The building was divided into two stalls with short gates, and a small area for storing hay and straw bales and a barrel he assumed held oats. On the wall hung two saddles and an assortment of bridles and reins. Blankets sat folded at the end of a short shelf that looked the right height to serve as a workbench. He kicked at the stall’s bedding to check for freshness and scared away a couple gray field mice. The air was stale, as if horses hadn’t been kept there for a week, or maybe two.
Valerik didn’t mind waiting. He was used to taking care of himself and was sure his brother wouldn’t object to him making himself to home in his absence. That’s what family did for one another. He gave an idle thought to his other brother, Petya, who’d been situated outside of Pasco in Washington Territory last time they communicated.
The sound of rushing water guided him to the other side of the open field where he limped his way down the bank to fill two wooden buckets. Walking on a downward angle always made his left foot ache, and he did his best to lead with his stronger right one.
Stopping next to his dog, he let Maks drink his fill then hung the buckets where the horses could reach them. After settling his pack next to the rear door, Valerik contemplated how to get inside the saddlery. He searched for a spare key in the logical places—over the lintel, at the base of the stone foundation, and under the woven mat on the back stoop, and he’d even checked the storeroom tucked between the two shops. Which led to the discovery of a metal bathing tub and a box of miscellaneous tools. Although, on second thought, hiding a key would have been uncharacteristic for Nicolai’s cautious temperament.
Valerik stood opposite the windows that looked into the kitchen through a slit in the curtains. Better to remove the window than break it. With a chisel and hammer, the task of chipping away at the putty holding the glass in the wooden frame would be easy. Now that he’d seen the tub, he yearned for a warm bath to rid himself of the travel dust and dirt. After retrieving his tool pouch from the pack, he started the task.
As he worked, he listened to the sounds of squirrels chittering and birds chirping in the oak trees overhanging the creek. From out of sight came voices of townspeople speaking to one another—in greeting, or a parent calling to a child. More than two weeks had passed since he’d been near this many people. His right eye twitched, and he redoubled his efforts to gain access to the solitude he craved. Soon, he lowered the pane to the ground, tilting it against the clapboard siding.
Thirty minutes later, he’d climbed through to the counter, let Maks inside and removed the rope, stowed the bundle of furs under Nicolai’s workbench, and started water heating for a bath. The construction of the shop was solid and strong. His youngest brother had always been a perfectionist. Based on the entry doors’ positions within their wide frames, he guessed the walls were probably stuffed with straw for insulation.
As always, his brother’s leather crafting was impeccable. Small items in the glass display case—wallets, saddlebags, thimbles, watch cases—were proof of hours of detailed work. Valerik ran a handle over a saddle displayed on a wooden stand, noting the stamped detailing along the skirts and the precise stitching. He leaned close and drew in the earthy-spicy scent, a unique trait of the Andrusha tanning secret. The reason he and his brothers were exiled from the San Francisco business—as a safeguard to protect their livelihood. His Adam’s apple jerked in his throat. The scent reminded him of family and home—people that in his darkest hour he’d despaired of ever seeing again.
Pushing away those thoughts, he limped into the kitchen and stared at the ladder attached to the wall leading to the second story. Although the ascent was slow, he didn’t inflict too much pain on his bad foot by climbing upstairs. An armoire of light-colored wood stood along the wall to his left. Interestingly enough, the sleeping loft spread as a single room across the expanse, with a second access hole in the floor with a ladder descending into the other shop. Looking closely, he spotted newer wood around the opening where a wall probably originally separated the spaces. Next to the opening, a pulley had been nailed to the wall. He glanced below and saw a crate attached to the rope. Wonder what that’s for?
The upstairs loft held only one bed. Oval rag rugs dotted the floor on both sides, and another lay near the wall. That a woman lived there was evident in the embroidery on the pillowcases, the doilies on the bureau tops, and dried lupines stuck in a glass vase. A flowery scent lingered in the air.
Nicolai must be married now. Possibly to the dressmaker. He rested his hands on his hips and chuckled. Didn’t that beat all.
Later, as he leaned his head against the tub’s metal back, Valerik closed his eyes, letting the warm water soak into his tired muscles. Until this past winter, he thought he’d found his life’s passion of fur trapping through the wilds of Canada. Now he felt much older than he should at twenty-nine. Flexing his damaged foot, he took special note of how the warmth eased the ache at the cauterized site of his recent amputation. Maybe he could make a warm soaking of his foot part of his daily routine. For a few moments, he just relaxed, not demanding anything from himself. The bath served as a suitable reward for a long journey.
Then, as the water cooled, he sat upright and leaned forward to dunk his head. Normally, he suffered through a couple of quick dips in an ice-melt creek and called it a bath. Sitting in a tub and using a fluffy washcloth and translucent amber soap with a spicy fragrance was quite a luxury.
An echo of footsteps on plank flooring reached his ears, and he stilled, straining to tell from what direction they came. A breeze ruffled the hems of the curtains and raised goose flesh across his shoulders. A reminder he still had a window to replace.
Maks jumped to his feet and faced the shop, the ruff on his neck raised and his pointy ears pricked forward.
“Easy, boy. Gonna have to get used to the noises of city folk again.” After giving his hair one last rinsing, Valerik grabbed the length of toweling he’d found in an upstairs trunk and stood, rubbing the cloth over his lean body. Food had gotten scarce before the snow started melting, and he’d dropped at least fifteen pounds. Quick as he could, he pulled on his cleanest drawers, shirt, and socks followed by his buckskin pants. Not much to be done about the wrinkles in the loose-fitting shirt. He’d worry about hunting down an iron later.
Besides, he didn’t plan on doing much more than resting and creating scrimshaw pieces while he waited for Nicolai’s return. Not needing to fight for his survival opened up hours of leisure time to work on his hobby. With the toweling, he squeezed moisture from his hair and beard then scrubbed it over his head.
To take advantage of the soapy water, he dumped the clothes he’d worn for the past week into the tub. Outside, the afternoon light in the gap between the curtains waned, as if the sun had gone behind the nearby mountain range he’d traveled through earlier. In stocking-covered feet, he walked into the shop and stopped next to the workbench.
Sure enough. Someone moved in the adjoining shop. By the lightness of the footfalls, a woman. Followed by the scritch of toenails on wood. Too loud for a cat, so must be a dog. A female voice hummed, varying in pitch and volume. The song he couldn’t identify, but the sweet tone drew him closer until he moved past the bench and stood with an ear pressed to the common wall.
He remained there until his left foot throbbed from being unsupported, his ear ached, and the room’s shadows deepened. Females meant civilization and rules—not his favorite concepts. But, to keep hearing that voice, he’d endure the physical discomforts. When the anonymous lady quieted, he felt bereft in his solitude.
Chapter Two
Dorrie moved the oil lamp to the shop’s work table then sat with the pad of paper she’d found in Cinnia’s pattern-making supplies. Before she lost the inspiration, she wanted to jot down her ideas for offering basic lessons and putting on a community dance that all the residents could enjoy. Since she’d spoken to Cecilia that morning, Dorrie had thought of little else. Even though she hadn’t been able to resist a cup of tea and a cha
t with Bertha Bucholtz as her friend prepared the noon meal for the miners at the boardinghouse. Any time spent with the unassuming and friendly cook proved enjoyable.
The acrobatics she’d performed in the vaudeville act made offering dance lessons a natural next step. Not that she danced as well as the Fosters from the troupe, but she could move with rhythm. Hadn’t that been a bit of juicy gossip to learn Helen and Wallace were married and not a brother-sister duo as they’d pretended in order to be hired? She giggled. Oh, she’d had her suspicions for several weeks, but discovering the truth had shocked most of the troupe members. Over the years, she’d danced opposite Wallace at certain performances when Helen was ill. She remembered well the step-by-step instructions she’d received and knew she could teach the basics of a two-step, fox-trot, and waltz. Once people learned how to dance the standard steps, they could create their own variations.
How should the advertisement for lessons read? As she contemplated the wording, she dipped the pen’s nib in the bottle of ink and tapped it on the rim.
Whimpering, Sacha scratched at the sliver of space under the front door.
“Leave it.” Dorrie snapped her fingers and pointed toward the floor next to her chair. “Here.”
Ignoring the command, Sacha scampered across the shop to the back door and repeated her whimpering and scratching.
“What has you in such a tizzy?” Heaving a big sigh, Dorrie set down the pen and pushed to her feet. She walked to the kitchen door and opened it, using her extended foot to hold back the dog. The grassy area behind the shops was empty, marked only by encroaching shadows as the day wore on. “See, Sacha, nothing is—” She poked out her head, looked to the right, and froze. Her eyes shot wide, and she gasped before clamping a hand over her mouth.
A tall man with shaggy blondish hair and a scraggly beard stood not ten feet away. His hands hovered near the kitchen window of the saddlery shop. He shot her a quick glare then looked back to his task.
What was this stranger doing? If she wasn’t mistaken, he was dressed in animal skins. At least, his trousers looked to be made of them. “Hey.” Surprise forced out the single word. Then she glanced at the stable that had been empty this morning when she visited the privy and spotted the heads and backs of two strange horses over the half doors. How dare this man presume to take advantage of Nicolai’s hospitality. Who was this interloper? She’d been given the responsibility of overseeing both establishments in her friend’s absence. “What are you doing to that window?”
Sacha whimpered at the opening.
Several seconds passed, but the man remained silent, his hands still making short, jerky moves.
“Mister, I asked you a question.” Standing to her full height and pressing her fists to her hips, she wished she felt as brave as her words sounded.
The stranger turned away, hiding his face even farther. “Fixing it.”
What? She angled her head to get a look at the tools in his hand. “I don’t understand why it needs fixing. I was inside two days ago, and the window was just fine.” She sucked in a breath. Had this man broken it to get inside? A thief? On reflex, she eased back as far as the doorjamb allowed.
Scratching and a yip sounded from the kitchen. Maybe she’d feel braver if she stood where Sacha could be seen, even through the dog was still only half-grown.
A couple inches of free space were all the dog needed, and she lunged forward through the opening.
Dorrie grabbed for the leather collar around Sacha’s neck then leaned back into the room to reach down the matching leash from its wall hook. Once she had the dog secured, Dorrie stepped outside again to do what she could to protect her friend’s property. “Heel, Sacha.” Leash gripped tight in her left hand, she turned to address this stranger. But the man no longer stood at the window. As her irritation grew, she scanned the area. He wasn’t visible at the stable, either.
He’d disappeared, probably into the saddlery.
Her words were supposed to send him packing, not inside. This situation was intolerable. She marched over to the door and knocked. “Don’t ignore me, mister. I know you’re inside.”
A throaty growl sounded at the base of the door.
Sacha barked wildly, jumping forward against her restraint.
Gasping, Dorrie stepped back a few inches. The stranger’s dog sounded bigger than Sacha. Debating between the training correction and finding out who this stranger was, she gave a tug on the leash. “Quiet.” From the corner of her eye, she caught the movement of the curtain. She pounded the heel of her fist against the wood door. “I am Dorrie Sullivan, and I am well acquainted with the owner of this shop. He said nothing about giving permission for visitors when he left me in charge.”
A muffled, but gruff, command to stay came through the door a second before it swung wide. The wild-haired man stuck out his head. “He’s gone?”
A squeal escaped. His scowling expression was so fierce she couldn’t stop her reaction. She glanced at the mottled white-and-gray dog with eerie blue eyes standing at his knee, and her stomach crimped. The animal was twice Sacha’s size and looked ready to charge forward to attack them at a single command. She pointed a shaky finger. “Is that a wolf?”
“Husky.”
“Oh.” She straightened her shoulders and looked up into his face. “Who are you? And what are you doing breaking into Nicolai’s shop?”
“Nicolai, huh?” An eyebrow arched high. He lifted a hand and scratched at his chin, the rasp of whiskers filling the silence. “Not Nic?”
If this man knew of the false name Nicolai had been forced to use, then he must be a friend. Her stance relaxed a fraction. “When I first met him, he used Nic Andrews as an alias. Of course, no one knew it wasn’t his real name. But as soon as he learned of his father’s patent being approved, he told Cinnia…she’s one of my best friends.” She swung her hand to the side to include the other part of the building. “Owns the dressmaking shop there, where I work. Although, I don’t—”
“Patent was approved?”
Not only was the stranger unconventional looking, he was rude. “Last October. Right after Nicolai and Cinnia were married.”
The man slapped a hand on the wall and slumped. “October?”
The word was barely a croak but sounded full of anguish. Her chest ached at the hurt sound. Had what she shared caused his pain? His face had paled and his breathing was labored. Concern drove her to step forward until she again eyed the alert dog. The need to comfort was stronger. “Are you all right? Can I get you a drink of water?”
He nodded, flopping wheat-colored strands over his forehead. His hand made a rolling motion then he leaned a shoulder against the wall.
So now he wants to hear more. “Not that I really understood all the details, but strangers were after Nicolai to discover the secrets of that smelly stuff in his tanning vats.” She glanced at the man’s stricken face and slumped posture. In this state, the stranger no longer posed a threat. “Two men came here to Morgan’s Crossing. Scared Cinnia and I enough that we had to hide out in the storage room until Nicolai rescued us.” The memories of that fright sent a shiver through her body. “But the danger went away when the patent received approval.”
“It would have.”
His voice was so quiet she barely heard the response. A bit of color had returned to his face. She peered closer and felt like she was looking into Nicolai’s eyes. The same ice-blue color with a darker rim around the edge. His right eye twitched. “Are you related to Nicolai? Your eyes are the same color. Actually, they’re almost the same color as your dog’s.” She chanced another look at the animal and was glad to see its stance had relaxed.
“Oldest brother, Valerik.” Letting out a breath, he scrubbed a hand over his face. “Where is he now?”
“San Francisco for three more weeks. They’re on a late wedding trip to visit his…” Her eyes widened. “Uh, your family. Of course, the trip couldn’t be undertaken until after train service was restored following the
blizzard.” Glancing again at the stable, she reasoned he’d probably come from some distance away. “I hope wherever you traveled from you escaped that horrible storm.”
He shook his head, his jaw tight. “Unfortunately, no.”
The rasp of his voice told her he’d endured like so many others. At least, he appeared more stable on his feet than a few moments ago. But her question remained unanswered. “May I ask your intentions, Mister Andrusha?” She gestured toward the building. “I mean about staying here in your brother’s shop.”
“I’m waiting. G’night, miss.” The door started to close.
“But aren’t you curious about the vats?” She edged sideways to direct her comments to the opening as it narrowed. “Or where the woodpile is?” Only a few inches of space remained, and she leaned forward, intent on being helpful. “Or about the location of the town’s water pump?”
“I’ll manage.” The latch snapped into place.
Dorrie blinked at the wood grain of the door only inches from her nose. A door that had been closed in her face. Of all the nerve. She stiffened and pivoted. “Come, Sacha.” Moments later, as she paced the length of the dressmaker’s workroom, she muttered about the rudeness of the man who was nothing like his brother. Thinking on their conversation, she realized he’d revealed very little in his terse answers. Where was he from? What did he do for work? Why didn’t Nicolai know his brother was coming? Getting to Morgan’s Crossing was not an easy feat, as she well remembered from the troupe’s journey last fall.
Would this blue-eyed stranger be living next door for three whole weeks?
*
October? The patent was granted six months ago? Valerik sagged against the wall, covering his face with his hands. He struggled to drag a full breath into his chest. His impulse was to gallop away from this little town, get out onto the wind-swept prairie where no one could hear, and yell his frustration to the heavens. If he’d known, he might not have ventured out on that last fateful trip to check his trap lines. How different would the circumstances have been? He would have wintered in his well-built cabin, not a line shack. He would have had adequate food for himself and his animals. He would still be a whole man, not a cripple.
Montana Sky: Dance Toward The Light (Kindle Worlds Novella) (Entertainers of The West Book 3) Page 2
