Debra Holland

by Stormy Montana Sky

  “You can make stools for me all over the house,” Harriet murmured, leaning forward to press her lips on his.

  * * *

  A week later, Harriet stood in the Cobbs’ kitchen, wearing the first silk dress she’d ever owned. Mrs. Cobb, as happy as Harriet had ever seen her, bent down to straighten the misty-gray folds of her skirt, while Samantha Thompson, clad in the dress she’d worn to her own wedding, placed her own veil over Harriet’s head, then stepped back to survey Harriet, tears brightening her blue eyes. “You look beautiful, my dear Harriet. This color really brings out your eyes.”

  Harriet had to blink answering tears away. “Thank you for lending me your veil.”

  “Enough, Harriet,” Samantha said in a firm tone. “You’ve already thanked me three times. I know it’s only been a week and a day for me, but I wish you all the happiness I’ve found with Wyatt.”

  Mrs. Cobb straightened, fluffing out Harriet’s puffed sleeves. In an unexpected gesture of affection, she took Harriet’s hand. “I, too, wish you happy, Miss Stanton. I was hard on you, I know. But it was because I was concerned about you. A woman’s good reputation is above jewels.”

  Harriet exchanged an astonished look with Samantha. She couldn’t help glancing out the window to see if any pigs happened to be flying by, but the sky remind clear of porcine creatures with wings.

  Mrs. Cobb sniffed, as if holding back emotion. “Soon, I’ll be calling you Mrs. Gordon.”

  Surprised and touched, Harriet squeezed Mrs. Cobb’s hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Cobb.”

  As if putting sentimentality behind her, Mrs. Cobb released Harriet’s hand. “Mr. Cobb told me that after Mr. Gordon left the meeting of the town leaders, the men all had a bet that he’d marry you before school started again. That’s why they didn’t protest more about you living together.”

  “A bet!” Harriet wasn’t sure whether to feel horrified or amused.

  Mrs. Cobb sniffed again. “Not really a bet because they were all in accord, so there was no one to bet against. Mr. Cobb swore me to secrecy.”

  Harriet settled on amusement. A giggle bubbled up in her, and she could see laughter reflected in Samantha’s eyes. “This town knows me too well.”

  Samantha gave her a hug. “Everyone loves you, that’s why.”

  Harriet thought back to Ant’s revelation about everyone knowing her feelings for Nick. She gave Samantha a wry smile. “I guess that’s not such a bad thing after all.”

  Mrs. Cobb reached for her hat—a new one without a stuffed bird adorning the brim—where it lay on the table and placed it on her head. She tied her bonnet strings. “It’s time to go, Miss Stanton. I watched from the window. Almost everybody is already in the church.” She sniffed. “Seems like everyone and his brother has turned up. Good thing you didn’t marry from a house. Wouldn’t have been anyplace big enough.”

  Samantha handed Harriet a bouquet of roses, the same kind of white ones she’d carried for her wedding.

  Harriet sniffed their sweet scent. I’ll have to press one later as a keepsake.

  The three women left the house and strolled down the street. As they crossed to the church, Harriet saw Nick and Elizabeth Sanders standing out in front. Samantha and Mrs. Cobb greeted them and continued inside, leaving Harriet with the couple.

  Elizabeth was dressed in a sapphire silk gown that allowed the slight bulge of her pregnancy to show and made her eyes look like gems. Nick had on the suit he’d worn for his own wedding, although today he seemed more comfortable in it. The couple looked content and prosperous, and for the first time, Harriet could whole-heartedly wish them every happiness. The realization made her feel light and free.

  Nick took her hand, the first time he’d ever touched her, and gave it a quick squeeze before letting go. “I want you to know, Miss Stanton, how very glad I am that Mr. Gordon has had the good sense to chose you for his wife. I wish you all the best.”

  “We wish you all the best, Harriet,” Elizabeth chimed in. “May you have as happy a marriage as we do.”

  In looking from one to the other, Harriet could see in their eyes that they had known of her feelings for Nick. Today, she didn’t feel shame. Instead, she allowed their genuine good will to seep into her body, twining with her joy. “Thank you. That’s a wonderful blessing, indeed!”

  Elizabeth leaned forward to kiss Harriet’s cheek. Then the couple turned and climbed the steps to the church.

  Harriet touched her cheek, marveling at how much things had changed. She fiddled with the gold pin at her neck. Elizabeth and I are going to be friends. Who would have thought?

  Harriet brought her bouquet to her nose for one last fortifying sniff. The last time I entered this church for a wedding, I was so very unhappy. Now, I feel as if I could fly. She giggled at the image of floating down the aisle to her groom.

  Harriet gathered her up her skirts to climb the stairs and stepped into the church. As she crossed the small foyer, a hush fell over the room.

  Everyone turned to see her. She gave David, standing straight and proud next to his uncle, a fond smile, but then she only had eyes for Ant. Her husband-to-be waited tall and dark in the front of the church, wearing a new black suit and vest with a white shirt.

  Elizabeth started playing Mendelssohn’s Wedding March.

  Her heart lifted by the notes of the music, Harriet walked up the aisle, her eyes on Ant. His stunned expression, so full of love and pride, softened the angles of his face, rendering him handsome.

  Harriet gave him a tremulous smile and couldn’t wait to reach his side.

  As she approached him, he took her hand. “You look beautiful,” he whispered, bringing her hand to his lips.

  The brush of his mouth on her hand sent shivers up her arm and down her spine. In his eyes, Harriet saw the promise of love for all the years to come.

  Ant solemnly gazed into her eyes and gave her his crooked smile.

  How could I ever have thought him frightening?

  Then they turned and faced the minister. Reverend Norton’s austere face softened with a smile of affection. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here....

  THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to all my readers who love the Montana Sky Series.

  You have my warmest appreciation!

  More thanks go to:

  Louella Nelson, my writing teacher and editor.

  My copyediting friends: Walter Koenig, Tracy Suttle, and Linda McLaughlin.

  To Claire Lazerson for the sailing poem.

  To my fabulous formatter, Amy Atwell.

  AND

  To Don Napolitano who always supports me.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  USA Today bestselling author Debra Holland is a psychotherapist and corporate crisis/grief counselor, who lives in Southern California with her dog and two cats. Painted Montana Sky is the latest book in her best-selling Montana Sky Series. In addition to sweet historical romance, Debra also writes fantasy, science fiction, as well as nonfiction. Debra has published The Essential Guide to Grief and Grieving with Alpha Books. Look for her other fiction and nonfiction books online. You can download her free e-booklet 58 Tips For Getting What You Want From a Difficult Conversation on her website http://drdebraholland.com.

  You can connect with Debra at:

  Twitter: http://twitter.com/drdebraholland

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/debra.holland.731

  My blog: http://drdebraholland.blogspot.com

  OTHER BOOKS BY DEBRA HOLLAND

  MONTANA SKY SERIES

  In order:

  Wild Montana Sky

  Starry Montana Sky

  Stormy Montana Sky

  Montana Sky Christmas: A Sweetwater Springs Short Story Collection

  Painted Montana Sky: A Sweetwater Springs Novella

  Look for future Montana Sky books, novellas, and short stories

  ~ ~ ~

  THE GODS’ DREAM TRILOGY

  Sower of Dreams

  Reape
r of Dreams

  Harvest of Dreams

  ~ ~ ~

  TWINBORNE TRILOGY

  Lywin’s Quest

  ~ ~ ~

  The Essential Guide to Grief and Grieving

  In Montana Sky Christmas, USA Today bestselling author, Debra Holland, offers seven short stories set in the fictional town of Sweetwater Springs, Montana, in 1894.

  These stories are about various kinds of Christmas love—the romance between a man and a woman, the devotion of a husband to his wife’s memory, and the love of a child for her goose. You’ll read about familiar characters and come to know new ones, as the townsfolk of Sweetwater Springs prepare for Christmas.

  MONTANA SKY CHRISTMAS

  by Debra Holland

  Copyright © 2012 Debra Holland

  Excerpt from

  Red Stockings for Christmas

  As the campfire radiated warmth in the opening of the lean-to, Red Macalister crouched before the burning logs. He added more wood to the blaze, then rocked back on his boot heels, studying the flames, and decided the fire would do for the next few hours to ward off the cold winter night. He glanced up at the black sky dotted with diamonds. A clear night. Tomorrow, they’d be able to herd the straggling cattle back to the pasture near the ranch house. He scooted backward under the lean-to of pine branches and nodded at his two companions.

  Curly Joe, named for his long brown beard, not the hairless head now covered by a brown knitted cap, sat cross-legged next to him. Jed, a thin, silent man, sprawled on his bedroll at the edge of their shelter.

  Curly Joe stroked his beard. “I’ll take first,” meaning he’d wake up in a few hours to feed the fire.

  “Second.” Jed made the single word as terse as possible.

  Red shrugged. That meant dawn and boiling water for coffee fell to him.

  The men didn’t really need to spell out the order. They’d worked together for ten years, two of them at their own Circle Three Ranch. They’d fallen into a familiar routine, rotating the chores each day.

  But, as they often teased Jed, if they didn’t play out their ritual each night, they might not hear a word from their quiet partner for days. They jested that his voice would dry up, and then what would happen if he needed it?

  Red pulled off his boots and set them by the fire. Not too close, but near enough so the leather wouldn’t freeze his feet in the morning. He wiggled his toes, grimacing at the widening hole in one of his red stockings. If he didn’t wear another pair of brown ones underneath, his big toe would be flappin’ naked in the chill wind.

  Curly Joe looked over at Red’s feet and guffawed. “That pair is plumb wore out. Might as well give ’em up.”

  Red clenched his jaw, leaned over, and picked at the hole, trying to pull the edges together, to no avail. Ignoring Curly Joe, he slid underneath his bedroll. When he got back to the ranch, he’d have their housekeeper darn the hole. It didn’t matter that his stockings now had more darns than yarn on the heels. He needed his lucky stockings and wasn’t about to give them up.

  ~ ~ ~

  Louisa Cannon walked back from the train station empty-handed. She’d prayed that there would be a letter from her brother, waiting in the mailroom at the depot. But the empty slot had dashed her dwindling hopes.

  Michael must not have received my letter. She’d didn’t dare let herself think there could be a worse reason. Please, God, may he be safe.

  As she walked down the frozen main street of Sweetwater Springs, the wind whipped around her, colder than when she’d set out. She passed the mercantile, decorated with a pine wreath and a big red bow, and spared a hope that the Cobbs managed to sell more of her knitted goods.

  The white wooden church on her left contrasted with the saloons and the skeleton of two new buildings on the other side of the street. The sound of hammers rang out, the crew taking advantage of a clear day. Normally, she stopped to watch their progress, but today, she was so preoccupied with her worries that she almost ran into Mr. Livingston, the banker, who’d stopped to tip his hat. “Good day, Miss Cannon.”

  “Mr. Livingston.” Louisa gave him a polite smile.

  The thrill that usually tingled her spine at any attention from the handsome banker didn’t affect her today. She couldn’t even appreciate his polished Eastern manners, because his presence was a reminder that the rent on her little house was due him by the end of the month.

  Her fingers tightened on the front of her coat. She didn’t have it, nor have any way to get the money short of… Louisa let her gaze slide toward Hardy’s Saloon and had to repress a shudder.

  I’d rather die.

  The banker dropped his hand to his side. “I see the Cobbs have a wreath up for Christmas.” He waved toward the store. “My sister and nephew put our tree up yesterday. How are your Christmas preparations coming, Miss Cannon?”

  Just dandy.

  Remorse crossed his face. “Excuse me. I’d forgotten about your mother. Christmas will be—”

  “I’ll have good memories,” she interrupted, mostly to make him feel better, not because she believed her words.

  He nodded and continued walking toward the mercantile.

  No doubt he’s eager to buy more presents to add to the pile rumored to already reside under his Christmas tree.

  For Louisa, just eking out enough heat from the stove, burning the last of the candles and a small amount of oil for the lamp, and fixing a plain meal of beans would suffice as her Christmas. After that, her nights would be dark except for the glow of the stove, and she’d have to sleep in the kitchen because there was no extra wood or coal for a fire in her bedroom.

  Perhaps I can walk to the forest and bring back an armful of branches.

  Her mind replayed the familiar litany, struggling to find ways to survive, before discarding each idea.

  Teacher? Harriet Gordon already had that job.

  Washer woman? She’d gladly take in washing but Widow Murphy at the boarding house wouldn’t appreciate Louisa encroaching on her territory. In fact, with the woman’s propensity for nasty gossip, she could make life quite difficult. More difficult, Louisa amended.

  Teach music lessons? Her brother had taken his violin with him when he’d headed to California three months ago to make his fortune. How could he have been so selfish?

  She pulled back her resentment. Michael couldn’t have known their mother would die suddenly. But he should have known that without his income they’d run out of money

  Seamstress? Louisa glanced down at her unadorned black dress and grimaced. She could do basic sewing, but not the kind of work she’d need to set up a business. And she didn’t have a sewing machine.

  Cook? Her cooking skills were not her strongest suit, but she could rustle up a basic meal.

  Housekeeper? She’d made inquiries and hadn’t yet found a place.

  Wife? She cringed, knowing of an open position. Donny Addison had hinted he’d be glad to marry her. He’d said he’d give her a short time of mourning for her mother, but expected her answer in the New Year. Unlike his spare parents, Donny had grown up buff and hearty. Some might call him a fine figure of a man. But he had squinty eyes, and big, meaty hands, and stood too close to her when he talked, as if he already owned her.

  I’d rather die.

  Louisa rolled her eyes at her own mournful thoughts. I’m not going to die, and I am going to find a solution that doesn’t involve marrying Donny Addison!

  She could tolerate a loveless marriage with someone she liked and respected, someone she could bear to have touch her. But no other man had expressed interest, a circumstance that puzzled and hurt her, especially since men outnumbered women in these parts, and even the homeliest women found husbands.

  Quickening her steps, she turned the corner and walked the blocks to her little house, feeling her feet and hands turn to ice. Her nose must be red, matching her flannel petticoat and knitted stockings—not that anyone could see the bright attire under her proper mourning gown.

&nbs
p; Louisa trotted into the house. Inside was almost as cold as outside, but at least the walls stopped the chill breeze. She hurried to the kitchen, where she stirred up the banked coals in the stove and added a measly stick of wood. Standing as close as she dared, she held out her fingers to the heat, meager though it was, trickling into the air.

  Once her fingers had warmed, Louisa placed a pot of beans that she’d soaked overnight on the surface, pulled the rocking chair next to the stove, and picked up her knitting. The Cobbs had bought a steady stream of scarves, shawls, mittens, and stockings from her these last months. The money had sustained her while she waited for word from her brother. But a few weeks ago, the shopkeeper had told her the store was overstocked, and they wouldn’t need any more for a while.

  But Louisa couldn’t sit idle, waiting for a pot of beans to boil; not while she still had yarn left. And maybe a horde of cowboys would descend on the town and wipe out the inventory at the mercantile.

  Louisa peeled off her mittens and had just started the stitches on a shawl, making a fancy edging, when the idea came to her. Most women could do plain knitting, but not the more elaborate patterns Louisa had learned from her grandmother. What if I teach fancy knitting?

  The idea raced around in her head. Her fingers sped up, and she rocked harder. Even if her students couldn’t afford to pay in cash, she could barter for food or firewood.

  Louisa set her knitting on the table and rushed to her room. She pulled out some paper and ink and carefully penned a sign: Knitting Lessons, Inquire Within. Then she made a dozen flyers to distribute around town, describing what kind of stitches she could teach. Maybe she could even find enough courage to venture into the saloons and hand them out to the women. Many of the townsfolk would criticize her if she associated with saloon girls and prostitutes, but they weren’t on the verge of losing their homes. Or having to marry Donny Addison.