Singing Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series Book 7)

by Debra Holland

  “You’re lucky the glass didn’t break,” Emma said in a cool tone. “You don’t need seven years of bad luck on top of the wretched luck you’ve had in the last few weeks.”

  Her younger sister’s scold made shame rise inside. Sophia had always prided herself on not acting like a diva—never throwing tantrums. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to write an apology, which made her feel even more ashamed.

  The diminutive kitchen maid peeked around the open door. Sophia didn’t know the child’s name. She’d been too caught up in the whirlwind of rehearsing for Die Walküre to stop and become acquainted with the girl, which she was usually careful to do with each new servant.

  The girl’s gaze fell upon Sophia, and her brown eyes filled with tears. With an anguished cry, she ran to the bedside and threw herself on her knees.

  “Fanny, whatever are you doing?” Emma exclaimed, reaching out to lift the girl to her feet.

  Curious, Sophia held out a hand in a stopping motion.

  “I thought you were going to die, Miss Maxwell,” Fanny wailed. “And I couldn’t bear it!”

  Surprised by the child’s impassioned tone, Sophia reached out to touch her cheek. Sweet girl.

  Fanny gazed at her in awe, even as tears spilled down her cheeks. “You’re too beautiful to die.”

  Sophia grimaced. Not anymore.

  “Yes,” Fanny said fiercely. “Even now, you’re the most beautiful lady I’ve ever seen.”

  Amused, Sophia smiled. She motioned for Fanny to stand and move closer. When the child did, she leaned over and kissed the girl’s cheek, even though the movement caused a faint throbbing in her temples.

  Fanny’s dazed expression and the reverent way she raised her hand to touch her cheek made Sophia’s smile widen, the movement strange in a face that had felt frozen until now.

  Emma gently placed her hands on Fanny’s shoulders. “Did you come here for a reason?”

  The young maid twisted to look up at Emma, her eyes growing large in obvious dismay. “The doctor’s here, Miss Emma.”

  “Well, then.” Emma patted Fanny’s back in a dismissal. “Don’t keep Dr. Hamb waiting any longer. Go tell him Miss Maxwell will receive him.”

  Nodding, the girl started toward the door.

  “Fanny,” Emma called after her.

  The child turned.

  “Thank you for making my sister smile. You’ve given us quite a gift.”

  Her expression puzzled but pleased, Fanny dipped a curtsey and ran from the room.

  Emma laughed. “She obviously needs more training,” she told Sophia. “But I don’t have the heart to scold her, not when I’ve seen the first smile on your face since that dreadful night. And you weren’t smiling much—genuinely smiling—in the weeks before that.”

  I haven’t had much to smile about. But if a servant waif can lift my spirits, then perhaps things aren’t so bad, and there’s hope for me.

  The doctor entered, carrying a black leather bag.

  Her father followed him into the room.

  Thank goodness. Dr. Hamb is here. Now he can tell me how long before I can talk and sing again. Sophia realized she’d have to start slowly, perhaps train for a while as if she were a beginner, but she was confident once she started practicing, she’d make good progress.

  Dr. Hamb greeted Emma, his expression one of gloom, but didn’t say anything to Sophia. He took a seat in the chair next to the bed and picked up Sophia’s wrist to checked her pulse. Then, he took out a stethoscope, placed the tube on her chest, put the earpieces in his ears, and listened.

  Sophia stared out the window. She hated having her heart and lungs checked. The doctor leaning so close to her body felt too intimate.

  Dr. Hamb straightened and tucked the stethoscope into his bag. He rubbed his beard, as if gathering his thoughts for what to say. “I’m glad to see you’re doing better, Miss Maxwell. However, I must be blunt. On top of the influenza you’ve suffered, you have aphonia caused by acute laryngitis. I’m sorry to say, your opera career is finished,” the doctor told her.

  Emma gasped.

  His body stiff, Papa turned away, walked to the window, and stared outside.

  Your opera career is finished. Even with Dr. Hamb’s pronouncement echoing in her head, shock kept her from absorbing their meaning. The truth trickled into her awareness. She was too stricken to say anything, even if she had been able to speak. But her expression must have conveyed her dismay.

  The doctor’s countenance softened. “At least for the time being. You must regain your health, and then we will see. Perhaps, with a long period of rest, your voice will return.”

  A slight bit of hope threaded through her.

  The doctor gave her an eagle-eyed look and frowned. “No talking whatsoever for a month. At that point, I will reassess you. Maybe, then, I’ll permit you to speak gently in short sentences if it causes no affliction or scratchiness. If you feel any strain, you must continue with your silence. Do you understand?”

  The darkness of despair seized her. Sophia couldn’t even nod. What will happen to me without my voice?

  Dr. Hamb held up a cautionary finger. “However, I must strongly warn you…. Rest is vital for the restoration of your voice. If you prematurely push yourself to sing, you could permanently damage your vocal cords, and thus might never even speak again.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Sweetwater Springs

  Ten Days After Opening Night

  For the first two days after being deposited back at his family home, Kael brooded, his arm tucked against his chest in a sling. The doctor had forbidden him any activity for a week, and then he could do “light duty,” although he had a feeling he and Dr. Cameron might differ on their ideas of “light.”

  He’d made the mistake of telling his parents about the doctor’s orders. Now his mother wouldn’t even let him carry water from the creek to the house with his good arm.

  Kael could handle the pain in his broken arm and the nightmares that tore through his sleep, but the worst was being away from the logging camp. He detested his powerlessness—a state he wasn’t accustomed to. He fretted about his men left under Lindland’s shoddy supervision. What if someone else dies because that idiot’s incompetence?

  All he could do was say a prayer for their protection. But just petitioning the Almighty didn’t feel like nearly enough.

  Kael also worried about money, the whole reason he’d taken the job as a lumberjack in the first place. His parents had the attitude—frustrating to him—that as long as they had a roof over their heads and food on the table—provided from the garden, their chickens, and the forest—they had all they needed.

  But Kael wanted more than subsistence. He wanted his own horse, instead of trading firewood or working for the Dunns in high summer when the logging camp was closed, just to have the occasional use of their wagon and horses. Although, their friends would gladly loan out the transportation, the Kelleys never wanted to feel beholden.

  Kael didn’t particularly want to be a farmer, but he liked the idea better than being a lumberjack. But to farm, he’d need more land to grow crops. Where he’d find the acreage, he didn’t know. Too much forest surrounded their home. His parents were against carving out more space from the forest, preferring to live amid the beauty of the woods.

  In his heart, Kael agreed. But his head tended to take a more practical bent.

  The times his father had worked as a lumberjack had been the occasions when more was needed than their own efforts could provide—such as the year his ma lost the baby she was carrying and took ill in body and spirit for several months. Rye Rawlins, the doctor from the mining camp of Morgan’s Crossing, had paid several visits, and he’d also left medicine for her to take.

  Once Ma had recovered, his father had left to live in the logging camp and earn better money to pay the bills. But outfitting Leith with the steel caulked boots, heavy wool shirt, laced britches, and a mackinaw—the standard short, woolen coat—took cre
dit from the mercantile, putting the family behind financially before he’d even begun the job.

  Looking back, Kael figured his father had also wanted to make up for the baby’s loss in some way. The rest of his income that particular year went for a new dress for his ma and school clothing for him, as well as stocking up on necessities such as sugar and salt or luxuries such as canned peaches.

  Now, the only good thing about this enforced vacation was spending time with his parents. His father wasn’t feeling well, something else that worried Kael, and he sat for long hours on the porch with Pa. They talked, or read, or sat in comfortable silence, sometimes doing so-called easy tasks for his ma, like shelling peas—which wasn’t at all easy one-handed. Grateful for anything to do, Kael willingly fumbled through filling bowlful after bowlful, as his mother was bound and determined to cook, dry, or can each pea their garden produced.

  After three days, Kael rebelled. The pain in his arm had lessened to a dull throb unless he jarred it, and he could no longer bear the idleness. With a bowl of shelled peas in his hand, he stormed into the house, knowing his face and body betrayed his aggravation but resolute about undertaking real work.

  His mother stood over the stove, stirring a pot of venison stew with a wooden spoon. Upon news of his accident, one by one the neighbors had dropped by with food to help out. The haunch of venison was provided by their neighbor, Jonah Barrett. His Italian wife, Lina, had sent over pasta and red sauce, a specialty of hers.

  Their other neighbor, Gid Walker, arrived with several loaves of sourdough bread, a book—René Descartes’s, Meditations of First Philosophy—and, of course, an inevitable quotation, this one from Victor Hugo: “‘It is from books that wise people derive consolation in the troubles of life.’”

  Kael set down the wooden bowl with enough firmness to make a thudding sound. Inhaling the savory smell made his stomach growl but didn’t soothe his ill temper.

  Ma turned, took one look at Kael’s expression, and frowned. She pointed the spoon at his nose. “I’ll have none of that sourpuss face.”

  “What?” Even as he spoke the word, Kael felt like he was twelve again.

  “You’re alive,” Ma snapped with unusual heat. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t mourn your men. But, thank goodness, the Dear Lord spared you for a reason. And you’d better stop moping around and start finding out what it is.” Her expression softened. “It’s not that I’m not deeply grateful you’re alive. I don’t think I could bear the loss of my only child. Your injuries will soon heal.”

  Doesn’t feel soon to me.

  “Your father and I certainly enjoy having you home. But you’re not yourself, Kael.” She punctuated her words by slashes of the wooden spoon. “It hurts me to see your spirits suffering.”

  “It’s more than losing the men, Ma.” A pang of grief in his heart belied the words. “Well, it is them. That’s the hardest part. But—”

  “You’re worried about the ones you left behind.”

  He fisted his hand. “I don’t want to stand at more gravesites.”

  She let out a sigh and set down the spoon, suddenly looking more careworn. “Life is like that, Kael. You do the best you can to keep yourself and your family and friends safe. But accidents happen, and people die. Illnesses happen, and people die. And sometimes—” she pressed a hand to her stomach “—people…especially, babies…die for no reason that you see or know of. Death is in God’s hands, not ours, even when it feels like someone’s life is…was our responsibility and their death is our fault.”

  Kael walked closer and, with his good arm, pulled her to his side for a hug.

  His mother briefly leaned into him before straightening and briskly moving back to the stove, picking up the wooden spoon and stirring the pot.

  “What about Pa? He’s not himself. I see a change in him each time I’m here.”

  Her shoulders slumped, but she didn’t turn to face him. “I treasure every day I have with that man.”

  Fear rushed through him. No, not Pa! At the same time, though, Kael knew what she meant. Hadn’t he been doing the same thing during the last two days?

  Kael studied his mother’s rigid back. “Has Pa been to Dr. Cameron?” They lived closer to Sweetwater Springs than Morgan’s Crossing, so Dr. Cameron would be an easier choice than Dr. Rawlins.

  “You know your father.”

  He did. A more stubborn man didn’t exist. Except for me. “If Pa won’t go to Dr. Cameron, the doctor will have to come here, like Dr. Rawlins did before.”

  She pressed her lips together before sighing. “I hate to put Dr. Cameron out like that. It will take him a whole day just to get here and back to town, including that long ride through the forest. What if someone else needs him? Neither your father nor I can bear the idea that someone might die because the doctor wasn’t available.”

  “I can’t either. We’ll just have to get tricky and at least get Pa to the Dunns, where Dr. Cameron can examine him.”

  Ma shook her head. “You saw how much the walk took out of him when we went for the Norton wedding. I don’t think Leith can walk that far anymore.” Her voice shook and, as if to cover up her emotion, she picked up the bowl of peas, dumped them into the stewpot, and stirred them in.

  “I’ll borrow a horse from the Dunns. I still have money in the bank to pay the doctor.” But the bill would take a hefty chunk from the remainder of his savings after paying for the funerals of Gundry and Atwell, something he’d felt obligated to do.

  Ma turned and smiled at him, her face lightening in obvious relief. “That might work! Thank you, my son. You’ve eased my mind.”

  He leaned to kiss her forehead. “I’m going to soak in the hot spring and do some thinking.”

  She lifted her chin toward the door. “Go on with you, then. Get clean, think, and most of all pray. Don’t come back to the house until you’re no longer a grumpy bear, hear?”

  “Hear.” Kael gave her a two-finger salute and headed out the door.

  His father had left the porch. A quick glance around showed Pa slowly walking the rows of the garden, occasionally reaching to pinch off a dead leaf. He stopped between their two apple trees, as if to rest in the shade. Pa’s moving like an old man. Not liking the thought, Kael quickened his steps to the hot springs.

  The small pool, overshadowed by the leafy branches of a grove of larch, combined with a stream to make the temperature vary, depending on where a person sat to soak. Kael preferred the water as warm as he could stand.

  Undressing one-handed took far more time than usual, accompanied by a few mental cusses that Kael didn’t dare let himself utter aloud. He’d picked up some bad habits in the logging camp and needed to clean up his language. Just remembering some of the choice phrases he’d ground out when the doctor was setting his arm made him ashamed. Good thing Mrs. Cameron wasn’t there. She’d come in a few minutes later to hold his arm in place while the doctor wrapped the cast around his arm. Kael had clenched his jaw against the pain and to keep in the curses.

  I’m not too old for Ma to wash my mouth out with soap. The thought made him chuckle.

  But the truth is, I need to be a better man, and I haven’t been one the last few days, maybe longer.

  Naked, he stepped into the water, resolving to metaphorically wash away the filth in his mind. The temperature was hot enough that he had to wait for his feet to adjust to the heat. Then, inches at a time, Kael slid more of his body into the small pool. He propped his bad arm on a rock that overhung the spring, so his plaster of Paris cast wouldn’t get wet.

  Years ago, Pa had shifted rocks to make the most comfortable seating area. Kael had rearranged a few when he’d come to his full growth, needing a deeper spot for himself.

  Relaxed, at least in body except for the discomfort in his arm, Kael did some serious thinking. Ma’s right. I can’t continue going on like a bear as I’ve been throughout this whole recuperation.

  I must change my attitude. “‘Any man can make mistakes, but on
ly an idiot persists in his error,’” he said aloud, quoting Marcus Tullius Cicero.

  Kael smiled, remembering how their neighbor Mr. Walker had told him, “‘If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.’” The quote had been the man’s favorite saying from Cicero—that is until he’d fallen in love with Darcy Russell, gotten married, and had a daughter.

  After Julia’s birth, Mr. Walker expanded on Cicero’s quote. “If you have a garden and a library, and most importantly, a loving family—,” he’d told Kael “—you have everything you need.”

  Mr. Walker’s wisdom settled him. First things first.

  I can’t do anything about my men at camp. I need to stop worrying about them and trust they’ll survive without my care.

  Soon the weather would become too warm for logging, and the camp would close. Everyone will disperse, and I can stop worrying about their safety.

  But until then, Kael resolved to travel to town one Saturday when he figured some of his crew might be at Hardy’s Saloon and meet up with them or at least hear any news.

  At the saloon, he’d have a drink, but no more than one whisky. He couldn’t afford to waste his money on liquor, even if he were a drinking man, which he wasn’t.

  Kael would also join a couple of rounds of poker. He wasn’t worried about losing—or at least not much. He often played the game in the evening with the lumberjacks, and he usually cleaned them out of the matchsticks they used as currency. At Hardy’s, he’d need cash, but if he kept his head clear and paid close attention to the cards, he’d probably win more than he lost.

  I need to earn money. An almost impossible prospect given his injury and the distance from town. He could awkwardly wield an axe one-handed. Left handed at that. So, with practice, he could chop firewood. The problem was most people who could afford to purchase firewood already used coal. The rest cut their own. He could barter, perhaps pay for part of the doctor’s bill with firewood, even though he knew the doctor had a coal-burning stove. He supposed the man often took foodstuff and wood as payment.