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

by Debra Holland

  “I’ll be going.” Nick raised the hammer.

  Now it was John’s turn to thank his godson, an odd dance of grief and appreciation.

  Nick nodded and left.

  Slowly, John joined his wife.

  She took his hand and squeezed. “I think maybe Nick has turned a corner today. Both of you have.”

  John stood next to her and looked down at the headstone. He couldn’t bear to read his sister’s name, but he forced himself to look anyway.

  Sarah Katherine Carter

  Beloved daughter of Katherine and Daniel Carter,

  and sister of John

  1857-1863

  He’d never read the inscription before. Didn’t know his parents had added the part about him.

  “You’ve told me plenty of stories,” Pamela said softly. “But nothing about your sister.”

  He didn’t meet her gaze, his chest tight. “I couldn’t.”

  “Why?”

  Such a simple question. “I’d taken Sarah fishing. She’d been begging me for days, little pest that she was.”

  “I know about pesky little sisters.”

  He crouched and traced the word beloved with one finger. “I didn’t realize how much she meant to me until she was gone.”

  “I remember that kind of remorse, as well.”

  “Finally, I gave in to her pleading.” For so long, John had held the memory distant, and he told the story in a monotone. “My mother was pleased that I’d agreed to spend time with her. But since she’d recovered from being ill a few weeks earlier, Ma sternly warned us that Sarah was not to go into the water. She made me promise to keep a close watch on her.”

  “Let me guess. Sarah got wet.” Pamela patted his arm.

  “Yep. Became too excited when she caught a trout, reeled it in, leaned over to pick up the fish, a big one, and it slipped out of her hands. She grabbed for it and over balanced. I pulled both her and the fish out of the water. That fish flapped all over her,” he said with a hint of a smile.

  “You two must have been drenched.”

  “We were scared we’d get in trouble. It was a hot day, anyway, but I figured a fire would hurry things along. If Sarah was dry by the time we returned home, our mother would never know.”

  “Did you keep fishing?”

  “Of course. I hadn’t been prohibited from getting wet, so I didn’t need to dry out. And, I was miffed that my little sister had caught one before me. I wandered downstream and out of eyeshot, although I heard her singing and playing. I don’t know what happened. I just heard her scream…and scream.” He passed a shaky hand over his face. “The sound haunts me still.”

  “I can only imagine,” Pamela murmured in sympathy.

  “I raced to her. Her dress was on fire and instead of heading toward the water, Sarah instinctively ran toward home. Yelling for her to stop, I chased her, but by the time I tackled her and beat out the flames, she was badly burned.”

  As Pamela listened, her hand crept to her mouth. Tears welled up and began to fall as she grieved for the death of the little girl and the brother who lost her and obviously blamed himself.

  “I tried to pick her up and carry her home, but Sarah was too heavy. Though I hated to, I had to leave her and run for help.” He shook his head. “She died three days later.”

  Pamela couldn’t speak.

  Something broke inside John, and the old feelings of terror and guilt swamped him. He gasped with pain.

  Needing to offer what comfort she could, Pamela wrapped her arms around him and held him while the feelings raged and only slowly ebbed.

  Shaken, John turned and saw her wet cheeks. “Pamela.” He cupped her face with his hands and brushed away her tears with his thumbs. “Sarah died a long time ago.”

  “Sometimes, an old loss hurts as much as if it happened yesterday.” She reached up and placed her hands over his. As her fingers touched his palms, she felt the ridges of his scars. She pulled down his arms and turned his hands over, studying his palms. “I didn’t realize you’d been burned, too. I thought this was just from ranch work.”

  “Would that it were,” he said bitterly.

  “Oh, John.” Her voice was soft with understanding. She brought first one hand, then the other to her lips, kissing the scars and wishing she could make his pain go away.

  She glanced toward the graves. “Did your parents blame you?”

  “They never said so. But how could they not?”

  “You were what? Nick’s age?”

  “About that. Maybe a little younger.”

  “Would you have blamed Nick if Marcy had died under his care?”

  He closed his eyes, and with a sharp inhale, tilted back his head.

  She waited.

  Exhaling, John opened his eyes and looked at her. “No. No, I wouldn’t.”

  “Then think of that boy you were, and don’t blame yourself.”

  He brought her to him for a heartfelt hug and buried his face in her hair. “Such a wise woman.”

  They remained in the embrace until John pushed back so he could see her expression.

  “Guess that’s why I never married before Nick’s situation forced me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve always been afraid a tragedy would happen again. That I couldn’t protect a wife, a daughter.” He confessed his deepest fear, then grabbed a fold of her skirt and shook it. “All this loose material can be dangerous.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “If I had a daughter…a wife…and I couldn’t save her.” John’s voice dropped as he shared his secret. “It’s my greatest nightmare.” His gut heated, and his breathing rasped just imagining the horror of such an occurrence.

  With a quick nod, Pamela placed a hand on his arm. “Well then, we’ll just have our daughter wear trousers.”

  Her unexpected answer uttered in a practical tone was like a dash of cold water. He’d never thought of such a simple solution. “You’d do that?”

  “Well, not to church. But certainly when she’s on the ranch.”

  A trickle of humor penetrated the pain. “What about you…?”

  She raised her chin. “If I’m to be around an open campfire, then yes, I shall wear trousers, too.” She sent him a narrow-eyed look as if daring him to laugh.

  “I’ve never told anyone the story. Never talked about Sarah. Kept the memory locked tight away.” He clenched his jaw.

  Pamela placed her hands on each side of his face. “In the days to come, I want to hear more about Sarah. I’m sure you have plenty of stories.” And she drew him down for a kiss.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  John and Pamela strolled back to the house in companionable silence. Pamela lifted her face to the sky, enjoying the feel of the sun that had broken through the clouds, the fresh air, her bucolic surroundings. She couldn’t fathom that all this land belonged to her husband, and that someday future generations of her bloodline would walk these same acres—feeling, she supposed, a similar sense of pride and awe.

  As they’d stood before his sister’s grave and talked, something had shifted between them. Or perhaps, it would be more accurate to say something had shifted within John—old pain and guilt and fear. She wasn’t naive enough to think that his troubles from Sarah’s death had vanished. Or that the specter of John’s fear wouldn’t again rear its monstrous head. But Pamela had a feeling her husband would now be able to face his demons and slay them.

  What about mine? She thought of her beloved little sister and realized that she might have envied the attention Mary received for being pretty and talkative. Perhaps she, too, harbored guilt from the past.

  Pamela heard the sound of hoofbeats and wagon wheels. She glanced up to see a buggy, followed by several riders, and then some wagons, descending the road from the mountain pass. “What is going on?” She glanced over at her husband.

  As he squinted toward the riders, John wore a puzzled expression. “I don’t know.”

  “They must
be coming to pay us wedding visits. It hadn’t occurred to me that this far away from town, we’d have callers.”

  He frowned.

  A wave of shyness overcame her. Of all things she disliked—being among a group of people she didn’t know. Everyone will be watching me, judging me. The thought made her uncomfortable, but… Pamela straightened her shoulders. She was well-trained in being a gracious hostess, no matter how she felt.

  She brought herself up short. “Oh, dear Lord. The house isn’t in any state to be seen. And what will we feed them?”

  John shook his head. “We’ll figure it out.” He placed his hand in the small of her back and guided her toward the barn. “Guess you’ll have that opportunity to dazzle the neighbors sooner than we thought.”

  “How, pray tell?” she said tartly, waving a hand down her body. “I’m hardly dressed for company.”

  In spite of the frantic thoughts of dealing with so many visitors that skittered through her brain, she enjoyed the way his slow grin and up and down appraisal sent heat rushing into her cheeks.

  “Ya look mighty purty to me, wife,” he drawled.

  At the sound of the broadest Western twang she’d ever heard him use, Pamela rolled her eyes and laughed.

  By the time they’d reached the area in front of the barn, the first buggy had come to a stop.

  “The Nortons,” John said in a low voice.

  “Ah, the minister and his wife.”

  He smiled. “Yep. Good memory. And their son?”

  “Joshua.” Pamela tilted up her chin in triumph. “He’s to attend the seminary in the fall.”

  “Excellent, Mrs. Carter.”

  By the time they’d reached the Norton family, Pamela realized their bantering had helped settle her nerves. Probably as John intended.

  Reverend Norton set the brake on the buggy and waved hello.

  Joshua jumped down and reached up to help his mother climb out. Then he lifted a basket from the floor.

  “Welcome.” John greeted them.

  Mrs. Norton smiled and glanced between the couple.

  She was a small woman who wore her brown hair in a plain, tight bun, and her dress was far shabbier than the ones Pamela had left behind in Boston. Suddenly, she didn’t feel as insecure about her own appearance.

  “You’re probably wondering what we’re doing here,” Mrs. Norton said in a gentle voice.

  “Always glad to see you,” John said in a friendly tone.

  “We’ve come to help.”

  “Help?” John’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

  Mrs. Norton smiled at Pamela and stepped forward to pat John’s arm. “Because that is what we do in Sweetwater Springs—we help each other out.”

  Nick, who’d been scrubbing out the horse trough, rushed forward to unharness the Norton’s horse.

  “But I don’t need help,” John said, still sounding bewildered. He drew Pamela forward. “May I present my wife, Pamela.”

  “Nonsense,” Reverend Norton said in a booming voice, striding to them. He nodded to Pamela. “We are blessed to have you join our community, Mrs. Carter.” He gave John a disapproving frown. “This place is falling to rack and ruin.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You’ve just brought home a bride,” the minister interrupted with a stern tone and a sideways glance at Pamela.

  The man had intense blue eyes in an austere bearded face. He looked like a Biblical prophet in modern—albeit, shabby—clothing. “A ranching life will be enough of an adjustment for a fine lady without her having to wear herself out fixing up the place when she first sets foot onto it.” The man swept his arm in an encompassing gesture.

  In spite of her panic at the thought of a horde of people descending on her, Pamela couldn’t help a bubble of amusement as her normally unflappable husband looked like a fish just netted and tossed upon the land.

  The minister turned and pointed to indicate the trail of people on the road. Like ants boiling out of an anthill, more vehicles crested the hill and spilled down the slope. “You can’t deny, John Carter, that you’ve aided many people, many times. And your parents and grandparents before you.”

  Mrs. Norton reached for a basket held by her son, Joshua.

  At about age sixteen or so, the boy looked like a weedy replica of his father, including the vividness of his eyes. But Pamela judged he’d soon fill out and grow into an attractive man.

  “Now don’t you worry, Mrs. Carter, about hospitality and food,” Mrs. Norton said in a soothing voice. “We’re well used to pot luck, and every family will bring something.” With a smile, she lifted up the basket. “I’ve two loaves of fresh baked bread.”

  “Why, thank you, Mrs. Norton.” With a feeling of relief, Pamela held out her hands for the basket.

  The woman evaded her reach. “No, no, dear. I know where the kitchen is. You go greet the rest of your guests.”

  “Yes, John,” Reverend Norton agreed. “Introduce your bride to everyone.”

  He squinted at the family in a wagon pulling up next to the Nortons’ buggy. Riders surrounded them.

  “The Addisons with their son, Donny. Can’t remember their girls. Their cowboys are riding along with them.” He pulled his brows together. “Looks to me like they brought all their hands.”

  The Addisons were spare and brown—hair, eyes, tanned skin. They quietly greeted Pamela, mentioning they were the Carters’ nearest neighbors.

  The next family was memorable for the gang of boys riding in the wagon bed. Beside the parents, their pretty blond daughter sat in the midst of the bunch like their crown jewel. The boys jumped out almost before the vehicle came to a stop and scattered in several directions.

  A tall, roman-nosed young man tenderly helped the young lady out of the wagon.

  “Wyatt Thompson,” John said in a low undertone. “Engaged to Alicia. He’s new around here. Bought the ranch next biggest to mine in size. Run-down place.”

  She raised her eyes at the irony of that statement.

  “Not like here,” John said with a touch of exasperation. “I run a good spread, Pamela, even if I neglected my house.”

  “Of course, John,” Pamela teased, then turned her attention back to her guests. She didn’t think handsome Mr. Thompson looked old enough to be the owner of a large ranch until she was introduced to him and saw the world-weary wariness in his gray eyes.

  “Here come the Cobbs.” John’s tone held a warning. A well-dressed couple in their thirties sauntered over, their attitude proclaiming they expected to be accorded respect. They looked to be an odd match—he tall and balding with a bulbous nose, she short and plump with close-set eyes. But both gazed at her with the same calculating gleam.

  “We’re the Cobbs,” the woman announced in a self-important tone.

  Mr. Cobb waved toward the house. “We’ve brought cans of paint and brushes.”

  “That’s mighty kind of you,” John said with a nod of acknowledgment.

  “We’ve put the sum on your account.”

  Pamela suppressed a smile and echoed her husband’s thanks.

  By this time, so many riders and wagons had arrived that Pamela was overwhelmed by introductions. Each family, along with their cowboys or other workers, moved forward to greet the newlyweds, bringing tools, food, cleaning supplies, and small gifts.

  Something about the way the people presented themselves triggered Pamela’s memory.

  The summoning of the clans. She remembered the tales told by her old Scottish nanny. All we need are drums and bag pipes and plenty of plaid. Imagining the men in kilts helped to banish the rest of her shyness.

  Whereas before Pamela had worried about not having enough to feed everyone, now she was anxious they’d have too much. Even the kitchen and dining room tables wouldn’t hold everything. “Can we set up some trestle tables outside?” she asked John.

  “Good idea.” He signaled for Vey to come to them. “I’ll get the men started on that.”

  Several of the cowboy
s hurried over, and John gave them a string of quick instructions before heading back to her.

  Pamela helped John direct people to the house and barn, answering questions about the work that needed doing as best she could. As soon as the arrivals dwindled, she headed to the house.

  In the kitchen, the brick oven in the wall emitted fragrant smells of baking. Pots boiled on the stove, and the smell of roasting meat wafted from the oven. With a sense of wonder, Pamela saw dozens of jam jars stacked in a corner and hoped there’d be plenty left over.

  Mr. and Mrs. Mueller, a German couple who didn’t speak much English but led her to understand they were bakers, had taken over the food preparation. They beamed at her with broad smiles, while pointing out several layer cakes and pies centered on the table in the midst of more food offerings.

  Mrs. Reiner, stirring something in a pot on the stove, wore an expensive blue dress under her voluminous apron. She helped with the translating, although her thick accent made her almost as difficult to understand as the Muellers. But Pamela was almost sure she said Edgar the cook had gone to kill some chickens.

  The Adler daughters—two tow-headed little girls—spooned cookie batter onto a tray. Under the laden table, the Mueller toddler pounded a pot with a wooden spoon.

  With a clatter of German and broken English, they shooed Pamela out of her own kitchen.

  Bemused, she walked into the hallway. Hearing female voices coming from the parlor, she headed in that direction.

  “That cut on Harrison’s arm has taken forever to heal.”

  Pamela paused in the doorway. The smell of ammonia greeted her.

  A woman rubbed a crumpled newspaper over the glass of a partially-opened window that allowed fresh air into the room. “I finally took out the stitches two days ago. I wish we had a doctor in this town. I couldn’t handle a worse injury.”

  “Yes, you could, Addy,” said an older woman sweeping the floor. “We have no choice but to cope with whatever happens, whether childbirth, injury, illness, or death. I’ve birthed five children with only my husband at my side, nursed them all when they fell ill. Set broken arms. Buried two. Helped you deliver Tyler.”