Singing Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series Book 7)

by Debra Holland

  Dusk deepened, and one-by-one the downstairs windows of the Queen Anne house opposite illuminated, casting a welcoming glow into the yard. A face appeared at the drawing room window, and Constance wondered if the woman was Marcus’s sister, Victoria, or his mother.

  After the New Year’s party, Constance confided in Victoria about the kiss and the almost-proposal from her older brother. Her best friend was almost as excited as Constance about the fact that they’d soon be sisters. The two formulated wedding plans and dreamt of how their lives would be exciting.

  Nothing much would change, for Marcus would move into Constance’s house, and the two friends could see each other as much as ever—or at least until Victoria married. But currently, no suitors were in sight. Men shied away from her friend’s high spirits and dramatic mannerisms. Not that Victoria minded. She was holding out for an Italian count and, for the last year, had badgered her parents to allow an extended visit to her maternal second cousins in Italy.

  Today, the Millers invited her to await Marcus’s arrival with them. Mr. and Mrs. Miller had high hopes for matrimony between their son and Constance and often gave her broad hints about being part of their family.

  Constance had chosen to remain by herself. Marcus couldn’t greet her with a kiss if he was in front of his family, and she couldn’t wait to feel his arms around her. She had no doubt he’d hurry over as soon as he’d spent some time with his family—probably after supper. But she couldn’t help wishing he’d visit her first.

  Finally, Constance heard the clip-clop of horses hooves and the rattling of wheels over bricks before she spotted the carriage. Again, she leaned forward to make sure it was the Miller vehicle, not some other that had business on this quiet street on the outskirts of the city.

  At the sight of the familiar carriage, she couldn’t help but clap her hands together, then she lifted her pressed hands to cover her mouth, straining for her first glimpse of him. The carriage door opened on the other side of the street, so she couldn’t see Marcus until he moved up the walkway. Her body started to shake in anticipation.

  Constance couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. She cast away her resolve to remain at home, picked up her skirts, and rushed to the door. Pulse racing, she flung it open, ran across the porch and down the steps like a hoyden. She couldn’t wait to throw herself into his arms!

  She was half-way down the brick walkway, when she realized that presenting such exuberance to her future husband might make her appear gawkish, instead of a grown-up twenty. She wouldn’t want him to think she was too young to wed.

  Dropping her skirt, Constance slowed to a swan-like stroll, sailing across the street. She’d drawn abreast of the back of the carriage when Marcus’s voice stopped her.

  “Here is my home, my dear Mrs. Miller. What do you think?”

  Mrs. Miller? Constance froze, confused about what she was hearing. She inched forward and peered around the carriage. Marcus had his back to her. A tall woman, stood next to him, her hand crooked through his arm.

  “Are you sure, Marcus,” the woman said, tilting her head to look up at him. “Your parents won’t be upset that we married without telling them?”

  Married? Impossible!

  “Never.” He waved toward the house. “I’ve promised you a million times, my darling. They’ll adore you almost as much as I do.” Leaning, he dropped a kiss on her lips.

  Constance pressed a hand against her chest, feeling the knock of her heart so strongly she thought the sound would give away her presence.

  Time seemed to stretch. She couldn’t absorb what she’d heard, only taking in the details of the woman’s exquisitely cut, gray traveling coat, far more elegant than the shapeless over-garment usually worn by female train travelers to protect their clothing from the dust and soot.

  No, Marcus! Constance stepped back, almost tripping on her hem. Her stomach coiled in horror and heartbreak. Her eyes stung. She lifted the skirt off the street and crept away, treading lightly so as not to make any noise. She made another shuffle, before her composure broke, and she turned and hurried back to her house. “Don’t run. Don’t run,” she chided, forcing herself to keep to a reasonable, although fast, pace. “The Millers must be watching and might see you.”

  Feeling like a puppet, with her limbs jerked by strings, Constance somehow reached the house, through the double doors with their transom stained-glass windows, and into the parlor. She sank down onto the edge of the settee, back straight, knees and feet together, hands clasped tightly in her lap, as if the stiff ladylike position could keep her from crumpling to the floor to lie among the wreckage of her dreams.

  For a long time, she stared unseeing at the flowered wallpaper, her emotions numb. Over and over she thought, I was supposed to be Mrs. Marcus Miller!

  Nausea pressed into her stomach. Her skin felt flushed and clammy, although her body grew chilled. With her tightly laced corset, she could barely breathe.

  The first hint the frozenness might melt into torrential pain made her mind change tracks.

  I can’t stay here and live across the street from them!

  Horrified, she realized the new Mr. and Mrs. Miller would expect a social call from her, probably tomorrow. I can’t do it! I just can’t.

  Her body had turned into glass, but her mind scrabbled for escape. Where can I go? She couldn’t put a coherent thought together.

  A knock sounded on the front door. Before she could escape to another room, it opened and Victoria poked her head in. Upon seeing Constance, she thrust herself inside, slamming the door behind her. “I’m so mad at him! I don’t care what that woman thinks of me for disappearing right after she’s arrived. Horrid cat! Stealing my brother away from you.”

  Victoria was a prettier, plumper version of Marcus, with the same auburn hair and pale blue eyes. The sight of Victoria, even though she dearly loved her friend, was a reminder of everything she’d lost. We’ll never be sisters now. She couldn’t even move her mouth to say a word.

  Victoria paused and looked at Constance, and her expression crumpled. “No, no, don’t look like that, dearest. I can’t bear to see your eyes so empty.” She rushed across the room, knelt down, and put her plump arms around Constance’s waist.

  Constance held herself stiffly, not daring to lean into Victoria’s lavender-scented warmth, for if she did, her composure would slip, and she’d weep for days.

  “Come back to me, dearest friend, from where you’ve gone away.” Victoria begged, squeezing tight. “Oh, I could just beat my brother over the head with my umbrella.”

  And I’ll join her. That image of her laying into Marcus freed some of the constriction in Constance’s throat. Among the ashes of her dreams, faint embers of anger smoldered. “What’s done is done, Vicky. Even if you beat him bloody, it would not change the fact that your brother has married.” She turned her head away so as not to see her friend’s troubled expression.

  “What will you do? You can’t stay here where you’ll see them every day. I’m move in with you,” Victoria babbled, leaning back and flinging an arm in the direction of the staircase. “No. We’ll run away together. How about we visit Europe? Maybe even meet and marry Italian noblemen.”

  I don’t want an Italian count. I just want Marcus. The saying that a heart could break must be true because hers had shattered. She could almost hear the tinkling the glass shards made as they sprinkled on the floor. She imagined them as blood red splinters, splaying across the oriental rug, obscuring the pattern.

  “Ever so handsome, those Italian fellows.”

  Hearing Victoria’s impetuous suggestions crystallized an idea. Constance eased out of Victoria’s embrace. But not wanting to hurt her friend’s feelings, she pulled her up onto the settee.

  “I’ll go to my father in Sweetwater Springs, Montana.”

  “Your father!” Victoria gaped, wide-eyed. “The same father who abandoned you when you were small? You’d go to him?”

  “He didn’t abandon me,” Cons
tance lied and arranged a fold of her full skirt.

  Victoria narrowed her eyes. “I was there, remember? You were five. I was six. You cried every day for months. You’d lost both your mother and your father.”

  Constance gave her a faint smile. Even that much movement hurt her face. “But I found Aunt Hannah and you and your family.” Marcus, too. The boy had been her friend for many years before he kissed her and changed everything.

  “You should be crying now. I’d be weeping all over the house. Your stillness worries me.”

  “What good would tears do?” Crying didn’t bring back my mother or my father.

  Victoria frowned. “I know. You’re Sense—” She tapped her chest “—and I’m Sensibility,” she said, referring to Jane Austen’s characters. “But a bout of tears is very…” Her friend paused and frowned, obviously searching for words. “Refreshing. In a bad way I mean. You feel better after the flow of tears is over.” Her voice softened. “I’d feel better if you cried. At least I could comfort you and not feel so helpless.”

  Constance wanted nothing more than to weep copious tears. But even as she tried to reach for some, nothing would come. Instead, she had dry, burning eyes, and a lump like an unrisen loaf of bread in her stomach.

  Her efforts must have shown on her face, for tears welled up in Victoria’s eyes, and rolled down her cheeks. “You can’t leave Chicago, Connie. What would I do without you?”

  “How can I stay?” The bleakness of the question settled between them. She saw the painful truth on Victoria’s face.

  “I hate her for doing this to you.”

  Constance swallowed down the bitterness that wanted to spill out into angry, nasty words. “If she is to be your sister-in-law, then you must act cordial to her.”

  “Never!” Victoria shook her head so violently, a curl of hair escaped a pin and tumbled down around her cheek. “After she has caused you such pain?”

  “The new Mrs. Marcus Miller probably doesn’t know of my existence. And—” Constance gripped Victoria’s wrist. “I want it to stay that way. I don’t want to see them. I don’t want to pay a courtesy call and pretend everything is well. In private, please explain to your parents. They’ll understand.”

  “I will. And to Marcus. I’ll kick him first, though.”

  “No! Don’t say a word to him.”

  “Marcus must know he’s done wrong by leading you to believe his intentions were serious.” Victoria leaned forward, setting the stray curl swaying. “Therefore, the cretin will avoid you. It’s possible he might come over alone to explain and apologize.”

  Constance started to speak.

  Victoria held up an imperious hand. “I doubt the latter. My brother was never one to admit wrongdoing. I’m just mentioning it as a possibility. However, in hindsight, looking back at that New Year’s party… I bet he imbibed too much and later had no idea what he’d said and done. He won’t remember a thing.”

  She’s probably right. The moments that had meant so much to me, that I’ve based my future life on, held no meaning for him. How humiliating!

  “In that case—” Victoria continued “—he’ll expect you to pay a visit, and if you don’t, he’ll probably seek you out because he’ll have no idea of your feelings and the expectations he raised.” She clutched Constance’s forearm. “Marcus will bring that bride of his to show her off, probably thinking that as such a close friend of the family, you’ll be pleased.”

  Oh, Dear Lord. Sighing, Constance closed her eyes and sank back against the settee.

  “However, if I hint to him of your disappointed expectations due to his despicable behavior at the party, he’ll avoid you like the plague. And he certainly won’t bring his bride anywhere in your vicinity.”

  Shame washed over her. But Victoria having that conversation with Marcus was far better than facing the newlyweds herself. “Do it.”

  Victoria, in a rapid change from wise counselor to upset friend, let out a low wail and collapsed against the back of the settee until their shoulders touched. “I don’t want you to go to Montana. I’ll never see you again.”

  “I don’t want to go either. But I must.” That her father was a virtual stranger, known only through twice-yearly letters, a man she hadn’t seen since she was five and barely remembered, didn’t matter.

  Now he represented her refuge and provided somewhere for her to flee. As soon as Victoria left, Constance would begin packing and hope her father would take her in.

  To order Bright Montana Sky go to:

  http://debraholland.com/book-bright-montana.html

  MONTANA SKY SERIES

  in Chronological Order:

  Sweet historical Western/Prairie Romance

  1882

  Beneath Montana’s Sky

  1886

  Mail-Order Brides of the West: Trudy

  Mail-Order Brides of the West: Lina

  Mail-Order Brides of the West: Darcy

  Mail-Order Brides of the West: Prudence

  Mail-Order Brides of the West: Bertha

  1890s

  Grace: Bride of Montana

  Wild Montana Sky

  Starry Montana Sky

  Stormy Montana Sky

  Montana Sky Christmas

  A Valentine’s Choice

  Irish Blessing

  Painted Montana Sky

  Glorious Montana Sky

  A Rolling Stone

  Healing Montana Sky

  Sweetwater Springs Scrooge

  Sweetwater Springs Christmas

  Mystic Montana Sky

  Singing Montana Sky

  Bright Montana Sky (March 2018)

  Montana Sky Justice (August 2018)

  2015

  Angel in Paradise

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  In loving memory of my Sheltie, Oreo,

  who inspired Painted Montana Sky and the creation of the Maxwell family.

  In gratitude to:

  My editors:

  Louella Nelson

  Linda Carroll-Bradd,

  Adeli Brito

  who always make my stories better.

  To Delle Jacobs, friend and talented cover artist, for my beautiful covers.

  John Mitchell, for all the changes made to his sister Delle’s covers.

  To Lara Asmundson, my wonderful narrator

  To my formatters:

  Author E.M.S.,

  whom I always trust to do a great job.

  To my beta readers:

  My mother, Honey Holland

  My aunt, Hedy Codner

  To Wenche Ludvigsen,

  My Norwegian third cousin,

  for her suggestion of Aagaard’s song

  To Pilar Alessandra,

  for the writing marathons

  To all my Facebook friends,

  who make suggestions when I ask for help

  and are so eager for more Montana Sky Stories,

  I’m truly blessed to “know” you!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Debra Holland is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of the award-winning Montana Sky Series (sweet, historical Western romance) and The Gods’ Dream Trilogy (fantasy romance.)

  Debra is a three-time Romance Writers of America Golden Heart finalist and one-time winner. In 2013, Amazon selected Starry Montana Sky as one of the Top 50 Greatest Love Stories.

  When she’s not writing, Dr. Debra works as a psychotherapist and corporate crisis/grief counselor. She’s the author of The Essential Guide to Grief and Grieving, a book about helping people cope with all kinds of loss, and Cultivating an Attitude about Gratitude, a Ten Minute Ebook. She’s also a contributing author to The Naked Truth About Self-Publishing.

  To learn more and join her newsletter list go to: http://debraholland.com

 

 

  rchive.