by Andre and catered by the hotel kitchen. In addition, all the housewives for miles around had contributed their specialties. The area quickly took on the air of a festival as friends congregated, people ate and talked, and children played the sedate games authorized by their elders, who’d commanded their offspring to remain looking as spiffed up as possible.

  The bride was sequestered in the parsonage with Mrs. Norton, and Reverend Joshua mingled with the townsfolk. Micah remained at his side instead of playing with the other children. Obviously the boy’s father wasn’t taking a chance on his mischievous son getting dirty before the ceremony.

  At Caleb’s insistence, Maggie left her sleeping baby with him while she went to keep Delia company, although she made him promise to come get her if Charlotte became fussy.

  Maggie hurried to the parsonage, careful to hold the skirt of her purple gown off the ground. She loved the sound of the taffeta rustling with each step, making her feel sophisticated, and she moved among the throngs—more people than she’d ever seen together—with her head held high and her shoulders back.

  As she passed, Maggie exchanged greetings with acquaintances, surprised by how many people she recognized. After the crowd, the quiet area around the small parsonage was a relief. She knocked on the door. “Delia, it’s Maggie,” she called.

  Mrs. Norton opened the door, peering out to make sure Maggie was alone. She wore a navy-blue shirtwaist and skirt, with full, long sleeves, a high collar and cuffs of ivory lace, and ivory appliqués along the hem.

  “Why, Mrs. Norton, how lovely you look,” Maggie said, stepping inside at Mary Norton’s gesture.

  Pink flooded the woman’s wrinkled cheeks. “My son and Delia insisted I have a new gown.” She gave an anxious flutter with her hands. “Even though I didn’t really need one, because Joshua outfitted me quite extravagantly when he returned from Africa.”

  Maggie grasped the woman’s hands. “Dear Mrs. Norton, from what I know of you and from what I’ve heard, you are as close to a saint as a Christian woman can be. I have no doubt you deserve to look your finest.”

  “Oh, no, dear, I’m not a saint,” Mrs. Norton protested as she ushered Maggie into the parlor.

  Taking a leaf from Caleb’s book, Maggie ignored her protests. “Life is not all about denial and charity. Reverend Joshua wouldn’t encourage you to have a new dress if he didn’t feel it was right. And with a husband for a minister. . .why, Reverend Norton would put his foot down, too. So, having the approval of both men of the cloth, I think you should enjoy the feminine feeling of a pretty new dress.” She spoke from recent experience.

  Mrs. Norton squeezed Maggie’s hands. “Well, if you think so, Mrs. Baxter—”

  “And so Reverend Joshua and I have been telling her,” Delia called from inside the parlor.

  Mrs. Norton stepped aside so Maggie could see the bride standing in front of a full-length mirror that must have been moved from a bedroom for Delia’s use. The parlor’s gold wallpaper reflected sunlight from the windows to shimmer over the bride. The scent of roses and orange blossoms from the enormous bouquet resting on the sofa permeated the air.

  Delia placed her hands on her hips. “But does Mother Norton listen to us?” she asked in a playful haranguing tone. “Or to her husband or my father? No. Then you come along and tell her the same thing about her new dress, and she decides to listen.”

  “Oh, no, dearest.” Mrs. Norton touched Delia’s cheek. “I have been listening. But you all are my family. Mrs. Baxter is an impartial member of our congregation.”

  Maggie shook her head. “I’m sorry to report that you have no impartial members of your congregation,” she said, deadpan.

  “No?” Mrs. Norton gave her a puzzled look.

  Maggie couldn’t help but chuckle before leaning in to hug the woman. “No one is impartial because everyone adores you.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Baxter, you flatter me.” Pink flushed her wrinkled cheeks. “Now, I really must go out and see that everything is in order in the church. I’ll return before the ceremony.” She slipped from the room.

  Maggie turned her attention to her friend.

  Delia was an exotic vision. At first glance, her wedding gown looked deceptively simple, which was probably appropriate for a minister’s wife. The unembellished body of the dress was made of cream satin brocade, with a high, square neck edged with small scoops of lace. The sleeves were plain satin, made spectacular by their puffed shape, and then along her forearms the satin fit tightly. The fabric belled out at her wrists, where froths of lace fell to midway down Delia’s hands. A brocade train several feet in length trailed behind the gown.

  “You look so beautiful!” Maggie rushed over and gave Delia a hug, careful not to crease the material or muss her hair. “Like a princess. I love your dress.”

  Delia leaned over to whisper, “A copy o
f Worth’s, although the balloon sleeves are smaller because Joshua doesn’t approve of—” she deepened her voice “—those ridiculous shapes that make a woman look like she’s carrying a bag of flour on each shoulder. And they are a waste of material at that.”

  The two laughed together.

  “I have to agree with him,” Maggie admitted. “I was quite startled the first time I saw Mrs. Morgan’s new dress for her daughter’s christening party. Then Mrs. Walker and Mrs. Sullivan showed up in balloon sleeves, as well, although theirs weren’t as big as Mrs. Morgan’s. And hers weren’t as broad as those of Miss Maxwell.” She shook her head, indicating disbelief. “I saw her at Caleb’s—Mr. Livingston’s—hotel the other day. She is stunning, really. But in a good wind, our Songbird might inadvertently fly away.”

  “I look forward to hearing Miss Maxwell sing.” Delia raised her hands to touch a lovely tiara of pearls that matched her necklace and earrings, and the long froth of lace fell back over her wrists. “I’ve already discovered that as beautiful as this looks, this lace is most impractical. The edges keep getting in my way. I don’t know why I didn’t think to have the dressmaker alter the length. I don’t dare eat anything later, for the lace will trail in my food.”

  “I have pins in my reticule. We can rescue your lace so you can eat, and then unpin everything when you’re finished.”

  “How sensible you are, Maggie! A splendid idea.”

  “We can’t have you fainting away from hunger,” Maggie teased. “Plus, you’ll need to fortify yourself for the night to come.”

  Dusky rose flooded Delia’s olive skin. She touched the frills at Maggie’s shoulders. “I’m not the only one who looks elegant,” she said, obviously changing the subject.

  “Quite a shock to see myself in the looking glass this morning.” Maggie smoothed the skirt. “I never even imagined wearing such a gown.”

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “Come in,” Delia called.

  Sheriff Granger stepped into the parlor, hat in hand. She wore the same suit as on the previous Sunday, but her braid was wrapped in a high crown that would fit under the hat. She held a telegram in her hands. Her cool gray eyes warmed as she surveyed the two women. “I ran into Mrs. Norton outside, and she told me to come on in.”

  Maggie couldn’t help wondering what the sheriff thought of their dresses. Does she ever wear them or wish she could? Feeling the tightness of her corset, Maggie wondered about the tradeoff of fashion for comfort. As much as she loved her dress and how pretty and feminine she felt in it, she could do without the corset tied as tight as possible to give her thick waist the illusion of slenderness. But her mind couldn’t stretch to wearing trousers, comfortable as they might be.

  She held a telegram aloft. The genuine joy in the sheriff’s smile made her look attractive.

  Maggie hadn’t seen that smile before, and she wondered how many people had witnessed a happy expression on the woman’s face.

  Sheriff Granger waved the paper. “If I could have a private moment.” She looked from Delia to Maggie and back. “I’ve a wedding present from me to you and Reverend Joshua that I think will give you peace of mind from a certain. . . .”

  Delia’s eyes widened. “I’ve told Maggie everything. You may speak freely in front of her.”

  “Well, then.” The sheriff handed over the telegram and motioned for Delia to go ahead and read.

  Delia glanced down, scanned the message, and sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes filling. “How did you know I was worried?”

  Worried about what? Maggie wondered. “Is everything all right?”

  Delia waved the telegram in front of her like a fan. “Sheriff Granger brought word that Marcel Dupuy is in New Orleans, and I don’t have to worry about him showing up today. I’ve had nightmares of him striding up the aisle to denounce me in the middle of the ceremony.”

  Maggie gave the sheriff an admiring glance. “However did you find out about that horrible man?”

  “My father, Big John Granger, was a lawman for many years. He attended West Point before the war. He was. . . .” Her voice thickened. “A man of great conviviality and heart. A man of integrity.”

  Maggie’s throat tightened in sympathy, knowing the bittersweet pain of missing a beloved father.

  “Big John formed many friendships that even the war couldn’t destroy, although he and many of his classmates fought on opposite sides. Then, too, during the war, he had his own command. Afterward, he stayed in touch with everyone. I have a thick ledger with the names and addresses of men and some women all over the country, as well as a big box of his correspondence. After I shipped Dupuy out of town, it wasn’t hard to find someone in New Orleans who’d keep an eye on the scoundrel. My contact dropped by yesterday to check that Dupuy was sitting tight and wouldn’t be causing trouble for us.”

  Delia’s tears spilled over. She extended a hand.

  With an uncomfortable expression, the sheriff clasped hers.

  “Thank you from the bottom of my heart.” Delia squeezed Sheriff Granger’s hand. “And I know my dear Reverend Joshua will feel the same. We are blessed to have you here in Sweetwater Springs to keep the law and protect us.”

  The sheriff pulled away. “Just doin’ my job, Miss Bellaire,” she drawled.

  Maggie shook her head. “I’ve lived in several towns, Sheriff. Traveled through many others in a Gypsy caravan, which tends to bring the law sniffing around to make sure we weren’t making off with anyone’s chickens,” she said tartly. “So I’m familiar with what passes for authority. I agree with Delia.”

  A faint flush made the sheriff lift her hat and lower it over her braided bun, pulling down the brim to shade her face. “I’d be checking out a Gypsy caravan, too, Mrs. Baxter. And keeping my eye on the inhabitants,” she commented in a matter-of-fact voice.

  Maggie wanted to say a sharp retort in defense of her mother’s people, but she was also her father’s daughter and knew the sheriff was right to be vigilant. “Keeping an eye out is one thing,” she said stiffly. “Running us out of town when we haven’t done anything wrong is another.”

  The sheriff nodded. Her gaze swung to Delia. “No frettin’ now. At least not about unsavory types. I’ll keep watch.”

  “We are in good hands,” Delia said in a sincere tone. “And from now on, Sheriff Granger, Reverend Norton and I will keep you in our prayers every day.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. There might come a time when I’ll need them.” She turned on her heel and left the room, her boot heels clicking down the hallway.

  Delia heaved a sigh that seemed to come from her very depths. “In only a year, everything has changed for me, Maggie. Sometimes I have a difficult time believing how much. I’ve been afraid the bubble would burst, and my marriage would never take place. But now, I can relax and enjoy this day.”

  “I know what you mean by your life changing,” Maggie said in a wry tone. “Like slipping on ice and not knowing how you’re going to land, but you know it will be hard and will hurt.”

  Delia raised her eyebrows. “I think someone caught you before you hit the ground,” she pointed out. “You might remember him—tall, handsome, dark hair and eyes, banker, hotel owner? A man whom I’ve seen smile more in the last few weeks than in all the months I’ve known him put together. Not to mention carrying a baby around just like a doting father. Anyone like that come to mind?”

  Oh, yes. Maggie knew she was falling hard, and the ground was rushing up to meet her.

  The church was packed as full as could be, with only the aisle and an area around the altar free of people. Latecomers crowded outside the open windows to see inside. A breeze wafted the scent of roses from the window arrangements and combined with the pleasant smells of perfume, soap, and horse. The sunlight shining through the new stained-glass window cast a soft pink light over the front area and elicited gasps and excited comments from almost everyone entering the building.

  In a middle pew, Caleb was crammed shoulder
to shoulder with Edith and Maggie—not that he minded being so close to Maggie—he just would have preferred some space. Maybe I should have offered to remain outside or stand in the back.

  The sounds of rustling movement, throat clearing, and low-voiced conversations stilled when Elizabeth Sanders, dressed in a teal-and-lace gown of the latest fashion and with a matching hat on her expertly coiffed blonde head, moved up the aisle. The color enhanced her sophisticated blue-eyed beauty, yet Caleb felt not even a tinge of attraction for the woman he’d once courted.

  Sophia Maxwell, resplendent in lavender and wearing amethyst-and-diamond jewelry, accompanied Elizabeth to the piano, where she pointed to something on the sheet music. Even distracted by her discussion with the pianist, the opera singer exuded charisma.

  As if he were studying a masterpiece painting, Caleb admired the lovely Songbird of Chicago. He looked forward to hearing her magnificent voice raised in song, but the opera singer no longer dazzled him as she once had.

  Blythe Robbins, clad in a medieval-type gown of flowing silvery blue, her white-blonde hair loose down her back, trailed them by a few yards. A dapper young man with a violin tucked under his arm and an older woman in gray and black who carried a flute followed behind Blythe. Once at the front, Blythe moved to sit in front of her harp, arranging her skirts to accommodate her instrument.

  Reverend Norton escorted his wife to a reserved seat in the front pew. Both wore new clothes and joyful expressions.

  The minister stepped in front of the altar, picked up his prayer book, and turned to face the congregation. His white-bearded countenance shone. His vivid blue gaze swept the room, seeming to make eye contact with each person, clearly welcoming all those of his flock. Not a person present, from both the town and the surrounding countryside, had failed to be touched by his ministry—through Sunday service, weddings, births, deaths, sick calls, distribution of needed clothing and supplies, counsel for the heavy-hearted, or pastoral visits to check on the isolated folk who rarely came to town.