Beneath Montana's Sky: A Montana Sky Novella (The Montana Sky Series Book 0)

by Debra Holland

  Nick ripped apart his parcel to find a new blue shirt and smiled. No more bare wrists for me!

  The rest of the men tore into their packages, then apparently stricken speechless at their new shirts, stared at the garments in awe.

  Frank ran a tentative hand over his red flannel shirt. “I’m sure glad I washed up for this.”

  Everyone burst into laughter.

  Nick held his blue shirt up to himself, stretching out his arm. The sleeve length more than covered his wrists and the beginning of his hand.

  “Think I couldn’t pick the right size?” John teased.

  “Don’t need any more small shirts,” Nick retorted.

  John’s smile widened, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “We have more clothes for you, to replace what you’ve grown out of.”

  Overwhelmed by their kindness, Nick looked down, struggling to retain some of the protective aloofness he’d felt before Miz Carter’s arrival. “Thank you.”

  The men also murmured quiet thanks, their voices full of gratitude.

  Mrs. Carter lifted the platter in front of her and, with her thumb and forefinger, picked up a gold chocolate and set it on her plate. “The gold ones are plain chocolate, and the silver ones have cherry flavor inside. Every man gets one of each.” She passed around the platter. When everyone had taken their pieces, she unwrapped the first candy

  Given tacit permission, the men followed her lead.

  Nick took small bites, savoring each melting morsel. He’d never tasted anything so wonderful.

  John pushed back from the table, rose, and walked out of the kitchen. He returned in a minute, carrying a cloth-wrapped bundle that he placed in Nick’s arms.

  “Your parents had plans to get you this for Christmas. To my sorrow, I didn’t think to follow through on their intention sooner. However, when I first told Mrs. Carter about you, she suggested this gift.” He motioned to the bundle. “Go ahead.”

  The thought of his parents sent a jolt through Nick. With shaking hands, he unwrapped the cloth to uncover a shiny new violin. Struck silent with awe, he ran his fingertips over the smooth surface of the reddish wood and plucked one of the strings.

  John handed him the bow, which he’d been hiding.

  Stunned, Nick stared down at the beautiful violin his parents had wanted for him.

  “Do you like it?” John asked.

  Nick nodded. He could feel the weight of everyone’s expectations pressing on him. He knew they wanted him to pick up the instrument and play some music. And, indeed, he wanted to, as well. But he couldn’t, for a fresh wave of grief seized him, and his arms felt as leaden as his heart. He swallowed a couple of times but couldn’t even push words of gratitude from his tight throat.

  In the silence, he heard the scrape of a chair press back and light footsteps coming his direction. But he didn’t look up, not even when he smelled Miz Carter’s perfume and felt her hand on his shoulder.

  “It’s all right, Nick. We understand. You don’t have to play that violin until you’re ready.”

  Although her words were meant to comfort, all they did was send him deeper into despair, for Nick wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready to make music without his family to hear him play.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The next morning, Pamela stood at the bedroom window, feeling refreshed after a long night’s rest, and watched a drizzle mist the dirty panes of glass. Last night, she’d gone to bed while John walked to the bunkhouse with Nick, and she’d fallen asleep before his return. She’d also slept through his rising and was anxious to see him.

  Out of habit, she dabbed perfume on her neck and wrists. Silly, perhaps, to wear scent when she’d be working like a laborer. But I’m still a new bride…

  She donned a brown work dress and ruefully surveyed herself in the mirror over the washstand. The garment that had seemed so plain and simple in Boston, here in Montana was too fine to subject to the damages of her work day. Now she regretted leaving her old gardening clothes behind. But at least I’ve brought an apron, she consoled herself. I just need to find where Jean packed it.

  Pamela thought of her traveling clothes, bundled up and thrust out onto the porch, and wondered if somehow she could salvage them. Then she realized she didn’t have notes in her journal on how to do laundry. She wracked her mind, trying to recall the times when she’d watched the maids.

  Shaking her head at her own ignorance, she made the bed, another chore she hadn’t done before the previous night. At least this was a task she could easily figure out. As she pulled the sheets straight and fluffed up the pillows, she found a piece of paper crammed between them.

  John must have left her a note and it had fallen off. Eagerly, she began to read.

  Pamela,

  This morning, I wanted to stay in our warm bed, feel you in my arms, and smell the scent of orange blossoms in your hair. But I forced myself to leave without waking you.

  The life of a rancher means early mornings. I know you’ve had an exhausting week and there’s more to come, so your rest is important.

  I’ll see your sweet face later.

  Your loving husband,

  John

  With a thrill, she lingered on the words sweet face and your loving husband, then reread the message. When she finished, Pamela pressed the note to her chest and said a quick prayer of thanksgiving. In spite of a run-down, dirty house and a bunch of rough cowboys to whip into order, she was so happy she’d married John Carter. He sounded as if he was glad he married me, too. While he seemed to be content with his marriage, sometimes doubts still niggled.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  She crossed the room to open it and found her husband smiling at her, a tray of breakfast food in his hands.

  “Good morning, Pamela. The men have eaten and gone. I’ve brought you some tea and toast. I hope Edgar made the poached egg the way you like it.”

  “I just found this.” She waved the letter at him. “Such a lovely message. Thank you.”

  “I just wish I could have told you in person.”

  “I’m sure I’ll adapt to getting up early.”

  “In time, my dear. In time.”

  Pamela took the tray from him and set it on the dresser. The fragrance of her favorite beverage wafted her way. She looked at him in inquiry. “I didn’t unpack the tins of tea.”

  John laughed and pulled her to sit on the bed next to him, giving her a kiss. “You’re not the only one who can plan ahead, my dear,” he teased.

  She melted against him. “Oh, John.”

  “You smell good.”

  Inside she thrilled at his compliment. “How’s Samson?”

  “Nick’s done a good job. I think the thrush should be cleared by next week.”

  “And the rest of the livestock?” She tried to sound like the knowledgeable wife of a rancher.

  “I’m torn between riding out to check on the herd and staying to ease my bride into her new life. Then there’s my godson….”

  Sadness entered his eyes, and the corners of his mouth turned down.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s something else I planned for…that I think is a good idea, but I’m not sure.”

  Concerned, she placed her hand over his. “Tell me.”

  “The Sanders family is buried in the cemetery by the church in town. But that’s a far piece for a boy to go if he has a hankering to pay his respects.”

  She waited for him to continue.

  “We have a graveyard here. My parents and grandparents lie there. My…” he shook his head. “Some of my ranch hands, too. I wanted a memorial for Nick that would be close by—one he could walk to when he feels the urge. I know that sometimes I just need to go and visit with my loved ones.”

  Remembering her visits to her mother’s grave, Pamela nodded.

  “While in Boston, I had a memorial plaque made for the Sanders family. I thought I’d fasten it to one of the trees.”

  “You are the most thoughtful
man,” Pamela said, a catch in her throat. “Would you like me to come with you, or would the two of you prefer to be alone?”

  “Given how Nick has warmed up to you, I’d like you to be there. I thought we could go after you eat and before you get deep into cleaning and whatnot. Then I need to get back to work.”

  “He’s struggling so, poor boy. It just wrings my heart. Why, I thought I was going to burst into tears last night.”

  “Not the way I expected him to receive the violin.” John gave his head a slow shake. “Guess I shouldn’t have mentioned that part about his parents.”

  She squeezed his hand. “You did the right thing. Nick might have a hard time accepting the instrument, but in time, that violin will have even more meaning for him.”

  John let out a sigh. “I hope so.”

  Pamela leaned forward to kiss his cheek. “Mark my words, John Carter.” She waved him toward the door. “Go get Nick. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  * * *

  John strolled with Pamela and Nick to the graveyard, situated far enough from the house for privacy, but close enough for a body to go and sit a spell. The rain had stopped, and the overhead clouds had lightened. He carried a bag containing the metal plaque wrapped in a pillowcase, a hammer, and four nails. The three of them were quiet as they walked, although Pamela glanced around with bright-eyed curiosity. John just couldn’t shake his concern about Nick’s reaction to the plaque enough for conversation.

  Nick’s face looked drawn, and he moved stiffly as if his body ached.

  John couldn’t help remembering the carefree boy of six months ago—the one he’d glimpsed yesterday upon their arrival—and hoped Nick’s back-and-forth grieving would have more forward momentum in the future.

  He checked on Pamela, who held her skirt a few inches above the damp grass. Even with his worry about his godson, John savored the simple act of walking over his land with a wife. And not just any wife—his beloved Boston bride.

  Pamela wore a brown straw hat adorned with a tan ribbon. Her simple although stylish dress made her appear like an Eastern version of a Western housewife.

  They passed the Sanders’ small vacant house. Dried leaves had gathered on the porch, and dust obscured the windows. Undaunted by the surrounding weeds, a rose bush climbed over the porch rail, the red blooms bright against the gray paint. By habit, both Nick and John looked away.

  “What beautiful roses.” Pamela slowed her steps. “Does anyone live there?” She glanced from John to Nick, and comprehension dawned on her face. “This was your family’s house, wasn’t it?”

  Nick nodded, not meeting her eyes.

  “It’s a lovely place,” she said, understanding warmth in her voice. “Your mother must have loved her home.” She paused as if waiting for his response. “Perhaps, when we have some time, we can wash the windows and weed the garden. Would you like that? Probably the inside needs dusting, too.” Pamela tried to banter with the boy. “I speak from recent, intimate experience with dust.”

  Nick obliged with a dutiful smile, but even that was more of a response than John had gotten out of the boy in the last months—barring yesterday, of course.

  “Do you attend school, Nick?” Pamela asked, seemingly undaunted by his lack of response.

  School! His wife’s innocent question hit him in the gut. Between grieving and the press of ranch work, made even more difficult without his foreman, John had completely forgotten about school. He wanted to groan and bury his head in shame. Up in heaven, Dora must be having a conniption fit. She’d always pushed Nick to succeed. I’m falling down on the job of being a parent.

  “No, ma’am,” Nick said in a low voice.

  Pamela’s brow furrowed. “Why is that? I’m sure I saw a schoolhouse in town.”

  “You did,” John answered, his voice grim. “In winter, the children around here study at home. Then we had the branding, but after that…? Nick, why didn’t you say something?”

  The boy shrugged, sullenness radiating from his stooped posture.

  “Well, I’m to blame.” John shot Nick a stern glance. “Starting Monday, no more shirking your schooling.”

  Nick nodded, his closed expression giving no hint of his feelings.

  “I imagine the bunkhouse can be a noisy place,” Pamela commented, with a reproving glare at John that belied her tactful tone. “After supper each night—” she said to Nick “—I’d like you to stay at the big house so you can study for a few hours in peace. John and I brought many books from Boston, so that can be our quiet reading time, too.”

  Nick didn’t say anything, he simply gave her a polite smile.

  John wanted to smack his forehead. Of course, Nick was avoiding school! The whole idea must have been too painful, reminding him of his mother. Then, too, for the last year, the boy had been solely responsible for his sister traveling to and fro with him. “You’re a mighty smart young man.” He softened his voice. “I know you’ll catch up on what you’ve missed in no time. We’ll see that you do, Mrs. Carter and I. We’ll help you.”

  They reached the circle of trees that surrounded the graveyard. Grass dotted with wildflowers grew in the clearing. Engraved headstones designated the family graves on the left. The ranch hands were on the right, their graves marked by simple wooden crosses carved with their names. An apple tree, planted by John’s grandfather after his wife’s death, grew next to their double headstone. The branches, covered with white flowers that shivered in the breeze, sheltered his grandparents’ graves.

  As always, John avoided the space between his parents’ resting site where his sister lay.

  Nick looked around the area, then glanced at John in inquiry.

  He hadn’t told the boy why he wanted him to come with them. Still questioning if this was a good idea, John held out the bundle. “This is for you. Well, not the hammer and nails. But another gift, perhaps even more painful than the violin,” he warned. “Like the instrument, I hope at some point it will also bring you comfort.”

  The breeze kicked up, rustling the leaves of the trees and wafting the scent of grass their way. The brim of Pamela’s hat fluttered, and she reached up to adjust the ribbon, pulling down the ends to tie them under her chin.

  Nick opened the bag, pulled out the bundle, and unwrapped the plaque. Silently, his shoulders hunching, he read the engraving:

  IN LOVING MEMORY OF

  Andrew Sanders

  Dora Sanders

  Marcy Sanders

  “He spake well who said that graves are the footprints of angels.”

  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  Pamela tensed beside him.

  John sensed she was ready to intercede if needed, although he didn’t know what she could do.

  Head bowed and eyes closed, Nick clutched the plaque to his chest, letting the bag swing from his other hand.

  John braced himself for some emotion, tears perhaps, but the boy’s calmness surprised him.

  Nick let out a long, slow breath and straightened. With a slight smile, he nodded. “This is good.” He paused for a long moment, as if considering whether to speak more. “It’s weighed on me, them not being close.”

  Guilt stabbed him. “I’m sorry, son. The accident took place so near to town. Their bodies were taken there… They’re buried next to your grandparents and your uncle.” John placed a hand on Nick’s shoulder. “Many good reasons for the decision, but I should have thought—”

  “No. I like that they’re in Sweetwater Springs with family and by the church. Ma sure did like going to town. Marcy loved school.”

  John let out a breath of relief. “Well then. How ’bout you pick a tree to hang this on?”

  Nick took his time circling the edge of the graveyard and studying each tree.

  Pamela touched John’s arm. “That went well.”

  “I’m surprised. Pleased and surprised. Gives me hope.”

  Nick gestured, and they followed him over to a pine. “There’s space between those two branche
s. I could cut away the dead ones later to show it more.” He pointed toward the lower limbs.

  “Looks like a good choice.”

  While they figured out which branches needed to be lopped off, Pamela wandered over to read the headstones.

  With them working together, only a few minutes were needed to finish nailing the plaque to the tree. They stepped back to admire their handiwork.

  Nick worked his jaw as if he was holding back tears.

  He hesitated. The boy was so distant, and John didn’t want to do the wrong thing—make matters worse. But an inner prompt made him drop the hammer, throw an arm around Nick’s shoulders, and pull him against his side.

  For a moment, the boy resisted, his body stiff. Suddenly, he melted, flinging his arms around John’s waist and holding on hard.

  A lump rose in John’s throat. “I miss them too, Nick…think of them every day. And, I’ve hurt for you, boy. I feel like you’re my own son, and I haven’t…haven’t been able to let you know how much you mean to me. How I hurt to see you suffer alone.”

  Nick stepped back, mopped his eyes with his sleeve. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, John.”

  Had the boy feared I would abandon him? Surely not. But just in case, the words need saying. “You won’t have to. I’ll always be there. And now Mrs. Carter will, too.”

  John gazed over at Pamela who watched them with tear-filled eyes. His wife radiated love and compassion, and she’d never been so beautiful to him.

  Nick released a long sigh. He glanced at the plaque and gave a little nod. Then he stooped and picked up the hammer. “I’ll take this back to the barn.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, John saw his wife’s proud smile.

  Pamela turned away to move along the graves. She stopped at Sarah’s headstone and read the inscription.

  John tensed, bracing himself for the questions to come.

  His wife glanced over, a troubled expression on her face.

  Nick followed John’s gaze and saw where Pamela was standing. He glanced up at John. “Tell her.”

  John looked into his godson’s green eyes and saw wisdom beyond the boy’s years reflected back. Andrew and Dora surely had told him about Sarah because Nick had never heard the story from John. No one has.