Montana Sky: In His Corner (Kindle Worlds Novella) (Entertainers of The West Book 6)

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  “Неt.” The word croaked from a dry throat. He wasn’t sure he could take much more of this treatment. Being under such close scrutiny was unnerving. Inwardly, he scoffed at himself. His job was to face down two-hundred-pound opponents. How could this slip of a woman make him quake? The leaf resettled over his right cheek, and he let out a deep breath through barely open lips. Was he dreaming or under a spell being cast by Mapeнa, the goddess of death and rebirth? A leaf with tiny hairs covered the left side of his face, and she pressed into place with light touches. More than providing a cooling sensation, the leaves loosened the skin stretched tight by underlying swelling.

  “There. Now you’ll lie still for about ten minutes while I make notes. First application of…”

  Her pleasant voice faded until he barely caught a word here or there as she must have been predicting the outcome of the experiment. The contrast between the peacefulness of the setting and the oddity of the circumstances circled in his mind. Who was this woman? What brought her here to the wilds of Montana Territory, so far from her stated home? Why was she wandering the woods alone? Was she unmarried?

  The last question would normally have bolted him upright in a panic. But he found himself too curious about all aspects of this pretty woman. Overhead, a breeze soughed through the drying leaves of the cottonwood tree. The babbling of the brook continued. His breathing slowed, and the wildlife sounds faded.

  A jay’s warning squawk startled him alert, and he blinked against a fuzzy green. Where was he? Then he remembered and lifted his hands toward his face. But a gentle touch on the back of his hand stayed his movement.

  “Allow me.”

  Her soft words settled his surprise. The poultice peeled away, and he opened his eyes, squinting at the sudden brightness. How long had he slept? A wet cloth dabbed at a half dozen spots on his face.

  “Just wiping away the chlorophyll.” Her gaze tracked her hand movement.

  He took advantage of her attention being occupied and studied her well-formed eyebrows, a couple of shades darker than her corn silk hair, her straight nose, and rounded cheekbones. A space between her separated pink lips displayed a tiny chip on the inside of her front tooth. When she tilted her head at a certain angle, sunlight made the yellowish flecks in her eyes gleam like miner’s gold. Zolotse—a little piece of gold, like a hidden treasure. The strange pull he felt toward her must be putting him into a poetic mood.

  Grinning, she dropped her hand to her skirts. “I’ve never known either of the herbs I used to have an anesthetizing effect.”

  “I apologize.” Darn if his cheeks didn’t feel hot. Uneasy with their relative positions, he gritted his teeth and levered himself upright. Throbbing erupted on his left side, and he eased out a long breath through tight lips until the worst of the pain passed. “Athletes learn to nap when and where they can.” Did that answer sound as lame as he thought?

  “May I quickly sketch your face?”

  “Why?” He leaned away and braced a hand on his thigh. What was this woman up to? Viktor knew his face was as rough-hewn as a sculpture created with an axe. Too many injuries left visible scars on the surface and hardened tissue beneath. On occasion, small children had gasped and clung to their mothers’ skirts when he passed on the street.

  “To record the reduction in inflammation.” Tilting her head, she smiled. The notebook and pencil rested in her lap.

  Being the object of a smile from a pretty woman was a rare occasion. He might as well take advantage of the opportunity. After giving a nod, he endured sitting still while she glanced between him and the book. Only a couple of times did her gaze connect with his before focusing on another area. Each time their gazes met he felt a jolt to his gut. Under her scrutiny, he had the almost irresistible urge to cup her soft-looking cheeks and draw her close for a sweet kiss. A forward move he’d never before dared with a woman, figuring he’d receive a slap. Perhaps this setting and this encounter had put him under Lada’s spell. The goddess of love could be influencing his thoughts. Otherwise, he would have realized earlier what a compromising situation they presented if someone stumbled upon them. “Miss Hildebrand, won’t you be missed in town?”

  “Shh. A few moments more.” She gripped the pencil with the flat side of the lead down, and her strokes increased in speed.

  He bit back a groan at the sight of her pursed lips. Her rounded mouth too closely matched his earlier thought.

  “There.” She held up the pad next to his face and glanced several times between the two. “Good…at least as well as I can draw faces.”

  He was all too familiar with the ugly mug he faced in the shaving mirror every morning. But something in her admiring tone made him reach for the pad. Her sketch softened the bloated look he had after a fight, and his eyes didn’t look as swollen and squinty. “I’d like to see what you can do with a landscape or a bowl of fruit or any more worthwhile subject. You have talent.”

  Shaking her head, she laughed, sobered for a second, and then burst out again. She clamped a hand to her stomach and bent forward.

  The high-pitched sound pealed like a cascade of bells. The resonance tickled his insides, and he surprised himself with an accompanying chuckle. “What’s funny?”

  After inhaling a deep breath, she straightened and tapped the paper. “Bodies and injuries, Mister Andrusha… those subjects are the sum total of my artistic ability. The majority are only a result of my father’s descriptions. Like a woman in an office takes dictation using stenography.” She held out her hand. “May I keep the notebook overnight? I need to transcribe my notes and transfer the sketches to my personal journal.”

  Viktor narrowed his gaze as he stared at the leather-bound notebook he always kept tucked in his gudok case. He could tear out the pages so she’d have what she needed. But then he’d not retain a physical reminder of this encounter. By letting her borrow the notebook, he’d have to meet with Miss Hildebrand one more time for her to return it. Levering himself upright pulled his torso, and he winced, hissing out a sharp breath, before extending the book.

  Miss Hildebrand accepted the notebook and tucked it inside a cloak pocket. “I saw that grimace.” She stepped in front of him, her hands hovering. “What other injuries do you have?”

  “Hurt ribs. But don’t ask.” On this matter, he would be firm. He held up a staying hand. “I won’t expose my bare body.”

  “Really.” She rolled her eyes. “If you only knew how many men’s limbs and chests I’ve seen in the course of my job.” A breath huffed out between her pursed lips.

  Why did hearing she’d seen male bodies make his gut ache like he’d sustained a solid hit? The woman had claimed she worked as a nurse.

  She paced a few steps in one direction, leaves rustling underfoot as she moved. “If your fight was anything like I’ve witnessed, you could have a cracked rib.” She turned and lifted her chin to meet his gaze. “Are they wrapped with cotton strips?”

  “You’ve watched boxing? When? Where?” This lady seemed too classy to be in the type of boisterous crowds the matches usually drew. Although the special championship match in Leadville at Christmas the previous year had been attended by the poor and wealthy alike.

  “In New York, years ago. But not since I started treating similar injuries from the brawls by the dockworkers or the saloon goers.” Narrowing her gaze, she waved a hand toward his middle. “Well, are they?”

  He still pondered Odette attending a boxing match. Some of the other competitors often had sweethearts or wives in the audience. Viktor always wondered what that experience would be like—having someone cheering him on. Could be that was the secret of the champions who held their titles. “Huh?”

  “Your ribs…are they…bound?”

  Her cadence was slow, as if she talked to a child. Condescension he would not abide. Frowning, he straightened and crossed both arms over his chest. “Miss Hildebrand, we have just met. Don’t presume you know more than someone who has been around boxing and injuries for the p
ast decade.”

  “And don’t think you can puff out those big, bulky muscles to intimidate me.” She stomped a foot then stood with both hands jammed on her hips. “Just because I haven’t experienced a similar injury doesn’t mean I don’t know how to treat it.”

  Her tough and sassy attitude was diluted because she’d stepped so close she had to crane her neck to maintain eye contact. At least eight or nine inches separated their respective heights. But he couldn’t deny the truth ringing from her words. His bruises did feel better than when he first sat. “I concede. Truce?” He hesitated about offering a handshake, because he didn’t know if he’d be strong enough to release her.

  “Truce.” Stepping back, she rubbed a hand over the nape of her neck. “You’re tall.”

  He fought against a grin. “Неt. You’re short.” That comment earned him a glare from her flashing eyes. The fiery look was enough to spin his thoughts into other occasions when her eyes might appear as alluring.

  “So you’ll need a decoction containing boneset that will heal internally. I can brew that tonight, and we’ll meet again tomorrow.” She leaned over to grab the handle of her basket and lifted out some greens. “Take these leaves. Tonight, before retiring, crush them like you saw me do and hold them against your injured side. Then wrap enough cotton strips around to hold the leaves in place. Do this snugly.”

  “I understand.” Again, he felt humbled that a stranger would be so solicitous about his health. What had he done to earn such caring concern?

  “Do you have someone who might help? Wrapping is good, but having the leaves in the correct position under the strips is the ultimate goal.”

  “My manager will help.” The touch of her fingers as she closed his hand around the herbs tingled up his arm. “May I escort you back to town?”

  Her body tensed, and she chewed on her lower lip.

  The sign was the first bit of nervousness he’d seen. Probably she didn’t want to be seen with a lout like him—especially with the bruises. Or maybe she sensed the blackness that tainted his soul. Wishing he could retract his invitation, Viktor tensed his jaw so his disappointment wouldn’t show.

  “Already I’ve been away longer than I should.” Her brows dipped low. She glanced over her shoulder and then back. “But I need more comfrey and wound wort. Let me hurry to the creek to collect them while you put away your instrument. Then we can walk together.”

  Before he could say another word, he watched her disappear down a path toward the creek bank. He liked her confidence in her abilities, but he wished she’d asked him to join her. Any reason to prolong their time together was worthwhile. Moments passed and he kept watch through the trees. She’d scurried away so fast he wondered if she’d return. Had he scared her off with his too close observation? Or, once she was clear and had a moment to think, had she realized how compromising their interaction had been?

  He paced, wondering if should track her down and tell her not to take the time to produce the medicine. Injuries had healed in the past, and they’d do so again without her concoctions. His focus should be on building his win/loss statistics. Those numbers were what drew the audience and caught the attention of promoters. He yearned for the respectability a fight with a top competitor could bring—his mother deserved that.

  His heart beat faster at a glimpse of an approaching form with blonde hair that flowed around her shoulders. Pink graced her rounded cheeks.

  Odette stopped a few feet away and pressed a hand to her middle. “Let me catch my breath.”

  After pulling the leather strap over his head, he yanked out the cork and brushed his sleeve over the opening before extending the amber bottle. “Have a drink of water?”

  “Gladly.” She accepted the bottle and took several sips then wrinkled her nose. “I remember this mineral taste from a trip upstate we took when I was a kid.” She held up the bottle to read the label and nodded. “Yes, I’ve been to that park.”

  “Waters from the Vichy Springs have a reputation for being medicinal.” He shrugged and accepted the bottle, putting his lips where hers had just been to take a long drink. This taste might be the closest he ever came to her mouth. “Since visiting years ago, this water is all I drink.”

  Her eyes widened. “But it’s bottled in New York state.”

  “The company ships the bottles just about anywhere.”

  “Interesting.” She patted down the leaves threatening to burst from the top of the basket. “Shall we go?”

  “Ready.” Viktor corked the bottle and slipped the strap over his head, settling it on his shoulder. He debated about offering his elbow but worried the gesture would be too forward. Besides, she appeared sure-footed, as if she often walked in the woods.

  After a comment or two about the colors of the turning leaves, their conversation dwindled. He didn’t have enough experience spending time in the company of a lady to know what topics were spoken. As they walked, he stole sideways glances at her upturned nose and her alert gaze.

  Ten minutes later, she stopped just short of the meadow’s edge. Then she turned and looked upward, her brows crinkled tight. “Please let me go first. Feel free to follow after a few moments. If anyone should see us alone together, rumors would fly. I’m only in Sweetwater Springs for a short time and don’t want to upset my aunt and uncle.”

  The reminder of the reality of his situation hit hard. With his traveling lifestyle, he couldn’t hope to develop anything more than a passing acquaintance. Widening his stance, he crossed his arms over his chest and watched as she picked her way to the edge of the woods. Turn and look. That’s all I ask. Then he’d know their time together meant something.

  Before stepping onto the sunlit prairie, she looked over her shoulder and waved.

  A golden aura circled her head. He lifted a hand and nodded. The moment she disappeared from sight, he remembered his notebook. By letting her keep it overnight, he released control over the contents. If she was curious about what he’d written, she could read the poems that provided a window to his deepest thoughts and feelings.

  **

  At the edge of the treeline, she glanced over her shoulder and saw him watching. His icy blue eyes seemed to take in so much although he spoke little. She smiled and waved, then lifted a handful of skirts and hurried toward town. A decoction to heal from the inside could be exactly what Aunt Iola needed. Might as well compensate for the possibility her sprain was actually a hairline fracture. At the same time, Odette could take some of the herb’s essential oils and create an ointment which would help Mister…Viktor’s injury from the outside, too. By giving doses to Aunt Iola, she could hide her true purpose of treating Viktor’s wounds. Although her encounter with Viktor had been professional, she knew her aunt wouldn’t understand them being alone together.

  The opportunity to work with a human subject to study the effects of her herbal treatments was one she couldn’t pass on. By meeting with a man unchaperoned, she stretched the bounds of propriety. But only because she possessed no title and no official space to act as a nurse. If this incident happened back home, he could be tended in her father’s office, and nobody would think twice about her applying herbs to his wounds. Frustration at the limitations placed on her talents lengthened her strides. If she could also sneak a look at his ribs, she could learn the efficacy of comfrey/boneset when taken internally. Even better would be to get a look at his opponent, who presumably was using Viktor’s ice soaking as his only treatment. Her head spun with the advances the next few days could make in developing an elixir for contusions and bruises.

  That night, in the privacy of her room, she lay across the bed and flipped the pages of Viktor’s notebook. Most of the writing was in unfamiliar script, probably Cyrillic. On a few sheets, she noticed what looked like musical notes on a staff. Made sense someone who played an instrument like he did would write songs. Closing her eyes, she remembered the deep resonance of the notes he’d played. The instrument reminded her of a lyre she’d seen in a muse
um. The tune made her want to dance, but she was too curious about the player. A sigh escaped as she flipped a couple more pages.

  When she recognized English words, she scooted closer to the oil lantern and scanned the page, getting a sense of the passage. A poem. Odette started at the top and read of the writer’s sense of separation, of having left home far behind, of being on stage but feeling anonymous, of long nights when he wished for someone to talk to, and someone he could hold close. Her throat tightened, and she turned the page, eager for more insight into the big man. The next one was much darker with references to pain, guilt, betrayal, and punishment. Shaking her head, she flipped farther into the book. By the time she read a few more entries, she brushed away the tears pooling in her eyes. Her heart ached for the lonely man she’d met in the woods.

  Rolling to her back, she clasped the notebook to her chest and ruminated on what she learned. Poetry was so autobiographical she felt like she discovered Viktor’s personality. How had he worded the stanza about wishing for someone to talk to? Often, especially since traveling west with her aunt and uncle, she felt the exact same way. As she turned more pages of the notebook, she noticed the writing on the last few pages was more scrawled. The bottom tips of his letters didn’t sit on the pre-printed line but rather they wavered a bit above or below.

  Odette sat upright, her pulse pounding in her ears. With careful attention, she studied the writing on the first pages and compared it to the scribbles on the last ones. More than bruises and cuts had injured her new friend. Either his eyesight had been damaged or he had a brain injury. No doubt remained that his profession was to blame. Did he know he shouldn’t be boxing? Would he listen to her predictions about what could happen?

  Chapter Four

  On the walk back to his train car, Viktor replayed the conversation in his mind. More than being the only woman he’d carried on a one-on-one conversation with in a long time, Odette was special. He liked her analytical mind and how she’d seen a problem and sought a solution. She was nothing like the brash women who hung around the fight venues, hoping to share a few minutes with the favored athlete.